Bus 242 from Dalston to Tottenham Court Road.

I’m late. It’s the weekend, and any stations or lines that I use are being held hostage by Underground closures. So here I am, carrying about four more bags than I should be, frantically staggering up and down the road while I attempt to locate the appropriate bus stop. I miss several, since I’m allergic to buses (when I need to catch one, I am overcome by complete idiocy until after it’s gone), and find myself crying on a man. He herds me onto the next one as quickly as possible, relief taking his features as the doors shut behind me.

As ever, my fellow commuters resemble sardines, squashed together in a reluctant vendetta against personal space.

A woman of slovenly disposition appears to be melting across a double chair. Her clothes have that wipe-clean sheen of cheap materials, and the light rolls across them, acting as an optical illusion to make her appear even larger than she actually is. A multitude of chins cascade from beneath her misshapen face as she struggles to turn her head in a movement, which would not look out of place on Jabba the Hutt. Her hair is unkempt, and she’s trying to force six inches of Subway into her mouth without chewing. Her jaw widens slowly like that of a snake before it eats a mouse.

A sliver of free seat, the last of it’s kind, peeks out from beneath her overlarge arse. Or back, or thigh… it’s hard to tell. I grapple with the issue for longer than I should. Before I know it, I’m spotted - she begins her struggle to free up some more seat. As I reluctantly take my perch and drop my bags, relief floods my shoulders and back. Glancing down, I watch as one of her rolls, loose from it’s too-tight jean-jumper prison, bursts slowly across my thigh in an uncanny impression of lava after a volcano eruption. I fight an irrational urge to clutch at the nearest passenger, and beg to be dragged from this quicksand-human hybrid.

“Sorry I can’t offer you more seat love, but I’ve hardly got your little figure, have I?”

No you fucking haven’t. Shit, I could be six times larger and I’d still look like fucking Kate Moss next to you, is what I open my mouth to say. I stop myself, smiling as I look away in the hopes she’ll realise I don’t want any interaction. Get a book out, that’ll throw her off. Her roll is spreading, over half of my thigh engulfed.

“My, you really are a little thing, aren’t you? How’d you manage to get that tiny? You must have the strangest eating habits.”

Is she really speaking with me about weight? Suggesting that I, a slightly below average height, but otherwise normal-sized girl practise obscure eating routines in order to maintain my weight? This woman, who undoubtedly gorges on her weight in foot-long subways with extra mayo (and the rest), thinks I have strange eating habits? I have met many disillusioned people in my lifetime, but this really does take the biscuit. No pun intended, of course.

The rest of the journey is spent with my incredulous silence acting as one side of a surprisingly animated conversation where the woman who ate every pie in existence speaks at length about anorexia and bulimia, and expresses her opinion that I should see a doctor. All the while, the escapee roll of fat continues to spread across my lap.

When I reach my stop I have to lift it in order to escape, and, if you can believe it, she doesn’t even notice.

14:06 from Brixton to Victoria.

Large populations breed a lot of weirdos. It’s a fact. Some alert fellow citizens to their bizarre brain capacity with prolonged eye contact, awkward hand movements or conspicuous attire. Others manage to combine these minor indications of insanity with a mean streak of exhibitionism. Often, these are the types you’ll find rocking back and forth at the back of buses, harassing youngsters on the side of the road, or (in this case, at least) arguing profusely with newspapers on the Underground.

As expected for a Thursday afternoon, it’s not that busy. I make myself comfortable amongst middle-aged women with shopping bags and young blokes wearing oversized headphones, basking in this rare display of normalcy on the Underground.

Time slows as the doors begin to close, framing a tiny old man donning a woollen hat and a beard that is at least half the size of the wearer. He stumbles towards the train with flailing arms and rolling eyes as I pray that the doors reach their destination before he does. Throwing his arms out in front of him the doors attempt to shut over his wrists, causing them to judder and beep accordingly. Several people look irritated.

Tripping over his trouser leg as he boards, our bearded friend seems unphased.

