Tube Diary: 4th July

A businessman eyes the legs of a young woman opposite him. An older woman sitting next to him spots him and frowns. Seconds later, the older woman crosses her legs and in doing so ‘accidentally’ presses her thigh against his. She apologises, runs her fingers through her hair and smiles. Hunting on the 9:23.

Tube Diary: 5th July

Half empty train. Bearded guy, rather large stomach, briefcase on his lap, asleep next to me. Guy opposite, reading the Metro while massaging his package with his thumb. Thin, pale guy next to him, Donald Trump hair, staring at his iPad. Young tattooed guy swaggers on, chewing gum, sky blue boxers on display, smells like he’s wearing Dettol. ‘The next station is Oxford Street.’ Fuck it! I’ve missed my stop!

Tube Diary: 5th July

Someone’s wearing Fahrenheit. Oh dear.

Tube Diary: 6th July

Doors open. A woman (mid 30s, thin lips, sensible shoes) pushes me aside, and rushes toward the one spare seat. She plonks herself down, then throws me a smug look. Seconds later, she jumps up, looking annoyed. Her light tan nylon skirt has a big damp patch on the bum. It looks set to be a good day.

Tube Diary: 6th July

Crammed in on the Northern Line, staring into the (flaky) ear hole of a middle-age Suit. More people pile on. Suit grunts and shuffles round, exposing ‘dandruff covered’ shoulders inches away from my face. I stare at them, afraid that at any moment a slight breeze will create a mini avalanche and engulf me. Oh well, at least I’m getting off at the next stop. “Because of a passenger alarm, this train will be held here for another 10 minutes.” !

Tube Diary: 9th July

Sitting opposite me, a stylish elderly lady; silky black hair in a plait, 50’s style glasses, leopard skin print coat with matching boots. She catches me looking at her outfit, leans over and whispers. ‘It’s the only one I’ve got dear. The moths have had the rest!’

Tube Diary: 9th July

American tourist puzzling over tube map, nudges friend. ‘What about ConVent Garden?’ Friend looks down at map, pulls a face. ‘Just to see a load of old nuns? No thanks, let’s do Lie Cester Square.’

Tube Diary: 9th July

Uh oh. Mother with push-chair at the bottom of a flight of steps – beseeching looks in my direction as I approach (*major good karma points coming up*).

Tube Diary: 9th July

Just spotted a pair of Crocs. I need to lie down.

Tube Diary: 9th July

Glad they’ve replaced the voice that comes through the tannoy at Bank tube station with a woman’s. The man’s voice reminded me of my first headmaster, Mr Howley – slightly aggressive, with a hint of sarcasm. Whenever he spoke I thought, ‘Oh why don’t you just piss off?’ Which isn’t a nice thought to hold onto when you’re about to step daintily onto the 17:33.

Tube Diary: 9th July

Half empty train; woman opposite (black singlet and leggings) applying lipstick while gazing into a compact mirror. Satisfied, she rummages through her leather handbag and removes a tube of foundation which she applies in circular motions. Now it’s spot concealer. One dab. Two dabs. Hold on, you’ve missed one. That ‘about to burst’ one on your chin. Oh well. Never mind. What’s next? Rummage. Rummage. Not more lipstick? No, it’s eye-shadow which she brushes on her upper lids while pulling a contorted face. Next it’s blusher. Then an eyebrow pencil. Oh dear. I’m not sure about that. Bit too Joan Crawford for this time of morning, isn’t it? That’s better, take some off. What’s she using now? Some kind of eye torture equipment. Oh I see. It curls the lashes. Ouch! Doesn’t seem to have made too much difference. Rummage. Rummage. NOW what? Don’t tell me. You’re gonna clip your toe nails? Quick bikini wax? No, she’s pulled out a can of something. Hairspray? Christ, she’s not going to spray the riah in ‘ere, is she? Okay, maybe not. Underarm spray then? Ewwww. Ohhhh, I get it. It’s a water spray for her face. Here she goes. Squirt. Squirt. Woman sitting next to her doesn’t look too happy. Words are being passed. Angry words. ‘That was very rude!’ Uh oh. Catfight on the 9:33! “The next stop is Bank.” My stop! But I can’t miss this. This is better than Krystal and Alexis!

