The man next to me on the District Line is a monster. I cannot think of a suitable punishment that could fit his multiple crimes. Sending him to Rhyl to work in Social Services for 10 lifetimes is all I can muster, although 10 days with one of my ex-girlfriends might run it close…
Here goes:
He is talking to his young child who is prammed-up in the seat opposite with the child’s mother. He is shaking his head from side to side and loudly intoning ‘I love you, I love you, luvs you luvs you lovelovelove.’ Loudly.
He is an ex-hippy. Trust me, I can spot them from 150 paces. And if any ex-hippies from the Culmington Road squatting community of the very early ‘80’s would like to return my 1962 butterscotch Fender Telecaster or my 1968 Twin Reverb, that would be much appreciated and I forgive you (do I fuck!).
He has also obviously purchased an Asian internet bride. She is looking as miserable as Liz Truss at her hilarious worst, and she obviously knows that he is a complete cunt – but it’s better than working in a rice paddy or wanking-off fat tourists.
He also has something that is very real, but as unexplainable as The Music Of The Spheres or why people listen to Ed Sheeran recordings – a really annoying face. You know, you can’t put your finger on it, but you just want him slapped.
Oh, and he smells. Yes sir-eee (how do you spell that?) he does. It’s hot, it’s the tube, yes; but I’ve been travelling around since 6:30 this morning and I only smell of Issy Miyaki and Lynx Black God. Maybe taking children on the London Underground is as miserable and soul destroying as it looks, so here’s a wild idea – don’t take the little shitting machines on the tube at 9am. No excuses, it should be illegal. I don’t give a flying one if you’re ‘going somewhere’, just stay at home.
Everyone hates other peoples children, they just don’t have the cojones to admit it to the idiot slobbering parents. And everyone loves their own children far too much. Yeah, take a bullet or jump in front of a bus for them, give them everything to get a head start in the shitty life we’ve left for the next generation; but please cut out the talking to them like pets, thinking everything they do is brilliant and generally bringing folk close to vomiting.
Your kid is not special…
Their piano playing is not pleasant.
A monkey has more artistic ability.
They cannot sing.
They smell of wee.
And yes, they might well end up an unemployable coke-head living at home until you die.
