Each morning Londoner’s go to war

The London Underground during peak hour is an experience. It’s where you often see the dark side of a Londoner. A symbol of a ‘broken society’, battle conditions.

The doors on a London train don’t close, they SLAM. Depending on the mood of the driver and whether or not he is on schedule, he will either let all passengers on or elect to slam the doors while people are still boarding. That’s one of the better moments of the journey, as you get the chance to see a person’s head get whacked by a closing door and then stuck in it. Other things that get caught in the doors include bags, jackets, arms, legs and feet. If the driver is in a truly bad mood he will just say ‘Fuck you, you shouldn’t have boarded, I’m going to start driving’. Panic ensues, but you get a chance to see the compassion of Londoners as they usually flock to help the person escape possible death, attempting to set them free. Sometimes people blatantly battle the door, they see it closing and will lunge aboard, getting their entire body stuck in it. It’s considered a result though, as the driver will eventually be forced to open the doors again, begrudgingly allowing the passenger to make the cut. The driver will take this as a personal insult and as a defeat of sorts, consequently halting the train to berate the passengers. STAND CLEAR OF THE DOORS! WE AINT GOIN NOWHERE IF YOU OBSTRUCT EM. SELFISH FUCKIN GITS!

Often you will hear an announcement warning of severe delays due to a ‘passenger being under a train’. This means someone has either fallen onto the tracks and been killed, or has taken their own life. That basically means that someone has just died doing what you are doing. It makes you feel all warm and fuzzy as you continue your journey. Sometimes people will get all panicky and anxious during severe delays. WE’RE TRAPPED! WE’LL BE STUCK HERE FOREVER. I NEED WATER! AAAAAH AAAAAH AAAAAH!

While aboard a dangerously crowded train, all sorts of things happen… mind games, subliminal battles, the marking of territory, inappropriate eye contact, suffocation, the release of body odour, unhealthy levels of sweat, pondering how your life got to this level, stray hands etc. It’s never good when a phantom hand somehow makes its way to your balls and you can’t see its owner. Your eyes close, pained expression…Please be a girl, please be a girl, please be a girl. Other times a guy will be directly in front of you with his bag at his feet, then he’ll arrive at his stop and bend over to pick it up, smashing his arse right into your knob. Often he remains down there for a few seconds, jostling back and forth while collecting what he needs, meanwhile you’re thinking ‘Aaaaah, that’s what I needed’. The absolute worst? Without a doubt, when someone farts. A mixture of repulsion, rage, suffocation, violent thoughts and confusion will ensue. Confusion, because everyone is a suspect, including you.

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Working in Theatre

1am. Soho. Not yet ready to call it a night. We wander in search of another bar. Here’s one. As we look around it’s a case of… ‘shit, there’s a lot of girls with shaved heads who look like blokes. And the balls that guy is scratching… they’re not his. Oh, I’m at a gay bar, again’.

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