Train pulls off. Two women inside shouting. Cliff-hanger tube diary.

Tube Diary: 10th July

Guy in cap sleeve teeshirt, nodding off while standing and holding onto the rail (a lot of armpit hair on display). Lady sitting next to me (hair like Morticia Addams) with a ‘Baby On Board’ badge attached to her right breast. Rather large guy opposite wearing a canary yellow teeshirt with ‘Save The Thai Elephant’ printed on it. Everyone, heads down, reading, texting or playing computer games. I’m the only one having a good nose. ‘The next station is Hampstead.’ That’s me.

Tube Diary: 10th July

Packed train. If the guy behind me gets any closer I’m going to offer him a condom.

Tube Diary: 11th July

Been thinking…I used to live below a shop, I now live in a basement flat, the previous three flats I lived in were basements and I’ve been using this tube since I first moved to London 31 years ago. So I reckon for at least 20 years I’ve been below ground. No wonder I’m so bloody pale!

Tube Diary: 11th July

Suit reading Metro. Woman sitting next to him, all in pink (raincoat, dress, flat shoes, eye-shadow) leans slightly to her right, trying to read over his shoulder. Suit notices. Huffs. Turns page, abruptly. Few seconds pass by. Miss Pink tries again, this time head facing forward but with eyes to one side (like Mrs Overall). Suit turns to face her. Miss Pink’s eyes dart back. Suit frowns. Resumes reading, flicking to sports page. Miss Pink looks nervous, like she’s trying to decide what to do next. Oh don’t do it Miss Pink! Stop being so nosey (yes I know, I’m one to talk). Suit now engrossed in Finance section. Miss Pink bends forward, slowly. She’s wide-eyed (Liza on cocaine). Then she sinks an inch in her seat until she finds the perfect angle. Gives a half-smile. Then her eyes start reading the front page headline. ‘The next station is Bank.’ Suddenly Suit swivels round. “Here! You may as well read the rest!” Hands Miss Pink the paper. Storms off. Miss Pink’s complexion and outfit now a perfect match.

Tube Diary: 11th July

District Line. I like the District. It’s got those single seats (which I always try and grab so I don’t have to touch anyone). Plus it’s got roomy aisles. So there’s none of that ‘tripping over backpacks’ business. Yes I like the District. But I think it’d be nice to jazz the names up a bit and call these lines by the names of people I once knew. Cos’ District’s a bit boring. So tonight, it’s a nice journey, so I’m traveling on the ‘Dolly Line’. Or just ‘Dolly’. Yes, that’s it. Tonight I’m, ‘Single Seat on Dolly’. Just so you know…Oh my stop!

Tube Diary: 12th July

One, two, three trains go by. Get on the fourth. Still no seats. So I’m standing at the end of the carriage, by the window. An American couple are chatting (loudly) about what they had for breakfast (“Beans. On. Toast. Can you imagine?”) On my right, a businessman (long face) staring at his iPad. On my left, a young, thin boy in sandals. He has a painted toe nail. But then I squint. Realise it’s a bruise. Sitting down, an elegant lady; blonde bob, pea-green jacket, white tailored trousers. Slight tightness around the eyes. She looks chic. Another Suit’s just got on. In his 60s. Haughty. Large nostrils. Very ‘Kenneth’. Keeps glancing at me, eyebrow arched, with a look I read as, ‘If you cruise me I’ll cruise you back. If not, you’re about to get a filthy look.’ I look away. Seconds later (can’t help it) I look back. Ouch! Daggers on the 12:23. Okay, Bank. I’m outta here.

