I Am Livid

I don’t have any, before you get excited.  It is just that the title seemed appropriate to the story.

It was last Wednesday morning and my phone went off at 8am, which it does not do very often.  A quick glance showed it to be my parents home number.  It is worth pointing out at this juncture that my parents never call me.  Ever.  I think the last time I had a call from either of them was six months ago when my Mum had been hit by a bus (she is fine, apart from the screaming in terror every time a bus appears on TV).

It was my Mum.

“Don’t worry.  Everything is OK!” were her first words, clearly anticipating my panic.

I took this to be her way of breaking some exceptionally bad news to me in her gentle Irish manner.

“What do you mean everyone is OK?  What’s happened?  Why are you calling?!”

“Oh, I just wanted to tell you that we’re snowed in.  We had a LOT of snow last night.”

“Right.”

“It’s quite beautiful actually.”

“And you called to tell me that at 8am because you assumed I hadn’t listened to the news, looked at the Internet, turned on a television, or indeed opened my curtains?”

“Well, when you put it like that…”

“Is there any danger of it melting in the next hour or so?  Or was it really essential you call to tell me about it at this very moment?”

We agreed that adverse weather conditions no longer necessitate a phone call outside normal office hours, unless a) someone has been hit by lightening, or b) a freak tornado has caused millions of pounds worth of improvements to my home town.

I am stood at the bar in Paddington station with half an hour to kill till my next train.  I may not have mentioned it much, but I am not drinking during January, so I have the embarrassment of ordering a mineral water to look forward to.  I am sure my liver is thanking me.  Silently.  And with nothing outwardly noticeable.

The middle-aged man in front of me at the bar looks familiar, but I can’t place him.  This is annoying because I am good with faces.  Rubbish with names, but great with faces.  Very often I will see some obscure actor on TV and point out that he was previously that guy in that show about the thing, you know, the one with the woman in it.

He orders a Guinness and some nuts.  As the barman finishes pouring his pint he says, quite generously in my opinion “…and take one for yourself.”

“Thanks, what sort of drink are we talking about?” queries the barman.

He is surprised at this question, as am I.

In the olden days people would regularly tip the barman, and “have one yourself” would mean take a few pence, or “two bob” as my Dad says.  Not any more, clearly.

The man shrugs his shoulders and looks at me.  This is when I recognise him.

“I didn’t realise that offer would be a negotiation.” I point out to the guy who plays that nurse in that thing in the hospital on the BBC that is a bit like ER but with uglier actors.

He chuckles and says to the barman, in uncertain tones, “Three quid?”

“Thanks very much.” concludes the barman.

He goes off to his table and I take my refreshing and healthy, yet completely unsatisfying, mineral water to a nearby table.  I take out a book and begin to read, with just twenty two minutes to kill.

A few minutes later, the guy who plays that nurse in that thing in the hospital on the BBC that is a bit like ER but with uglier actors asks me if I would mind keeping an eye on his bags whilst he goes for a cigarette.  Of course, we are both in the entertainment industry, technically, so I feel it would be churlish to refuse on the grounds that he has been on television.  I agree, but point out in tones that show I am also in the entertainment industry, that my train leaves in fifteen minutes, so I can only wait that long till he returns.  I would not miss my train for him, even though he is the guy who plays that nurse in that thing in the hospital on BBC that is a bit like ER but with uglier actors.

After ten minutes I begin to worry.  Cigarettes do not take that long to smoke, surely?  Perhaps it is an elaborate ruse, and Al Qaeda have taken to disguising themselves as the guy who plays that nurse in that thing in the hospital on the BBC that is a bit like ER but with uglier actors in order to trick innocent commuters into guarding their as-yet-unexploded incendiary devices?

I briefly consider checking his bags for explosives.  On the plus side, I could be declared a hero for not falling for Al Qaeda’s latest campaign, and saving many, many lives.  On the downside, I could be charged with attempted theft and make it to somewhere around page seven in next week’s Heat magazine.  “Top Blogger attempts to steal from the guy who plays that nurse in that thing in the hospital on the BBC that is a bit like ER but with uglier actors.” would make a headline I would never live down.