The relaxed bustle of mid-afternoon leisure is shattered; to be replaced by the all-too-familiar tension I have come to associate with public transport. Reproach emanates from the surrounding commuters in near-visible waves as the bloke throws himself into a seat and pulls a grotty looking newspaper from the inside pocket of his coat.

Unfolding it with the look of a mother’s love in his eye, he begins reading, hefting the inconveniently sized broadsheet across those who sit on either side of him.

They shift uncomfortably.

His placid expression is swiftly replaced with one of disapproval, frown lines wrinkling his forehead. Though it’s clear that the story is what is infuriating him, it’s hard not to personify the newspaper as his grumbles grow louder, beard twitching furiously as eyes glide back and forth across the page.

“…A FUCKING OUTRAGE.”

Several passengers jump at the outburst, glancing across the carriage to see who the bloke’s talking to. We all has a sneaking suspicion that he wasn’t all there, but as he shakes the newspaper with increased force, screaming profanities, everyone takes a step back, safe in the knowledge that he’s definitely mental. His rage culminates in what appears to be some kind of internal meltdown, during which he tears several chunks from the paper with his teeth, and hurls it across the carriage where it hits a bloke with a suitcase directly in the face. He responds by cowering slightly, and saying nothing.

The doors beep open at Pimlico, and our bearded mate stomps from the train, turning dramatically as he steps onto the platform to pass the discarded newspaper one last murderous glance.

15:47 from Victoria to Aldgate East.

Imagine the usual setting. The tube train is brimming with a cocktail of London’s finest citizens, each one as self-absorbed and unfeeling as the last, attempting to make their journey as quickly as possible. You know the drill.

As luck would have it, there’s a chair with my name on it when I board. What I mean by this is that with the same enthusiasm as a gang of schoolchildren being told to “SCRAMBLE” for the last sweetie, several of us dive at the chair, and I come out victorious. Claiming my prize with an expression smug enough to imprint scowls on my opponents’ faces, I glance to those seated on either side, ready to share an indulgent smirk. 

On my right, a woman in her late fourties avoids my eyes. Her blouse is buttoned high at her neck, and she clearly disapproves of my (admittedly undignified) seat-scrambling capabilities. Clutching a handbag in her lap, she twists the strap absently between two fingers. She looks like the sort of woman who urgently needs to get laid.

By stark comparison, the girl to my left looks like she’s ready to get her cat out right here on the tube. The silicone globes attached to her chest are wobbling unnaturally with the rhythm of the carriage as she applies more gloss to her lips with a vacant expression and a pout. I’m almost certain that with the right angle I could peer in her right ear and see the bloke sitting on her left. She’s too busy trying to catch her reflection in the window opposite to notice my attempt at eye contact.

At the next station, amongst the usual rabble, this bloke steps on board. Though various men and women are standing in front of him, he’s tall enough for us to get a good look. He’s young, with dark hair, and even though he’s wearing a suit he’s got this rough and ready look about him.

Hello.

The ladies in this narrative are at opposite ends of any kind of womanly spectrum, which conveniently illustrates my up coming point regarding some men just having that “thing” about them.

While Frigid to my right crosses her legs tightly and fails to tear her gaze from his chiseled bone structure, Katie Price on my left bats her false eyelashes, opening her legs slightly. Yes, really. I, on the other hand, try to maintain my dignity, though anyone else on the tube would probably tell you that I resembled a 12-year-old with Bieber fever. You know what I mean. Excited eyes, minor dribbling, etc.

In short, each of us regards this perfect specimen of a human male with varying levels of hunger.
We reach Tower Hill, and several people alight. As the crowd parts, my eyes find his hand, which just so happens to be clasped around a smaller one with sharp crimson nails. With comic precision, all three of us avert our eyes. Well. The old bag and I. Slutty McGee seems to take it upon herself to begin a glare-off with Sexy Man’s girlfriend. While he takes the suddenly-the-window-looking-out-to-a-tunnel-wall-is-so-interesting approach, she attempts to murder the Queen of Tits with a dagger-loaded glare.