Tube Diary: 12th July 

I’m standing in the aisles. It’s rush hour. And it’s packed. But all is quiet. Just the rumbling of the train, the recorded voice announcing each station and a tinkling sound coming from someone’s headphones. Then a little girl grabs her mother’s hand, looks up at her and shrieks, “Mummy! Mummy! I can feel a poo coming out!”

Tube Diary: 13th July

Girls Court. 12 o’clock. ‘Dilly’ Line. It’s a nice time to travel and there’s plenty of room. A couple of tourists with suitcases. An elderly Asian man (tan suede jacket), clutching a paper hanky as he sleeps. A woman (petite, attractive, mousey brown hair) with a Starbucks coffee and a muffin. Slurpin’ n’ munchin’. People reading the Metro, listening to music, deadpan faces. There’s another elderly man on my right (flat cap, navy blue raincoat) eating an apple. He catches me looking. “Do you like apples?” “Err, yes. I do.” He takes another bite and says quietly. “I like apples.”

It’s a shame the way living in London makes you think that anyone who talks to you on the tube is either from out of town, or mad. But that’s just the way it is.

Tube Diary: 16th July

Bus delay so got here late. But at least the train’s half-empty. So plenty of seats. Thank God. I take one at the end. iPhone at the ready. The train trundles along. Holland Park. No one boards. Notting Hill. One guy gets on; an enormous guy, all in black, with a bushy grey beard and matching dreadlocks. Queensway. Another guy; glasses, battered briefcase. He plonks himself down next to me. Starts reading a magazine. Lancaster Gate. Two Asian guys. One with bulging eyes, like Peter Lorre from The Beast With Five Fingers. Marble Arch. Tourists. The station’s name bordered in pink to signify it’s an Olympic stop. The tourists, French, all women, sit in a line opposite me. They’re slightly aloof (Parisians?). The loudest and smallest reminds me of Edith Piaf. She glares at me. An Indian girl sits next to me (didn’t notice the guy with the mag leave). She smells of Parma Violets. St Pauls. Bank. Change trains. Northern Line (hereby known as the Coalition Line, cos’ it’s depressing). Grab a seat. Uh oh. A Suit eating an egg McMuffin. He gazes at the remaining piece, marveling at it, pops it in his mouth, then screws up the wrapping and drops it in his manbag. He looks at his hands. There’re fragments of congealed egg yolk on his fingers. I edge slightly away. He looks left, right, then (not very subtly) wipes them on the seat. Lovely. Okay. Old Street. My stop.

Tube Diary: 16th July

Businessman walking between Northern Line and Central at Bank, suddenly stops, grips the bannister and cries, ‘I can’t take it anymore!’ This being London, everyone walks past, heads bowed, ignoring him.

Tube Diary: 17th July

Jump on the first train, but every seat is taken, the whole carriage, heads down, reading the Metro. The headlines, ‘Deep Purple Founder Dies’ and ‘Pupil Robbed at Gunpoint’. One woman standing in the aisles, plastic bag in one hand, holding her Kindle with the other. Everyone glum and downbeat. Like a scene from 1984. The train empties at Holborn. I’m now sitting opposite Kindle lady. She keeps crossing and un-crossing her legs. The sign above her reads, ‘Are you sitting comfortably?’ The web address, bladderproblem.co.uk.

Tube Diary: 17th July

The announcer at Old Street is veering off script, saying things such as, ‘It’s that time of day again. Time to go home. But only if you stand well back behind the line’, or ”Hello driver, busy day? Have you missed me?’ Now I know she’s only trying to liven up a dull journey and I applaud that. But when you’re forced to watch three packed trains go by and you have to hear those same tired jokes, again and again. It’s like listening to Last of the Summer Wine on repeat. Honey, you need to break it up a bit! If it was me, I’d throw in the odd unusual comment, just to keep people on their toes, such as, ‘If you’re thinking of committing suicide, it would really help if you did it after 9:30’ or ‘This is a B.O free train to Epping’ or, ‘Seating is not available to anyone who voted for the Coalition.’

