Observations of a tube user

It's been 3 months of using the London Underground on an almost daily basis. Here follows an account of my experiences of the Tube.

Mommy says I shouldn't talk to strangers

...and mom was right. Not a word is said on the trains, for fear of actually getting to know your fellow tube-child. Passengers are typically working-class citizens, going hurredly on with their days, inconvenienced by the mandotry tuna-tin slugfest. Like production line robots, people rail into the train, sit down, and tilt their heads down so they don't ever have to see anyone else on the train. Granted, some take up reading or playing Sudoku, but most are zombies, not even butting their heads to the latest pop-crap playing through their iPods. When the train stops at each station, (which is efficient for the most part) the inhabitants earnestly press on the open button, in the same way you press harder on a remote control button if it's not working correctly. Is it hope that drives this action? Is it a sense of achievement when the doors open up, after your commanding press?

So many differnt shoes!

The trains are living, breathing, stinky musuems for all kinds of footwear. From the flat canvas shoe to the thousand-pound custom-made business uniform end-pieces. They say you can tell a person by what shoes they're wearing, but I wouldn't know. It's rude (and dangerous) to talk to strangers. Still, shoes pick up a lot of dirt in the tubes, so it's good to wear something practical and easy to clean.

Transport for sheep

Shoes are useful for discerning the various species of train-folk. The most dominant of which is the North Boardroom Suited Sheep. Wooden hooves, black legs, large black torso and enough gel and cologne to even scare away an Italian. They come in their droves, always trying to be busy (like checking their mulfunctioning mobile phone appendages) and clothed like they were born of a template. Flashes of colour are seen, but those individusals are strays. The image that comes to mind: Mandrill, with black fleece and an appetite for vegetation.

Sound interference

You would think with your headphones in place and iPod blaring away that you could actually drown out the screams and moans of the tube. (The aforementioned noises come not from the internals, but rather from the wheels on tracks.) At times the static-like noise is overwhelming, deliverying trepidation and uncertaintity to its cling-ons. Not even the rageful sonnet in a Disturbed song can counter-balance the noise within. Add fire, blatant humidity and 3 cups of evil-whoopass and I'm sure it would pass as hell.

...and yet, there is still hope.

In the cracks of this plane of hell, are little beings at work. Tiny shrews emerge from the gaps between the huge advertising posters, scurrying about with food on the mind. Playing amongst the tracks and always knowing in good time before the train arrives. These little rodents are not the only workers within the tubes. I've heard rumours of Underground Staff actually coming down out of their booths to the rails below.

If you smile a genuine one and not one of those "I like your shoes, wanna have sex?" kinda smiles, people respond with a similar gritting-my-teeth-beneath-my-cool-exterior kinda smiles. I admint, I haven't tried winking at someone just yet for fear of being gnawed to death by the hordes of ravenous sheep. Wait, this is about hope isn't it?

And let us not forget the feeling you get when the cold winds are forced down the tunnels, creating a movie-like hair waving effect on all the willows by the banks of this river. It's truly surreal, and cold.

Get from A to B, but please, don't take pictures!

When someone else pays homage to the diced-carrots slash liquor gods, laugh to yourself. Understand that you too could be making a complete arse of yourself if sufficiently inebriated. (Not that you would care at that stage) Not that you should care anyway, but when with sheep, you must flock, or flock off. The tube is a great uncaring, money-sapping monster. Swallowing time and basic human decency in its endless pursuit for the end of the line.