I make a quick getaway at the next station, safe in the knowledge that I won’t be caught in any catfight crossfire.

17:15 from Wood Lane to Liverpool Street.

Let’s face it; no one likes catching a tube at rush hour. To be honest, no one likes travelling full stop at rush hour. In Central London especially, where rush hour always manages to last at least three hours, it doesn’t matter whether you’re riding the bus, cycling or even have your own car - rage will take over for the duration of your journey.

There’s definitely something special about the tube, though. It’s something to do with all that recycled air.

As the train forces its way onto the platform, I struggle against the crowd. A few accidentally-on-purpose elbow jabs and a good knowledge of the platform ensure that when the doors open, I’m slap bang in front of them. Not that it’s worth much with this sort of human traffic.

Common courtesy often goes amiss at rush hour, don’t you think? At any other time of day, we’ll wait until everybody is off before boarding, but at 5.15 on a Tuesday afternoon? Oh no. There’s always some wanker (with elbows more aggressive than mine) that simply cannot wait to board that tube. Cue dirty looks from all angles. There’s a pause while all passengers acknowledge a common enemy, and then it’s back to the bustle of homeward bound journeys.

Eventually managing to clamber onto the tube, I find myself lost in an ocean of suits and arms and sweat-drenched heads of hair. Line upon line of clammy palms clutch at every available inch of pole or bar I could hold myself up with. As a result, falling on people becomes an irritating habit every time we reach a station.

The air is filthy with the stench of the day. A cocktail of colognes layered over body odour. Tasty. I try blocking my nose but it’s like trying to breathe through a straw, and I find myself gasping for air. We pull into Paddington and I maintain my balance for a record 4 seconds before the commutor behind me takes a tumble and we both fly headlong down the carriage.

Or so I thought.

Fortunately for the instigator of this entire situation (little bloke, mustache, smug face I’d like to break), when he lost his footing he was able to use me to right himself. Meanwhile I find myself laying across an attractive young man in a tweed blazer, a woman with peroxide hair who looks completely mortified and an old bloke with a dirty expression. His hot breath wafts my hair as he exhibits all the decency of a sex offender and leans over me.

“Alright darlin,” he breathes quietly, a chuckle caught in his throat.

I panic and roll, landing with a sharp thud before scrambling to my feet. Mustache man smirks (the audacity!) and I glower. Red in the face, we pull in at Baker Street. It’s not my stop, but I get off anyway, turning from the window as the tube pulls away.

I think it’s best if I wait for the next one. 

10:13 from Bethnal Green to Shepherd’s Bush.

New Year’s Day is, for anyone with a social life, a traumatic day. For many (specifically those who have managed to evade retail employment), public transport on this most hated of days is an unfathomable experience, reserved for the deepest layers of hell. Unfortunately, being a slave to retail myself, this year I was required to venture into the treacherous tunnels that run under London - despite my better judgement.

A soft thump from somewhere to my right vaguely indicates that I’ve dropped my bag – again. Bending to pick it up, lights flash before my eyes as I suffer bodily overreaction in the form of a head rush. Are the lights always this bright on the Underground? The upsetting thing about catching the tube this early on New Year’s Day is that the only other people who are here at this most unholy of hours were not smashed the night before. To illustrate my point, a frumpy looking woman in her fourties throws me a disapproving glance, before shuffling a little further down the platform. 

Not that I blame her.

As the tube bursts into the station with offensive force, I catch a glimpse of myself in the windows. My face looks totally hollowed out, pale skin setting off the deep, dark shadows that have appeared beneath my bloodshot eyes. The eyes in question are bulging from their sockets in a manner that makes me look positively insane – a common side effect of drinking six cups of coffee in an attempt to counter the minimal sleep of the night before. Fourty-five minutes at around nine this morning, if you were wondering.  Other reactions to such high caffeine intake include a faint buzz in the front of my brain that is already beginning it’s mutation into colossal migraine, vision so blurred that I begin to doubt my sobriety all over again and severe muscle spasms in the general region of my face.

