At work on time today, this is good. But it meant that the tube was that little bit more full, but I had managed to get a seat.
Reading through the evil free owned by the Daily Mail Metro. Some guy sat next to me an arrogantly pushed my arm of the armrest with his bulk.
This is part and parcel of public transport, the same can happen in unruly cinemas too. The shard armrest is a gable. If you chose to fight then there will never be a victor.
I am always reminded of getting the weekly coach to go swimming when at school. Not only was there the sheer terror of who you’d have to sit next to, but if it was someone not good then the half hour journey had the armrest fight of terrifying proportions (on the whole it’s not suitable etiquette to give someone a dead leg on the tube or call them a bummer).
I was affronted by the way this guy just pushed me aside, I turned to look at him – He was a smarmy little fuck. Really slimy, with manicured hair and rimless glasses. Probably an estate agent, or a slug or something.
So I thought I’d fight. I waited until he moved his arm to turn the page of the evil free owned by the Daily Mail Metro. I seized the no-man’s-land. He clocked it fairly quickly
He returned his arm to the rest and started to try and squeeze me out. Immediately I could tell he was a gym guy (probably really smarmy and boasts about how many sit ups he can do). I realised that my comedian’s lifestyle could prove a hindrance. Maybe this time I’d bitten off more than I could chew.
But I couldn’t give up. I tensed my arm and managed to turn the page the evil free owned by the Daily Mail Metro with just the other.
He was a fighter, we were both determined not to give up on this small peninsular. But my original surprise attack had gained me a lot of extra ground. Even with the ground to strength ratio it looked like I might be able to hold out.
We were at Finchley Road; I was getting off at Bond Street. If I could keep this sacred isle under the flag of Terry for just the 7 minutes it takes then I know that I will always be a better man and probably have a bigger penis.
I also concocted away of ridiculing and embarrassing him; he was pushing fairly hard, I think people were notice. I looked around with a “Look at this twat†smile on my face, he had slimy determination (I will get that sale). I figured that if at Bond Street I could get up very quickly the pressure he was exerting on me would cause him to fall over comically. Then I could say something witty to put him down, and then maybe stamp on his head.
Alas, although his arm was still there, by Bond Street he had given up. So I left the tube to a packed platform of cheers and screams. I was lifted onto the shoulders of the commuters and carried up the escalator, not even needing my ticket to get out to show the amassed throng outside that I was the people’s champion. The rights of armrests stay with us.
Actually, I changed to the central line.
I’ve had four snickers in two days.