The ASBO months

If I were a mathematician, I would suggest that age is directly proportional to irrational rage at every little thing around you. But I’m not a mathematician, so instead I’ll just say that I am a twisted, bitter ball of hatred. Or at least I am when I am on a TRAIN.


Otherwise known as a wheeled hellbox, trains were first invented by FIAT in 1963 when they decided that they really were duty-bound to take their unique brand of unreliability to the public transport market. They rapidly became hugely popular amongst commuters, giving them something to moan about with even more irritatingly loud vigour while to-ing and fro-ing between upper middle-class Turdville and headset-wearing Utopia. After a few years, however, the novelty wore off and so FIAT, in their desperation to maintain a monopoly, decided to invent “regressopment”. Exactly like development, only backwards. By 1990, engines and electrics were a thing of the past and trains started running on the power of bloody mindedness alone, something which FIAT have since covered up by employing one man per train to constantly make train-like noises in to a microphone for the entire journey, thereby lulling passengers in to a deafening sense of security. I can only assume that the 2020s will see octogenarian paraplegics manning hand-pumped trolleys full of obnoxious businessmen in exchange for being kicked and spat at. I would enjoy this.

Old Person probably on Minimum Wage

In the last four months I have spent over £1000 on trains. This has given me ample time to devise a complicated and extremely intelligent system of categorisation of types of train people. These are:

1) Utterly hateful wastes of oxygen who need repeatedly stabbing and then force-feeding live dogs until they explode.

2) Me.

I find myself becoming more antisocial the more time I spend on trains. Seeking solitude, I sit in the aisle seat, plonking all my worldly possessions on the adjacent seat and then spend the rest of the time looking menacing, listening to loud music and ignoring everybody else. I sigh loudly if anyone dares to request that they sit next to me and am almost moved to insanity if the train so much as approaches full. To calm myself, I irrationally pick out the person around me with the most hateful face and focus my rage entirely on them. “What an appalling, wretched excuse for a human being you are. Melt, perish and decompose right here before me, foul urchin”.

Commuter on the 925 from Orpington

What then invariably happens, is that the train stops working / is late / falls over on its side. Then the real fun begins. “SQUUUUUUEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKladies and gentlemen… we apologise for the delay. This is due entirely to me, JOHN SMITH, being a completely incompetent, gibbering ape. I was born without opposable thumbs, half of my brain and the ability to distinguish between situations in which it is OK to fling piles of my faeces at passers-by and those in which it is not.” All of this is said at MAXIMUM VOLUME and yet is unintelligible even to an English teacher. OK, well. Turn up the volume of my music, sit tight and… wait… really? Is the man next to me really talking so loudly to his disinterested colleague that I can hear him over music that is being directly pumped in to my ear holes?

Colleagues have discrete train chat

“Well, you see Crispin… haw haw haaaaaw… Brian over at HR really doesn’t have the slightest clue who I am and what I’ve done for this company to be honest… so I got my sec to give him a bell and put him straight, you know… haw haw haaaaaaaaw…” Is there ANYONE out there who doesn’t feel a little violent after reading that? I just punched myself in the groin simply for typing it. I’m not even halfway to my destination and I have already committed at least five different unspeakable crimes inside my head. I am the Patrick Bateman of trains. By the time the train arrives I usually eject myself from its foul clutches at such an alarming pace that I am through the barriers and out of the station before Usain Bolt can eat a plate of chicken nuggets. Or at least I would be but for the cruellest of parting shots at the barrier:

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