Stumbling slightly as I board, I am infuriated to find that the tumbleweed-worthy train I was expecting was nothing more than wishful thinking. It’s packed. As a result, I am forced to ride the first few stops standing up, clinging feebly to a pole as I resist the urge to throw up on the nearest person who managed to bag themselves a seat. By the time I claim my own, I’m pretty sure all blood has left my face, and my body feels so heavy that I’m positive when I finally reach my destination, I’m not going to be able to get off, anyway.

A bloke in ripped up jeans and a hoody sits down opposite me, apparently in the act of trying to eat his own face. Hands folded in his lap, his wide staring eyes look into my own, and he lets out a high-pitched giggle. The word “TWAT” is artistically penned across his forehead, in thick, smudged ink. Aside from this walking example of “New Year’s morning? I was still wasted, mate”, everybody on the train seems to be totally in their right mind.

Obviously this gives them license to scrutinise and judge accordingly.

The rest of the journey is spent in an awkward silence as my fucked friend and I stare at random points on the tube map with little to no blinking involved, carefully avoiding the eyes of our fellow passengers.

When the train pulls in at Shepherd’s Bush, I literally crawl from the train, shedding my last scraps of my dignity in the process. Clinging to the side of the escalator, I gaze towards daylight, dreading the hours ahead.

Bus 24 from Oxford Circus to Leicester Square.

 Catching buses in London has been, and always will be a traumatic chain of events. Waiting at bus stops appears to attract money-swindling tramps by the dozen, the sight of any bus provokes a vicious compulsion to push, shove and bustle – even if it’s not stopping at this particular stop, and let’s face it – London’s colourful population provides stranger travelling companions than you will meet anywhere else.  The whole fiasco involves a lot of personal space intrusion, along with a mass of other tiny irritations.

There is no way it could get any worse. Right?

Wrong. Enter Christmas. A magical time of year, no doubt, unless you have to catch a bus. The irony of the matter is in the fact that I’m only on a bus because of Christmas. Well, sort of. The snow (a direct result of the approaching holiday) has managed to affect the tubes, and on this particular occasion, bus is the only mode of transport available.

Now, before you say it (because I know you’re thinking it), I am perfectly aware that the underground – below ground transportation - should cope far better in the snow than a bus – above ground transportation. Do not ask me to try to understand the warped incapabilities of a snowed-in Britain. I won’t do it.

So anyway, about this bus…

Boarding a bus has never been more complicated – not to mention dangerous. Every female (and a good portion of the blokes) on the bus is carrying a minimum of four shopping bags. I’m talking bags that small children could merrily ride in. Each one is emblazoned with a brand name draped in red and gold. Every time one of these women (or men) tries to navigate their way to a seat (wishful thinking, no doubt), several innocent bystanders are battered by these enormous, papery weapons. A pair of little old ladies are clutching each other in an attempt to maintain their balance, while one little girl is collateral damage; knocked off her feet by a passing flash of festive colours.

Extra baggage aside, the volume of people on board is nothing short of insane. I can honestly say I’ve never seen more people crammed into one bus. I wonder vaguely what the legal capacity is, and am sure the bus driver must be breaking some kind of rule as he continues to allow people to board if they think they’re tough enough.

Profoundly aware of what life as a sardine must be like, I finally make my way to the doors. By the time I’ve covered the three metre gap, resorting to violence en route as a surly looking bloke with an overlarge chin refuses to get out my way, I’ve missed three stops, and have to stump back to my intended destination through about two inches of snow.

I’m never taking a bus from Oxford Circus in the week before Christmas, ever again. I’d rather walk.

18:48 from Embankment to Goodge Street.

In case you hadn’t gathered, I’m used to meeting weirdos on public transport. Usually there is one defining feature that propels an individual to weirdo status, but every once in a while you come across someone really special.