I decide to wait it out.

After fourteen minutes I pack up my things and put on my jacket as I prepare to leave for my train.  The guy who plays that nurse in that thing in the hospital on BBC that is a bit like ER but with uglier actors has not returned.  I feel he is taking our entertainment-industry camaraderie a little too far.  It is possible that by leaving his bags unattended I could inadvertently cause a security alert, but technically that would be his fault and I much prefer the sound of a Heat headline reading, “The guy who plays that nurse in that thing in the hospital on BBC that is a bit like ER but with uglier actors causes security alert by leaving bags unattended.”

My mind is made up, I will leave the bags.  As I take my first step towards the exit he returns.  He thanks me politely and I make my way to my train, at which point I remember that he plays the character Charlie in Casualty.

I have travelled to or from most airports in the UK.  Most of the nine London airports, Manchester, Edinburgh, Glasgow, Luton, and of course Birmingham International.

It was this last airport that had my attention drawn to it by a friend who works as a pilot after he had been reading their annual report from the website. Available by clicking here.

After reading the first ten pages of boring aviation stuff and corporate information, he got to page 11 about Safety and Security, something of obvious interest to a pilot.  That is when he noticed their choice of image to accompany the security message.  I have included it below to save me describing it (click the image for the full size view).

I appreciate him sending it to me, and it is heart-warming to know that that there are people out there, no matter how old they get, or how responsible their job, they will always be on the lookout for a cheap knob-gag.  For that I am truly grateful.

It then begs the question of what sort of person is unable to pack for their holiday without including that special set of plastic cock and balls?  Perhaps the owner of this suitcase was emigrating, and we should give them the benefit of the doubt.  But then the suitcase does look rather sparse apart from the cock and balls.  A small make-up bag?  A nail file?  A hairbrush?  Hardly the stuff with which to launch a new life on the other side of the world.  Unless you are going to find work as a very specialised beauty therapist.

There is also the possibility that it was put there deliberately by the security services as a coded warning to Al Qaeda.

“Yes, we are English, but should we suspect you of being a terrorist, we will not let our crippling embarrassment or our innate wish to avoid a scene stop us from opening up your suitcase case and waving around prosthetic genitalia.  That is how much we want to beat you!”

So if you are sat reading this in a cave in Afghanistan, whilst taking a break from cramming semtex into vibrators, think again, because we are on to you…

*** STOP PRESS ***

Tideliar has informed us below that the offending Phallus has been photoshopped out of the brochure!  I was wrong, we HAVE let our crippling embarrassment give the advantage to kinky terrorists.  We are doomed!

I am in the fortunate position that I do not have to drive anywhere near as often as I used to.  Getting through a couple of tanks of petrol a week was not unheard of in my last role.

Therefore I have not been hit particularly hard by the steady rise in the price of petrol in the last year or so.  So I tended to ignore it, like most social issues that do not directly affect me.

But, I recently filled up at a cost of over £60 for the first time, and after a long debate with the forecourt manager where he convinced me they had not, in fact, made a mistake, I decided to look into what makes today’s petrol so expensive.  After all, the price of crude oil is dropping quite quickly at the moment.

An average 115p litre of unleaded petrol is broken down like this:

50.35p on fuel duty
37.35p on the product itself
17.13p on VAT
10.17p for the retailer

Now, I understand the arguments for fuel duties, I really do.  Some of them I agree with, others I do not.  What I do not understand however is how the Government can tax us on the tax we are already paying.

You see, I was under the impression that the VAT (’Value Added’ Tax) should only be applied to that part of the price in which I am paying for, well, “additional value”?  i.e. the product and the service that is delivered it to me?  Whereas in effect they are benefiting twice by raising fuel duties, once with the duty itself, and secondly by the increased VAT charged upon it.