Tube Diary: 18th July

I run down the stairs. Shit! Just missed it. A minute later. Another train arrives. Half-empty. Thank you God. There’re just six of us inside. Everyone reading (The Stylist or the Metro). It’s peaceful. So I switch on my iPhone, getting ready to type. Then I notice my face reflected back on the screen, the start of jowls. So I pull a variety of faces; a teeth-clenched smile, a ‘Desperate Dan’ jutting jaw, overly pursed lips – trying to restore the face to the one I once knew. Just as I’m reproducing Munch’s The Scream I hear a titter. I look round. An Indian lady in a turquoise sari is trying not to laugh. I quickly pick up The Stylist, pretending to be engrossed in an interview with Lauren Laverne.

Tube Diary: 19th July

So far, the woman on my left has eaten a blueberry muffin, an egg and cress sandwich and slurped on a Starbucks coffee. Now she’s looking down the aisles. For the waiter?

Tube Diary: 19th July

This train couldn’t be more packed. It’s starting to look like an overground leaving Calcutta.

Tube Diary: 19th July

Two people keep staring at me; small woman (angry face, headphones, fake Birkin). Think she wants my seat (she’s not getting it). And a Suit (striped tie, briefcase the size of a small car). Not sure what he wants. He looks slightly deranged. Like Dennis Nielsen. So maybe he’s trying to decide how I’d look chopped up. Okay, my stop.

Tube Diary: 19th July

Kings Cross. ‘Dilly Line to Girls Court. Train rumbles into the station (I stand back, as I always feel like someone’s going to push me). Doors open. Take a seat. Two Polish builders opposite me. North Face rucksacks and ‘cement covered’ overalls. Next to them, a young blonde woman, powdering her nose. Large lady has just got on. Not sure if she’s pregnant. Offer her my seat. She says, ‘No!’ Doesn’t smile. Feel like saying, ‘Right. For that, you’re going in the diary!’ Another woman, holding onto the pole, appears to be wearing a black quilted duvet for a skirt. I’ve been tapping my shoe against the floor panel for the past minute as I type this. But have just noticed that it isn’t actually the panel, but the guy’s shoe next to me. And he hasn’t said anything! Why am I even telling you this? Oops, my stop.

Tube Diary: 20th July

‘The Train Is Now Approaching.’ Yay! I step on. Grab the empty seat. Start thinking about the dinner party ahead, the cleaning I have to do, the shopping. There’re a gang of boys sitting either side of me talking about a girl called Paris. ‘Didn’t you ‘ave ‘er?’ says one. ‘Yeah, and Michael,’ says another.’ ‘Stew ‘ad ‘er too!’ says a third. ‘That’s sick!’ says a fourth. By Bond Street I find out that she’s had another. By Marble Arch, that two of them are sitting here. By Lancaster Gate, that this was over a 24 hour period. By Shepherd’s Bush, we’re onto positions. Which is a shame cos’ it’s my stop.

Tube Diary: 20th July

10am. Power up iPhone. Step off escalator. Along passageway. Down steps. Onto Platform. Walk to the end. Let first train go by. Stare at the huge poster opposite, trying to work out what the tag ‘The Place To Be’ has to do with Corona Extra. Let another train go by. It’s 10:06. Third train arrives. It’s full. Again. Now a fourth. At last! Take seat by the dividing panel. There’s a pregnant woman opposite, massaging her belly. An Amazon Kindle ad above her head. Around the carriage connecting door ‘not quite removed’ graffiti. ‘The next stop is Notting Hill.’ Train fills up. Every seat now taken. I am so tired. The thought of traveling on this tube every morning ‘til I’m 70 fills me with dread. Maybe it does everyone else, that’s why they look so glum. Notice a fit, attractive, suited guy (mid 20s, floppy hair), a few seats along. He’s staring at the pretty girl next to me, almost willing her to look at him. But she’s in her own world, oblivious. He grits his teeth. His eyes, just short of pleading. ‘Oh why can’t she be mine.’ He reluctantly bows his head, goes back to the Metro, peeping up every minute to catch another glimpse, looking more and more pained each time he does. I want to tell him, ‘It does get better’ but now we’re at Bank and it’s my stop.