I’m standing next to some bloke on the platform. I can feel his gaze sliding over me, and I glance round. He has a disproportionately chubby face, accentuated by a hairline that has receded in a way that is unexplainably unattractive. His battered puffer jacket is ill fitting, and it wouldn’t surprise me if he’d found it in a gutter somewhere. A Lidl shopping bag dangles negligently from three fingers. His shoulders hunched, he leers shamelessly, apparently unaware that this is not appropriate behaviour.

I can feel a light tapping on my shoulder. I know who it is, but I exercise my right to denial for at least a minute before turning slightly and raising my eyebrows.

“Dusve van tege deti me?” he mumbles in a thick Russian accent. He’s looking at me blearily through droopy eyes, and I wonder vaguely how drunk he is.
“Pardon?”
“Does you vant to come on a date vith me?” he asks again, this time in clearer English (though not by much), and with an edge of impatience in his tone. My eyebrows rise further, disappearing into my fringe. After brief hesitation, I politely decline. The tube arrives and I step on board, the Russian close behind. I prepare for departure by clasping the metal railing, and am suitably horrified when he closes his hand around mine.

It takes more effort than is acceptable for me to wrench my hand from beneath his. I look up incredulously, expecting shame or embarrassment to grace his features. He leers indifferently, and lets out a long, loud fart.

From an outsider’s perspective, I suppose, it could look like I’m with him. I doubt it, to be honest, but it is possible. I’m standing beside him, and he was talking to me. Technically. Either way, our fellow passengers must reach a conclusion along those lines, because as the stench of his recently passed wind fills the carriage with suffocating speed, I receive as many disgusted stares as he does.

Apparently unaware of the displeasure he has caused, he takes a seat in the middle of the carriage – recently vacated by a woman who looked like she might throw up, before diving off at the last stop. He pulls a broadsheet out of his bag, and begins to inconvenience those in neighbouring seats by rustling it loudly and repeatedly hitting them in the face with it’s overlarge pages. They relocate quickly to opposite ends of the carriage, taking their disgruntled expressions and pinched noses with them.

The next stop welcomes a rush of people, all of whom turn white as Russian nuclear gas appeals to their sense of smell. A little old lady with a shopper attempts to protect her nostrils with an umbrella.

A woman in her early twenties slides through the gap as the doors are closing, and rushes to one of the empty seats with relief. She pulls her scarf up over her face, and glances at the source of the smell, who has lowered his newspaper, and is eyeing her approvingly.

“Does you vant to come on a date vith me?”

16:16 from Clapham Junction to London Waterloo.

It’s one minute past five on a Wednesday afternoon. A soft layer of white shields the concrete platform from sight as delicate flakes of snow glisten against the dreary sky. The platform is awash with overlarge jackets, hats, scarves and woolly mittens. Commutors are huddling together like penguins, shielding their faces from the biting wind. This sort of weather usually has the ability to make any setting seem somehow magical. Unfortunately, inevitable delays have a habit of sucking festive spirit from the atmosphere.

 A single National Rail employee stands motionless half way down the platform.  His day-glo jacket makes him easily distinguishable, despite the sheer volume of people cluttering up the platform. His heavy jaw juts out slightly, the expression on his face suggesting he’s bracing himself. He is wise.

A bloke who can’t be much taller than five foot, but more than makes up for his height in mouth approaches the employee.

“OI, MATE. WHERE THE FUCK IS THIS FUCKING TRAIN?”

 Not exactly a tactful approach, but this young gentleman has got the right idea. The crowd seems to be in agreement - several “yeah”s and “too right”s float from somewhere behind him.

“I’m sorry, sir, but the out of the ordinary weather conditions are causing a slight delay with the trains. Currently I can’t say how much longer it will be, but as soon as I know more, I will notify you accordingly.” The effort taken to keep his voice level and calm in light of blatant rudeness has apparently turned the bloke into a human tannoy. He hesitates, and then; “And I would prefer it if you would refrain from swearing at me, sir.”