I hope someone out there cleverer than me can surely explain why this is not illegal?

Or maybe it is?

I just wish someone would hurry up and invent the solar powered BMW.  Though they would surely find a way to tax sunshine the day that happens.  It might not even be the first time.

I do not see the point in personalised number plates.  I have mentioned them before, as they tend to adorn cars that could really have done with the few hundred pounds they cost, being spent elsewhere, like on clothes, personal hygiene products, or a frontal lobotomy.

I do understand however that for those people intent on having a personalised plate, it is difficult to make the correct choice.  You have to consider your name, your personality, readability, and maybe even a secret hidden message.  All in seven characters or fewer.

This is difficult,

Sometimes people will succeed in meeting one of the above criteria, and it will be clear to all concerned what their name is, or the type of person they are (something subtle like W8nk3r).

Despite all of this, I found myself in such awe of the owner of the registration plate below that I had to take a photo of it with my phone so that I could share it with you all.

They have managed to not only ensure everyone is clear about their sexuality (a bonus if they use the Jeep for some off-road dogging etc.) but they have also managed to confirm their favourite sexual position, which will obviously save time in the dogging parks, where I hear brevity is key.  Best of all, they have let prospective partners know that they are still learning, so we should not expect too much from any tawdry encounter we might have with them.

If only all people put this much thought into it, I might have to reconsider my general position on the owners of such needlessly ostentacious accessories.

Having finally made my way airside, I had a small amount of time to get something to eat before boarding my flight.  It was still early, so I fancied a light breakfast.

I took a seat in The Tin Goose pub /  Restaurant and perused the breakfast menu.  It was full of overpriced variations of the English breakfast, with little option for someone wanting something on the ‘light’ side.  I settled on Eggs Benedict and waited for someone to take my order.

And waited.

Then I noticed that this restaurant was ’self ordering’ as opposed to table-service or self-service.  You go to the bar to order, give them your table number, and they bring the food to you.

This presented a dilemma.  I was eating alone, so I would have to leave my table whilst I placed my order, and due to the constant security warnings I was not about to leave my belongings there as a sign the table was occupied.  I did not want to be at the centre of a “Extremely popular blogger causes airport chaos!” story, not again.

I finally got to the front of the queue and ordered.

“We have no Eggs Benedict, sorry.”

“Right.  I’ll just have some scrambled eggs on toast then?”

“We don’t do that.”

“Poached?”

“Nope.”

“Boiled?”

“Nope.  You can have fried.  As part of a breakfast from the menu.”

I acquiesced and chose the “mini” full English, because I am on a healthy eating kick.  I also ordered an Orange juice.  He bent over and opened the fridge behind the bar and pulled out a ready-poured glass of orange juice.

“I don’t want that one.”

“What’s wrong, it’s fresh?”

“It was pre-poured, you could be secretly trying to rohypnol me or anything.  I’d like a fresh one, poured in front of me, please.”

He did as I asked and requested my table number, which I handed over, before he pointed out that an elderly couple were now sat there.

“Well I WAS sat there, before I had to come up here to order, whilst carrying all my belongings so as not to cause a full scale security alert, ensuring the table looked vacant.”

We settled on a recently vacated table close by, and I went off to use some incredibly expensive wi-fi.  My breakfast arrived, without the toast, and I tucked into the worst ten pound breakfast I’ve ever had.

In this world of ever increasing efficiencies, time saving innovations, and stuff that goes quicker, it is not unusual for me to be impressed by something designed to make my life easier.

Which is why I was pleased to receive an email from the airline BMI just 24 hours before a recent trip to Edinburgh.

“There are just 24 hours to go before your flight – so why not make the most of them by checking in on-line and avoiding the airport queues?  Once at the airport just drop your bags at the NEW on-line fast bag drop and head straight for the departure gate. What could be simpler?”

BMI coming to my flat and collecting me would be simpler, there was no need to end with that question.  It merely invites disaster, but this innovation was way beyond my (pretty low if I am honest) expectations.