Tube Diary: 23rd July

Severe delays on Central. So I’m trapped outside Shepherd’s Bush station. What a bad start to the week. What shall I do now? Then I get a text from a friend saying he was just re-reading Dirty White Boy on the tube & on the back if it got chatted up by a hot muscle bear. How funny. DWB, Grindr for the underground.

Tube Diary: 23rd July

Make my way into the station, down the escalator, steps, onto the overflowing platform. The announcer explains that there’s a person under the train at Lancaster Gate. No response from the crowd. People carry on reading, staring into space. These deaths happen a lot, but it’s strange how de-sensitised you can become, wiping them from your mind, so that seconds later you can continue with your day.

Tube Diary: 23rd July

Two hours after setting off, I’m still no where near my destination. Forced to catch a bus. Heading down Regent Street. Have just passed Swallow Street. I wonder what that was named after?

Tube Diary: 23rd July

Liverpool Street. Central Line. Down. A.Gain! Not another person under the train? Ever since Boris started doing the announcements the death rate has shot up! So now I’m on the Circle, sweating, a bit tipsy after one too many sweet sherries, watching a guy opposite me (‘studenty’, shoulder length hair, beard, ‘tweaked’ mustache) eating a Pastrami sandwich. Actually, when I say ‘tweaked’, on closer examination the tweaks appear to be pointing in opposite directions (although this could be the drink). One up. One down. Did he do this on purpose? Is this a Hoxton craze that’s passed me by? I tend to ignore the beard craze thing if I can, mainly through jealously, because if I grew one I’d look like Dumbledore from Harry Potter. ‘The next station is Gloucester Road’. Just noticed, the guy next to me has the hairiest forearms I’ve ever seen. And in this heat! Wonder if he puts deodorant on them. Okay. Here we go. My stop. Hic.

Tube Diary: 24th July

Step onto the train just as the doors are about to close. Seats all taken so I plonk my ass on the bench by the window. At Notting Hill a woman in a polka dot dress sweeps on. She’s in her 40s, a ‘Minnie Driver’ like face. Her cheeks, lightly powdered. Her hair, long, black/brown and still damp, draped over one shoulder. While everyone around her appears half-asleep, expressionless, she’s alert and seductive. She flicks her hair over her shoulder as the train approaches Bond Street. Then the doors open and she sweeps out again, powerful, upright, a smirk and a sashshay – a ‘Paris is Burning’ voguing queen, while I watch from the sidelines, with an Anna Wintour half-smile. Fierce rulin’ diva on the 9:23.

Tube Diary: 24th July

Overground from Hampstead. New type of train for me. No Suits. Wider aisles. Daylight. But everyone just as glum as underground. Which is reassuring. Over and out.

Tube Diary: 26th July

Empty carriage. I mean, *totally* empty. The next one too! What’s going on? Have I accidentally boarded an Olympic VIP train? Will I be arrested at Marble Arch? *finishes Tube Diary. Starts Prison Diary*

Tube Diary: 26th July

Okay, false alarm. It’s full again. And I’m now sitting opposite my first Olympic volunteer. Her security pass has ‘Team Leader’ emblazoned across it. Don’t think much of the tee-shirt though. Bit cheap. And it’s true, the logo looks like someone giving head.

Tube Diary: 26th July

Back on the bloody tube again. Didn’t realise since I started this diary how much time I actually spend on here. I may as well move in! So this morning I had a meeting with someone about collaborating on an animation and now I’m off to meet Dexter at the RVT. Tube tonight is very humid with a mix of smells; stale armpit, cocoa butter and (discarded) kebab.