The offending commutor glares at him, apparently unsure what he should do. On the one hand, the train station employee is irritatingly reasonable, and any arguing point seems to have diminished to nothing. On the other hand, we’ve been waiting for a good fourty-five minutes, and the platform has become uncomfortably crowded, while somehow maintaining Arctic temperatures.

“Well…”

The crowd waits with baited breath, each and every one of us secretly hoping for further unreasonable shouting. Waiting on a snowy platform is not only cold and damp, but also boring.

“WELL I WOULD FUCKING PREFER IT IF THIS TRAIN WOULD GET HERE SOMETIME WITHIN THE NEXT DECADE.”

The employee glares. Apparently not trusting himself to open his mouth, he says nothing, and returns his gaze to the opposite platform, where two little old ladies are bickering with another man in a day-glo jacket.

“ARE YOU FUCKING LISTENING TO ME? OI. OI.”

The whole situation is taken too far when this guy, pumped up on the support from the crowd, no doubt, starts clicking his fingers rudely not an inch from the employees face.

“CAN – YOU – HEAR – ME?”

Each word is spoken with an accompanying click. The majority of the crowd backs away slightly, no longer in support of such a blatant tosser.

By the time the train arrives, the train station employee has backed the little angry guy up against a wall. Pointing a finger right between his eyes, he is leant over him, bellowing at the top of his lungs about the importance of manners, among other things.

Little angry guy misses the train, apparently not even noticing it’s departures as he whimpers and cowers accordingly. 

12:33 from Brixton to Euston.

Children come in many forms. Some are loud and irritating. Others are unlicensed know-it-alls or cry all the time. None expect a child to sit quietly, responding to his or her mother’s every request. But every now and then you’ll see a child so insolent and rude, that only one thought crosses your mind.

Some people should not be allowed to breed.

A plump, tired-looking woman drags herself onto the tube amid a cluster of Iceland bags. Her son is lagging behind, peering down at the yellow line on the platform from the other side of it. Doors beeping urgently to signal our departure, she turns to see the little monster grinning viciously through the rapidly closing doors. 

Blocking the door with her arm, she grabs him by his collar. The weekly shop weighs her down, and the doors have closed and reopened four or five times before she manages to get her grip tight enough to drag him on board. The train conductor’s voice blares over the tannoy, aggravation clear in his voice;

“WILL EVERYBODY PLEASE STAND CLEAR OF THE CLOSING DOORS. STAND -CLEAR - PLEASE.”

Already, surrounding passengers are tutting and sighing loudly, passing disapproving looks down the carriage toward this despicable display of parenting.

The mother in question catches her breath and puts down her shopping, dropping into a nearby seat. To the shock and dismay of the rest of us, she then closes her eyes, the steady rise and fall of her chest a sure sign that she’s fallen asleep.

Her child, clad in gold trainers, and a matching black Adidas tracksuit (who knew people under the age of 7 were capable of being this chavvy?) passes his mother a surprisingly sly look. Rifling through the shopping bags, he finds his booty (a multipack of Rocky bars), devouring the lot in under a minute. As he finishes each bar, the little brat stuffs the wrappers in various pockets on his mother’s person. While many litter the floor, the last is stuffed into her mouth.

Somehow, she slumbers on.

A whole thirty seconds pass until boredom peaks and he sets out on his next adventure. In this case, climbing. Standing on a woman’s skirt in the process of clambering onto the seat, he jumps to grab a bar on the roof of the carriage, feet narrowly missing a little old dear’s head. Attempting to hook his feet over the bar, he falls, crushing several shopping bags.  Anyone sitting close enough begins tapping the Mother on the shoulder, glaring beadily at the child.

