London Commuters: I Salute You

There’s one thing about London that absolutely no one seems to like. The world appears to be united against it. Songs have even been written about the sheer hatred it instills in people. 

Granted, I’ve probably not encountered enthusiasts because I don’t know any train-spotter, anorak types, but let’s face it:  there are probably people in remote tribes that don’t know what a pencil is, yet they’ve heard about this absolute horror.

When thinking about an impending trip to the Big Smoke, a thought pinged into my head, as unwelcome as celery sticks in a ten year old’s lunch box. Oh yes. I mean the sprawling, unending misery, that is the tube system.

Bad breath. Delays. Closed lines. Tourists that don’t understand basic etiquette. Armpits. People with backpacks. Litter. And – the cause of a great deal of tutting – people who stand on the left hand side of the escalator. All of this to deal with at 7am, and yet an average of around 2.7 million journeys are taken every day. That’s a whole lot of frustration building up.

So it’s no surprise City workers are associated with being snooty and irritable, as well as ruthlessly calculating. Even the most well-adjusted person could lose their soul at Tottenham Court Road. But surely something can be done to help?

Amateur Transplants had a good crack it. Their most famous hit, London Underground, gets just about everyone yelling the big ‘C’ word, like a theraputic group slagging-off. A good plan. Let’s step it up a notch.

A portion of the money from underground fares and Oyster card sales could be used to set up support groups for commuters – think Alcoholics Anonymous meets anger management classes. They’d take place in a room dressed up like a tube station – adverts for disappointing novels, crap mosaics, and the distinct smell of urine mixed with Eau de arsecrack. Broken ticket machines line the dingey grey walls. Tourists stare into the mid-distance with vacant yet confused expressions. You walk past a group of engineers holding sausage rolls and cups of tea.

But the ticket machine is made of a stress-ball material – you can kick it to your heart’s content without stubbing a toe. The tourists are mannequins, so you can slap them silly without consequence, and stuff Big Mac wrappers down their throats. The engineers are dolls, squeaking like a dog toy when you punch it in the chest.

Maybe beating up mannequins is a little excessive, so I can say only this: London commuters, I salute you.

Image courtesy of Colin Gregory Palmer