Tube Truffles

The tube, queen capillary of the London bloodstream, and a source of many tales and encounters, as read in Geoff Rymans 253 , or seen in the upcoming 'Tube tales' film. I have a few tube tales myself. Such as that of the Hong Kong business woman whome i advised, while drunk, how direct marketing could help her sales of a four thousand pound annual subscription to a financial magazine. The biblical ranting trumbone players who vexed me on the picadilly line, or the time i made the door fall off the train at Marble Arch, purely with my thoughts.

But no, I have a chocolately tale, to help illustrate pasty faced britishness and why there is no community in commuter. It wasn’t a blooming romance or a fatal stabbing, of knife or stare. It was surely noteworthy on the ‘courage to face facial zoners’ front however, hence my paws toil rests under you eyes.

It was a work colleagues leaving do, so she naturally bought me a box of Milk tray chocolates(!). Later I sat with my tube buddy Bangtail Burns on the Bakerloo line, trundling home, cellophane veiled choccies on my lap. Now wee burns has a penchant for foodstuffs, especially of the sweet variety, and, well, basically she wouldn’t leave me alone. “Oooooh Johnny, please can I have a choccie?” she whined. “No, I’m saving them for a (an unspecified) special occasion” I replied, to a miffed bangtail.

She continued to pester and harang my lap for another three stops, as the traditionally zoning and “you’re not there, really you’re not, I cant see you” fellow commuters smiled from the corners of their mouths at her drooling desparation. Not seeing why I should continue to suffer the humiliation in public, I tell Burns her choccie gobs fate rests on the opinion of a complete stranger. I turn to the spocky looking Mac clad chap to my right and illicited an opinion as to whether I should open the chocolate box. “I seeenk, you should geeeeve zeeee ladeeee vun” he said (being French and all), I shook on the deal with him, binding burns to just one choc, as I tear open the wrapping.

Naturally I offer our spotty frog fiend a choc, and he greedily
gobbles, still reluctant to admit defeat by Tracey, I stand up and
walk down the carriage offering choccies to all the strange tube folk who spied on our debate. Bizarrely very few accepted, some looked at me like I was some kind of tube looper, others blankly refused and waved me away. Its not as if I even could have had a chance to poison the chocolates, they saw me unwrap them and devour some myself, so even when strangers offer kindness on public transport it is frowned upon. Thankfully, one couple accepted an orange truffle and hazelnut swirl each, and my trip wasn’t redundant, Tracey managed to gob a few handfuls too.

So there you have it, not quite tube love, but a slight conquering of commutercamelism. In terms of tube love, I never can return those alluring stares from strangers, I just shy away, and spend the rest of the journey admiring their reflections in the window to avoid eye contact.

On the crazy commuter front.

While I'm dissing commuters, i must pass on information regarding a fantastic new word I heard the other weekend. It describes those annoying people (especially on Oxford Street) who get in your way on the path/sidewalk, walking in random directions while staring into space, forcing you to gutter step some.Predominatly tourists taking pictures of our 'kooky' buses, or mad people looking for their pet cat in litter bins or trying to count the fleas as they leap from the cracks in the pavememnt, which of course they cannot stand on or risk being swallowed by the ground.

The word is 'Meanderthol' and it is my gift to you. I pray you never come across one.



Bakerloo tube Truffles The tube, queen capillary of the London bloodstream, and a source of many tales and encounters, as read in Geoff Rymans 253 , or seen in the upcoming 'Tube tales' film. I have a few tube tales myself. Such as that of the Hong Kong business woman whome i advised, while drunk, how direct marketing could help her sales of a four thousand pound annual subscription to a financial magazine. The biblical ranting trumbone players who vexed me on the picadilly line, or the time i made the door fall off the train at Marble Arch, purely with my thoughts. But no, I have a chocolately tale, to help illustrate pasty faced britishness and why there is no community in commuter. It wasn’t a blooming romance or a fatal stabbing, of knife or stare. It was surely noteworthy on the ‘courage to face facial zoners’ front however, hence my paws toil rests under you eyes. It was a work colleagues leaving do, so she naturally bought me a box of Milk tray chocolates(!). Later I sat with my tube buddy Bangtail Burns on the Bakerloo line, trundling home, cellophane veiled choccies on my lap. Now wee burns has a penchant for foodstuffs, especially of the sweet variety, and, well, basically she wouldn’t leave me alone. “Oooooh Johnny, please can I have a choccie?” she whined. “No, I’m saving them for a (an unspecified) special occasion” I replied, to a miffed bangtail. She continued to pester and harang my lap for another three stops, as the traditionally zoning and “you’re not there, really you’re not, I cant see you” fellow commuters smiled from the corners of their mouths at her drooling desparation. Not seeing why I should continue to suffer the humiliation in public, I tell Burns her choccie gobs fate rests on the opinion of a complete stranger. I turn to the spocky looking Mac clad chap to my right and illicited an opinion as to whether I should open the chocolate box. “I seeenk, you should geeeeve zeeee ladeeee vun” he said (being French and all), I shook on the deal with him, binding burns to just one choc, as I tear open the wrapping. Naturally I offer our spotty frog fiend a choc, and he greedily gobbles, still reluctant to admit defeat by Tracey, I stand up and walk down the carriage offering choccies to all the strange tube folk who spied on our debate. Bizarrely very few accepted, some looked at me like I was some kind of tube looper, others blankly refused and waved me away. Its not as if I even could have had a chance to poison the chocolates, they saw me unwrap them and devour some myself, so even when strangers offer kindness on public transport it is frowned upon. Thankfully, one couple accepted an orange truffle and hazelnut swirl each, and my trip wasn’t redundant, Tracey managed to gob a few handfuls too. So there you have it, not quite tube love, but a slight conquering of commutercamelism. In terms of tube love, I never can return those alluring stares from strangers, I just shy away, and spend the rest of the journey admiring their reflections in the window to avoid eye contact. On the crazy commuter front. While I'm dissing commuters, i must pass on information regarding a fantastic new word I heard the other weekend. It describes those annoying people (especially on Oxford Street) who get in your way on the path/sidewalk, walking in random directions while staring into space, forcing you to gutter step some.Predominatly tourists taking pictures of our 'kooky' buses, or mad people looking for their pet cat in litter bins or trying to count the fleas as they leap from the cracks in the pavememnt, which of course they cannot stand on or risk being swallowed by the ground. The word is 'Meanderthol' and it is my gift to you. I pray you never come across one.

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