Mummy wakes just in time to witness her little one jumping for the bar again, this time missing and crashing into two pensioners and a guy wearing a cap. Choking on the Rocky wrapper in her mouth, she spits it out, leaving it damp and dripping on the carriage floor. Surprisingly calm, she averts her eyes – harder than it sounds when every eye’s on you – and grabbing her child by the ear, she pulls him unceremoniously from the train at the next stop.

 She left almost all of her shopping.

Staring daggers through the grotty windows as we depart, the muted sound of her screaming floats satisfyingly onto the train. The remaining passengers are briefly united in a flurry of relief at the removal of the child.

Maybe she’ll think twice before taking her kids out in public again.
 

22:20 from Ewell West to Wimbledon.

Catching a train late at night often offers the opportunity to share your journey with gangs of drunken youths. On this particular occasion, the passengers were surprisingly sober. At least, until we reached the next stop. 

Five guys in their twenties tumble on board. When I say tumble, I mean that the first – overexcited at the prospect of a wild night, no doubt - tripped up the step, and the rest went headlong over him. A tangled mass of football shirts and slurring “WHEEYYYYY”s, they clumsily detach themselves from the pile, cackling wildly in the process. 

A middle-aged bloke with a book glances up disapprovingly, and a woman’s tut sounds from somewhere near the front of the carriage. The general public just loves to hate. Despite their unwelcome entrance, for a while, the group are unexpectedly quiet. The odd shout of laughter is as disruptive as they get.

Maybe my co-passengers and I judged too quickly?

Actually, no. A loud clatter, followed by the sound of aluminium rolling across the floor (and the obligatory “WHEYYYY”) signals that one of the more impaired from the group has dropped his beer. His overloud whining, along with the spreading fluid ebbing down the central aisle is a sure sign that old Butterfingers hadn’t drunk too much of it pre-spill.

His failure is soon forgotten, however, in light of a new discovery. Now that his battered trainers are drenched in Fosters (they’ll be binned tomorrow, no doubt), his shoes squeak loudly and annoyingly as he drags his feet across the floor. As though he’d just discovered electricity, he shares his findings with his mates, who laugh raucously. Things seem so much more exciting after a few beers, don’t they?

Unfortunately, the rest of us aren’t impressed enough to forgive him for the stench of alcohol that has, by this point, filled the carriage. On top of that, we’re now forced to listen to the repetitive screeching of damp trainers being scraped across the floor.

Fast-forward ten minutes.

He’s still going. Passengers who are not wasted are muttering darkly between themselves, complete strangers bonding over a common enemy. Even his mates are irritated (“Come on, you dick’ed, knock it off”), coming to the realisation that he’s their responsibility for the rest of the night. Seemingly coming to a silent agreement, they decide to act before it’s too late.

Slowly rising from their seats, it quickly becomes apparent that the one with the shoes is half the size of the rest of his mates. Looking bemused, he absently squeaks his shoes.

“What-“

Before he can finish his sentence, he’s tackled from every side. They hold him down, while one starts pulling off his shoes.

“WHAT ARE YOU DOING? WHY ARE YOU TAKING MY SHOES?”

This question seems so ridiculous, that everybody in the carriage (all of which are staring shamelessly, most of us laughing, too) felt that what happened next was completely deserved.  

“Come on, mate, you can’t be fuckin’ serious,” says one of the blokes, thrusting the shoes out of the window. He keeps his hold on the laces, fixing shoe boy with a threatening stare.
 
“NO. NO. PLEASE LET ME HAVE MY SHOES BACK. I PROMISE I’LL BE GOOD.”

Too late for that. His friends seem to think that torture is the name of the game. As a result, they spend the next 10 minutes waving the shoes around outside, cackling all the while.

By the time the train slows to pull into their stop, Shoe Boy is standing in his socks shouting, “IF SOMEBODY DOESN’T GIVE ME MY SHOES BACK, THINGS ON THIS TRAIN ARE GOING TO GET REALLY WEIRD.”

Thankfully, none of us have to find out what “really weird” entails, because his mates drag him on to the platform. Through the window we all watch as the shoes are returned to their rightful owner once more.