Catching the 16.40 from Victoria

Posted: September 7, 2026 | Author: | Filed under: Brief...therefore witty. | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

I’m hot on a train.

Having walked through Underground London for a few minutes in the high-twenty temperatures, I’m hot under the collar.

Making my train, I feel air conditioning hit me, mending my mood and making everything better like Mummy used to do.

I needed a pee, so jumped on the carriage with the dunnie and found I could pee quickly, and well, before stepping out and finding one of those spare seats for priority folk which I would later concede to priority people (a mum and baby).

Sitting, logging onto the Wi-Fi, cracking open a beer; I’ll be home early. Nice.

This is living in the life of 2026 commuters.

Then I realise: a whirring.

Upon noticing it, ‘it’ got louder.

I see its source – the man far opposite. With a fan.

One of those powerful little fans, which I’m sure feels lovely when you’re its owner and have it pointed at you, but for everyone else it’s a powerful little fan that is getting louder – to the point of being…loud.

Bearing in mind the air-con is on, I then note: he’s got it pointing at his balls.

And now we’re in a situation. One of public politeness.

Sound versus sensation.

Ears versus balls.

Who is right?

I am, because this is my blog (I had leftover breaded chicken steak for breakfast #blogging). And in my blog I am right.

And his balls are wrong.

When I then moved seats for the priority mum and son, I turn to see he’s redirected the powerful little fan at his face and he looks disgruntled.

Previously, he looked gruntled.

The son is now crying at his mother due to some technological issues cancelling his tablet viewing, and this is by far preferable to the man chilling his balls at my expense.

It was so to my expense that it genuinely felt expensive, as though the waft of his ball-whiff would sidle-on up to me and whisper “just so you know, I’m cooling down my testicles for the next ten minutes. A bill will be emailed within 5-10 working days. THANKS!”

For someone reason, the smell of the guy wasn’t the problem. Not that day, anyway.

Soon the Mother had calmed son with alternative tech options, and the guy has gone back to looking gruntled. I think he was inconvenienced by their noise.

By god I love working from home.

Sam

The Crabs of St James’

Posted: November 22, 2018 | Author: | Filed under: Brief...therefore witty., Uncategorized | Tags: , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Have you ever been in St James’ Park tube station?

Does it give you the impression that it should have a crab problem?

I’ve asked; it doesn’t, but I can’t help but step off the train when passing through to wonder if I can hear the sea waves echoing down the tunnel, or the crunch of sand sifting between my smart work shoes.

I think Margate affected me.

Something about St James’s Park underground causes me to reminisce of the seaside.

Perhaps it’s the wall tiling, perhaps it’s the colours; it’s probably me.

And it probably is me because I would love so very much if you were to offer me the seaside as opposed to the capital.

London is not adorable, nor whimsical.

The most whimsical it gets is a degree of pomposity that endears it to the Japanese.

London at its most charming is the fact that the river leads elsewhere.

Unless of course we want to drool a little on the dreams of empire, with colossal great white buildings, lathered with muscular nudity and lions, British flags and stout-hearted pigeon poo.

During the empire, British men had muscular feet don’t you know, whilst our women were pleasantly plump as might be bespoke of some great artist of the era, conveying nobility, fertility, and justice via a patriotic curve of the hip.

Good form.

Hardly the seaside though, is it?

A bucket and spade no use in these gold-paved streets.

Still, I picture little crabs earnestly busying themselves sideways, creasing me to a smile as I hear in my head the sound of shelled scuttling on gold.

I wasn’t meant to get off at St James’ Park tube station.

Nor did I mean for a moment to step off the train and out of London.

But there you go, and there I went.

Like a grotto.

Hmm. 

Back to the crossword.