Tube Diary: 27th July

Just received a text from a friend to say that he’s just had his arse eaten out by an Olympic volunteer from Cardiff.

Tube Diary: 30th July

First working day of the Olympics and the tube has been strangely quiet. What’s going on? I was expecting the Harrod’s sale down here. But there’s plenty of room. Just a guy in stripes; suit, shirt, tie and socks (probably underwear too). An Olympic worker (cute, blonde, in Hospitality). A woman who looks like a disheveled Helen Mirren and a Chinese guy eating a ‘salad stuffed’ pitta. The woman opposite me grabs my attention. She’s glancing at a Kindle, typing a text on her mobile, while music trickles out of her headphones. Talk about adopting new technology. I imagine her going home, putting on her 3D glasses, her ‘electro wired’ undies, logging onto Single Life and having cybersex with an ‘appendage enhanced’ gif file. Oh. Here we are. Girls Court. Home of the Olympic volleyball.

Tube Diary: 31st July

Extremely butch, square-jawed policeman inside Shepherd’s Bush station. Immediately brought back all the teenage fantasies; Bodie, Starsky, John Thaw, Kojak’s sidekick…

Tube Diary: 31st July

So the nightmare train journey during the Olympics has begun. Central Line ‘partially’ suspended. ‘Partially’ translating as, ‘You’ll be bloody lucky if you get anywhere in the next hour.’ I let five trains go past. Each at seven minute intervals. Each rammed with bodies, with passive/aggressive looks from those inside, as if to say, ‘Don’t even try getting on this!’ Finally a train with seats arrives. Then it’s the Challenge Aneka assault course dash to get a seat. Dammitt! I hit bronze. I’ve been waiting the longest and I still couldn’t get one! Now I’m hemmed in against the connecting door by a family of ten Scandinavians who are all talking excitedly in their foreign tongue. Then out pops the words ‘Olympic. Park’. Great. I’ve got them babbling in my ear for the whole journey. Then the driver says, ‘The Central Line is partially suspended due to frozen tracks near Mile End.’ Frozen tracks? It’s f***ing July! More people get on. But there’s no room! Christ, it’s like a roman orgy in here. Pushing. Shoving. Arms reaching out. Hairy armpits. A family of six hefty, ruddy faced Germans force themselves into whatever openings they can find. Oh God. I’m being squeezed to death! Go back to your own country the lot of you!

The joys of Olympic travel.

Tube Diary: 31st July

Old Street. End of the platform. Quick vada in the corridor mirror. Adjust the riah, this way and that, trying to get the desired look. There isn’t one. I look like a dog. Hey ho. Train arrives. Christ, I ain’t getting on that one. Second train. That’s better. No seats but at least there’s lallie room. So I’m standing in the aisle, holding onto the pole, havin’ a good nose. Around me are a smatterin’ of Hoxton bears (a pack?), a tattooed girl in a 50s dress (matching glasses, nose ring,) and a tall guy (headphones) who is staring at me. Two stops later and I’m on the Piccadilly. On my right, a dark skinned lady in a hijab flicking through the ‘L’s on her iPhone Music app (stopping at ‘Like A Virgin’). Bit further along, a woman reading the Metro (the headline ‘Beware Winning Women’). Opposite, a BA Captain (according to his name badge) using an iPad. Then, as I’m typing this, a woman above me barks at me in a foreign tongue. ‘Prizoty Shleets!’ ‘Err, not today thank you,’ I smile back and carry on typing. Then she says it again. This time followed by frowns and a giggle from people nearby. ‘I can’t understand what you’re saying,’ I say slowly, like a Brit on holiday trying to order a beer. Then I notice her belly. She is so heavily pregnant that I imagine it plopping into my lap at any moment. She points above my head. ‘Pri. Ority. Seat. Ing!’

I jump up and then slink off at the next stop.