It was good news, of course, as I hate queueing at the airport due to my perpetual luck in always being behind someone with a ‘luggage dispute’.  I duly followed the email instructions and was checked in for my flight the following morning.  All in about two minutes.

I got up bright and breezy the following morning and made my way to the airport.  Upon arrival at Terminal 1, I noticed a large queue in the BMI area.   “Ha!” I thought to myself, not entirely silently.

If only they were Internet savvy like myself, they might have avoided the queues.  I moved among them like a man with a purpose.   A purpose and a suitcase.

“Excuse me please, I’m trying to get to the fast on-line bag drop.”

“So are we!” said the man in front of me.

“And me!” said the woman in front of him.

“We are too!” concurred the family of Americans about fifty people ahead of me.

It appeared that the entire queue had checked in on-line and was waiting for the fast bag drop.

Now this is what happens when fads like ‘email’ gain momentum. Oh yes, they sound great in principle, but eventually people like me, the genuine technological leaders, lose out.

To compound my misery there was a much smaller queue for people who had not checked in on-line, preferring to do things the old fashioned way.  They had the distinct look of the Amish about them.

“Excuse me,” I asked of the stressed looking BMI staff member organising our queue, “Couldn’t I just go and drop my bag off over there, in the smaller queue?”

“I’m afraid not, because technically you’re already checked in.”

“I checked in because you said it would be faster, yet all you’ve done is move the entire queue from point A,” I said, pointing at point A, “to Point B.” I concluded, pointing at point B, my feet.

“And I’m pretty sure this NEW fast bag drop section is just the old check-in desks renamed?”

“This will actually be quicker, I assure you.”

She did not assure me in the slightest.  I watched with envy as the Amish travellers swiftly made their way through to the departure gates whilst I listened to an American family fifty people ahead of me argue about their baggage allowance.

With twenty four in our group, the only sensible option for transporting us to the golf club each day, was a coach.  Which we duly hired in advance, like any sensible northern European.

Now, the thing about Spanish coach companies is that they tend to supply coaches driven by Spanish drivers.  After picking us up on time, we arrived at our destination and I went about confirming the pick up time with him.

“WE WILL NEED PICKING UP AT SEVEN THIRTY, OK?” I articulated, perfectly clearly.

“No hablo inglés.” he replied, with a shrug of the shoulders.

This was disappointing.  There were twenty four of us, and only one of him.  It would have been much easier for him to learn our language than for all of us to learn his, twenty-four times easier in fact, but he had selfishly decided to stick with a language that had served his country well across the millennia.

Luckily enough, I vaguely recalled seeing a series of instructional business videos with John Cleese early in my career, so I knew how to handle the situation.  I remembered one particular lesson where he struggled to get his point across to a small Spanish waiter.

“LOOK.  SEVEN THIRTY?  CI?  NINETEEN THIRTY?  CI?  I WILL WRITE IT DOWN HERE ON THIS PIECE OF PAPER.  CI?”

His cab was slightly elevated so I could not reinforce the instruction with a clip to the back of the head as Mr. Cleese had suggested.   Still, he smiled and implied he had understood.

Later that evening, as eight-thirty rapidly approached and we were still stood outside the golf course, and with twenty three angry holiday makers moaning in my ears, I vowed to follow Mr Cleese’s intructions to the letter for the rest of the week.

We were on our way back from one one of Cornwall’s most famous golf courses, when Ickle suggested we should stop off somewhere for dinner.

“Padstow is just down the road,” he said, “Rick Stein has got a quite famous fish and chip shop there?”

Ickle’s record that week for suggesting activities was far from impressive, but I quite like fish and chips, though I do not like celebrity chefs.  It was a dilemma, to be sure.  My argument that any celebrity chef opening a fish and chip shop is clearly going to be doing so not for Michelin stars, but just to make a shit load of cash fell upon deaf hears, and so off towards Padstow we headed.

We were surprised to find that there was a small sit-in area at his chip shop, I suppose to give us the faintest illusion of being in a restaurant.  We stood in the queue and waited for a table.

And waited.

At about ten to nine we had finally reached the front of the queue.  A waitress came over to us and I began handing over my order.  She immediately interrupted me.

“I’m sorry.  We close at 9pm, so I don’t think we’ll be able to seat you now.”

“What?  We’ve just queued for quarter of an hour!”

“Sorry about that.  You can still get a take away?”

Faced with with having nothing to eat, or having fish and chips in the car, we joined the take away queue,  which moved only marginally quicker than the sit-down queue.

“I’ll have cod and chips with mushy peas please.”

“We’re out of mushy peas.”

Out-fucking-rageous.

What sort of chip shop runs out of mushy peas?  A really fucking shit one, that’s what sort of chip shop runs out of mushy peas.  One that is more interested in ensuring massive profit margins and minimising potential waste than serving it’s customers.

I picked up a can of Coke and headed to the till with my tiny box of cod and chips.

“That’ll be £9.20 please.”

“£9.20? Are you sure? I mean, I know I’ve been queueing for quite a while, but inflation in Cornwall is hardly at Zimbabwe’s levels is it?”

“Urm, right.  That’s £9.20 please.”

I sat fuming in the car whilst eating my ridiculously expensive tiny dinner and vowed not to listen to any of Ickle’s ideas ever again.  Unless he suggested going to the pub.

Until some media mogul offers me a six-figure deal for the contents of this blog, and my additional life story (note to potential publishers - I am willing to include the life story bit for free), I will continue to use public transport.

It is far from ideal, admittedly, and mixing with the proles is not something I like to do when preparing for important meetings and that. That said, it does provide certain moments of entertainment, whether it be an unexpected brush with nature, or like today, a brush with an impatient arsehole.

Having departed the Northern Line train at Angel tube station I made my way, along with the masses, to the escalator. Escalators are great things, when they are working, and of the three available only two were moving. One going up, and one going down. It was also the Tube’s version of the perfect storm, i.e. when a north-bound and south-bound train arrive at exactly the same time and all the exiting passengers arrive at the escalator at the same time. I was in no hurry, so like fifty or so other passengers I was perfectly happy to take my place in the queue.

However, the suited city gent behind me clearly was not.

“Oh for God’s sake” he began, looking at the masses gathered at the foot of the stairs, “This is ridiculous!”

He decided that rather than wait, he would barge passed a couple of people and make his way to the empty middle escalator, the one not working. After all, it is only a few stairs isn’t it?

He reached the foot of the escalator and stopped.

Now, for people who do not use the London Tube network it is worth pointing out that the Northern Line is approximately four miles underground. I do not believe he was aware of this fact.

His posture changed and with the second audible, “Oh for God’s sake!” he slumped to the back of the crowd and behind the twenty or so people who had arrived since he jumped out of the queue.

I laughed (out loud), I am not ashamed to say. The guy next to me laughed too, and so did the woman in front of me. For the briefest of moments three random strangers were united in rejoicing at the misery of a city gent in way too much of a hurry to get to a probably-not-very-important-anyway meeting. It was a beautiful moment.

I will miss interactions like this when I am an Internet millionaire.

I was practically sat in the seat opposite him on the train before I even noticed him. In truth, I barely recognised him without the bear.

I got out my phone and sent a brief Twitter update, “Sat on a train opposite Roger de Courcey!”

Luckily for Roger I have always believed that celebrities appreciate members of the general public making a bit of an effort in their greetings to them. It must get very tiresome being heckled with, “Hey! Aren’t you that whatsisname off that thing on that channel?”

“I suppose it was just a waste of money to buy a ticket for Nookie then?” I quipped hilariously, simultaneously breaking the ice and letting him know I was not some run of the mill member of the public. It was clear that I care about my introductions to celebrities.

“I’m sorry?” replied Roger.

“I’m just not used to seeing you without Nookie bear, you know.” I added, whilst doing my best impression of Nookie Bear’s googly-eyes and moving my naked hand like a puppet.

“Hang on, do you think I’m Roger de Courcey?”

“Umm. You’re not?”

“No! He must be at least twenty years older than me!”

To be fair he had a point. My mental image of Roger de Courcey and Nookie Bear is based on their mid 1980’s television appearances. I suppose it is not unreasonable to assume that in lieu of selling his soul to the Devil, Roger de Courcey has aged somewhat since then.  Plus this man in front of me did look a lot like the 1980’s Roger de Courcey. And he did not have a Nookie Bear anywhere in sight, which should have been a dead give away. If you are famous for having your hand up the arse of a bear it makes sense that you would ensure to have your hand inside him at all times so people would know who you were.

“I’m sorry,” I finished, apologetically. “It’s just that, you know, you do look a bit like him.”

I sat back in my seat and sent another Twitter update, “Ok. So it’s not Roger de Courcey, and he’s a bit upset at the implied resemblance.”

He returned to his newspaper, and we continued our mutual journey into London in uncomfortable silence.

I am back, and in one piece, which I am sure you are all absolutely delighted to hear. I had a very nice week away, mostly, and it was heartening to see the second podcast so well received. I am particularly grateful to those of you who took precious time away from making the world a better place to tell us how shit you thought it was. It is appreciated.

I am pretty sure that we will be doing another one in the next week or so, especially after peaking at number 59 in the iTunes comedy podcast chart, and being officially funnier than Danny Baker for three whole days. Which was nice. Fat Jim and I would like to discuss your emails in the next one, so if you have something you feel would benefit from dissection from Fat Jim and I, then you can use the email in the sidebar to the right.  We promise a namecheck for all the amusing ones.

Anyway, now onto my week away.

On the Saturday of my departure I wandered around Gatwick North Terminal for a while, whilst waiting for my departure gate to be announced. I meandered over to Dixons, as though I am definitely not a geek, I do quite like looking the new gadgets. Particularly impressive were the noise-cancelling headphones, but the staff in Dixons could not guarantee they would work when, with depressing inevitability, I was sat next to a screaming child on the plane.

Then I had a look at the massive televisions. It is a sort of self flagellation ritual, whereby I punish myself by seeing how much the prices have dropped in the twelve months since I bought mine.

Then it struck me as to how strange an item a massive television is to stock in the departure area of an airport. I can understand headphones, iPods, cameras etc., but who wants to take a huge television away with them in their hand luggage? I already get enough funny looks when the security people remove open my bag to examine my perfectly legitimate video surveillance equipment.

Selling televisions at airports is not something I can imagine being a particularly lucrative business venture. You are relying on people buying on spur of the moment, but I will bet that most of them realise when they leave the shop that they are actually on their way to board a plane. I bet they get absolutely loads of returns.

“Ah yes, this television. I forgot I was about to fly to the Alps so I don’t really have space for it in my hand luggage, what with my specialist magazines and tissues. I’m going to have to return it.”

After seeing the televisions for sale, I was drawn to all the other large items on offer. Especially the luggage, but I did not see anyone carrying a fortnights worth of clothes in Tesco carrier bags, so I do not know how many of those they sold either.

So it is time to fess up. What is the biggest thing you have bought in an airport?

I receive a text message.

“Hope you had a good weekend? Are you around today? If you are, what are the chances of a lift to pick up my car in Old Windsor about 4.45?”

It is from a friend down the road, and her request is both friendly and quite polite. As it is, I am at home all day anyway, and old Windor is literally just a couple of miles away, so I agree, knowing full well that I will have a favour in the bank that I can use for something much more valuable than a three mile lift to pick up a car. Like when I need a kidney transplant or something. I text back in the affirmative.

Shortly afterward, I get another text in response.

“You’re a diamond!” it begins. Yes, I am a diamond, and it is nice for that to be noticed every now and again. I am not averse to helping out a friend in need, but I do not like to brag about it in a public forum, and so it is heartwarming to see this character trait being acknowledged so enthusiastically.

“If you just cross the M4…” the message continues, utterly unnecessarily.

I know where she lives, so this is strange. She lives not three hundred yards away. Why on earth would I head out to the motorway?

“When you get to the A4 head west for…..” it continues, sounding much like instructions you would give to a rally driver, except with traffic lights and pubs used as reference points. It strikes me that I am not being given the scenic route to her flat, but to a different destination altogether.

“…then swing a left and the office is right in front of you.” the message concludes, making it blindingly obvious that I will be picking her up from work. Of course, it is too late now to change my mind as I will look like a right tight-arse. So I seethe quietly and begin making lists of all the body parts I will want donated as compensation.

Later, as the storm hits east Berkshire hard, I bravely follow her instructions, like the diamond I am, and pick her up from work.

We begin to chat as we drive the SEVERAL MILES back to Windsor.

“So,” I begin, conversationally. “You never actually mentioned you wanted a lift from work.”

“Didn’t I? Oh, sorry about that.”

“It’s just that, with it being a lift to pick up your car, I thought it was a safe assumption that you would be working from home, you know, car-less, and almost next door to me.”

“No, I had to go in. It’s not a problem is it?”

“Well, I’m here aren’t I? It’s just I like to have all of the facts available to me when deciding whether to help someone out or not. It’s not that I don’t like you or anything, it’s just there is a limit to any sane persons generosity.”

“So you wouldn’t have picked me up if you’d known I was at work, and not at home?”

“Possibly not.”

“Fuck off!”

We continue the journey in silence.

I had still better get that kidney.

There are signs everywhere warning potential fare dodgers that they will be both fined and potentially prosecuted if they do not produce, when asked, a valid ticket for their journey. Of course, in over ten years of regular tube use I have never been asked, or seen anyone asked, to produce a valid ticket. But I am sure the threat is not idle, oh no.

People tend to take notice of the warning signs, or rather the 27% of tube users that can read do anyway. However, the animal kingdom clearly do not hold any fear of the ’system’. They have been known to regularly flaunt the rules, and I refer in particular to the pigeon that joined my Circle Line train at Edgware Road yesterday.

It flew in nonchalantly as you like, and strode purposefully up and down the carriage like it owned the place.  I moved my bag from the seat next to me, but it was not interested.

A pigeon on a tube train raises everyones spirits, except for those people with an irrational fear of pigeons, but they should clearly not be hanging around on the tube anyway, the weirdos.  A pigeon on the tube is a bit like when a dog got loose in your school playground, though obviously this is in the olden days, because nowadays a dog would be shot, stabbed, or pitted against another dog in a fight to the death within minutes of entering most inner city schools.

So, regardless of the fact that this pigeon was flagrantly flouting the rules, there was a frisson of excitement in the air.

“I want to know where he is keeping his Oyster card”, I said to the utterly bemused gentleman next to me. He just looked at me like I was some sort of Tube nutter. He was clearly not interested in bringing rule breakers to justice. This is what the man on the street (or tube) is like Gordon Brown’s Britain.  No concern for law and order unless it is in his own back yard.

The pigeon strode past me and waited patiently at the door as we approached Great Portland Street (I took a picture and put it here). This was a clearly a mistake on his part, obviously, so I felt it was my duty to correct him.

“I’m sorry Mr Pigeon,” I began out loud, “But you probably wanted to get off at Baker Street and get the Bakerloo line. Now you’re going to have to get to Euston and take the Northern Line down to Charing Cross. Trafalgar Square is but a tiny walk from there.”

He ignored me completely, and flew off the moment the doors opened. Unfortunately there were no tube staff to report him and his ticket-less status, but I had the last laugh, as after double checking my tube map, I was able to confirm that there were no connecting tubes from Great Portland Street to get him to his friends at Nelsons Column, the stupid feathered idiot.