Travel in the City

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There are many unwritten rules for travelling on public transport in London, but one of the most important to remember is to not make eye contact with another living being. Look at the adverts, your shoes, their shoes, your fingers, a book or inspect the inside of your eyelids; just don't look into the eyes of someone else.

The keeping of this rule has been helped massively by the fact that everyone now has a phone or tablet to stare at, and ear phones to stick in their ears. People now don't have any need to accidentally and awkwardly catch a glimpse of the large-breasted lady sitting opposite.

Londoners amuse themselves by watching the latest American hit drama series on their phones, while other people look over their shoulder and also enjoy the free entertainment. They sit forward on the edge of their seat, with their ears plugged in, whilst maintaining an expression of stoicism. This allows them to be in a completely different world, where they're not sat next to a large man with a film of sweat covering his skin.

Other Londoners spend their time furiously tapping at their screens as they attempt to play a game. They fling birds, ride motorbikes, rearrange shapes and pop candy, all while other passengers look over their shoulder, and themselves become engrossed in the game. You can watch their faces flinch as the player crashes, or shake their heads in disappointment at the choice of putting that shape there. If a passenger is playing a particularly captivating game, he could end up with his own set of disciples who secretly root for him.

 One will almost certainly see someone on public transport holding a book-sized device, looking at it intently for a few minutes, before giving a quick swipe and continuing to stare. These people are reading a book, but without the hassle of having to hold a book-sized object and needing to lift a finger to turn the page.

This does, however, mean that someone can read a book without everyone around them knowing what they're reading. They could be reading a best-selling novel, an erotic story or a Paul McKenna self-help book; no-one will ever know. This can save huge embarrassment, but also removes the possibility of someone wanting to start a conversation with you about 'the message' of the book.

If you're particularly lucky, you'll get a young person, with a sculpted hair cut who keeps pulling their trousers up, come aboard with their headphones on and music turned up. One should not think of them as being selfish, and not caring about the people around them having to put up with the constant thudding of popular music. Instead, one should think of him as a selfless being who has chosen to damage his own ears, just so that he can share his 'banging tunes' with us mere dullards. People should be grateful, not hateful.

 The odd person might even use their phone to make a phone conversation.

"You won't be-lieve what Phyllis did at work today," says one woman, gossiping with her friend during a painfully long conversation. "I knoow, rite?"

Or other people use it for short and sweet conversation.

"Alright luve? Put the ket'le wuld ya; I'll be 'ome in five."

When on public transport, it is also customary to shout your conversation into the phone, so that everyone on the surrounding carriages knows your business. Even better, if you can throw in a loud, annoying laugh, or do it all in a foreign language, then you should go ahead and do it. Nothing grates on the souls of other commuters more than that; assuming they're listening.

The Biannual Tube Strikes

Surprisingly, life in London on a usual day, runs smoothly. If the sun is shining, and you can get a seat on the bus, the queues are working, and no-one has thrown themselves in front of a moving train, you could be forgiven for feeling strong, positive emotions; such as contentedness. Nothing strong enough to stir a smile, but enough to stop you wishing for a new plague, as you cup your head into a sweaty armpit.

However, this is nothing but the calm before the storm, when the Transport for London staff throw a hissy-fit and decide to award themselves a few days off. The result is central London becoming a no-go zone; as if a nuclear attack has just been performed on Charing Cross roundabout.

The Government issues statements, such as:

"Please stay in your homes until further notice. Travellers are advised to use other routes, and to not attempt entering the area unless  completely unavoidable. If you are worried about loved ones who might be stranded at a bus stop, please call 02054 845321. We thank you for your calm and cooperation during this difficult period."

Actually, they don't, but for the panic that builds up in the average Londoner in the week proceeding a planned strike, they probably should consider such warnings.

And what is the row over? It's usually over things such as not being paid enough (despite being paid considerably more than the average nurse), and the rise of the machines. When the average tube driver gets paid £50,000 a year to spend half of it striking, it isn't a huge surprise that people have little support for them, and cannot wait for computer-operated trains. The computers can't strike… yet, anyway.

In reality, Transport for London could probably interchange 50% of staff with paper cut outs of them, and the public wouldn't take much notice, with most only lifting their heads up as they tap in their Oyster Card. It would be weeks before anyone even noticed a rainbow-coloured mammoth in the ticket hall, let alone the lack of staff.

Escalator To Hell

The sky is black. The ground is wet. The faces of people are miserable. It's a dull morning in London, and you're entering an underground station, with many others, like germs entering a wound. After all, the underground is essentially just a sewer for people. They drain in off the streets, and are quickly washed away underground, with the accompanying smell being a mixture of different bodily excretions.

"Big issue!?" The scruffy-looking man says, offering you a magazine. You do your best to avoid looking at him, and pretend you never heard him.

Anyway, you've entered the station, and paid for the displeasure. Now you're the other side of the gates, and walking towards the crowd that surrounds the entrance onto the escalator. On your way, a casually dressed, well kept-man offers you a paper.

"Evening Standard!?" he yells. You take it.

"Cheers mate," you say, in your best, manly voice.

You stand on your step, silently wedged behind a man with dandruff, next to a woman with a large suitcase resting against your knee, and in front of a snorting being. You look around, and the walls capture your attention. You can see the grinning, colourful and posed faces. Are they advertising the latest West End musical, or are they windows that you can see trapped souls through? It's so hard to tell.

 You step off, and make your way onto a platform. Check it's the right one. Double check. Triple check. The train is arriving. Check again. *beepbeepbeepbeep* Quick, catapult yourself on before the doors shut. Now you find yourself precariously hanging inside the carriage, unsure whether your body is going to be sliced by the closing doors.

 The doors are shut, and all your limbs are still attached. Result. Now you're stood intimately close to a stranger. Look around you. Look at the people joining you in the immense heat of the criminally overcrowded train.

 Notice that man sat there? The overweight one. See how he's starring at the two women sat opposite. One wearing a risqué short skirt to show off her never-ending legs. The other with a blouse so tight, it barely covers her mountainous peaks. The man sits there, with beads of sweat forming on his excited brow, slowly eating a pasty. Dinner and a show. Gluttony and lust.

 Oh, but what is the buxom lady doing now? She's getting her mirror out of her bag, and checking her make-up is all still in place. Oh, that lipstick just needs a bit of a touch up. And is that faint red mark on her chin the birth of a spot? Better put some more foundation on, just in case. So, she sits there, looking at herself, lips pouted, between telling her long-legged friend about what an amazing birthday she had at the weekend. Pride.

 Look down the other side of the carriage. That woman, fast asleep, sat next to the man with his legs open so incredibly wide. He must have testicles the size of Mercury and Venus. In fact, all those people down that bottom half are sat there, all trying their best to avoid the pregnant woman stood in their midst. Sloth and greed.

 Along with the pregnant lady, every standing passenger on the carriage is stalking the people sat down. You're all like lions, watching the zebras, ready to jump as soon as one strays from the herd. You stand there, back aching from carrying a heavy bag and having not sat down since you woke up. You're envy.

 The train then begins to slow down, eventually stopping in the dark, unlit tunnel. Everyone starts to fidget. Then the voice comes over the speakers:

"I'm sorry to inform you, but this train has been delayed due to a person falling in front of a train."

A chorus of groans fills the carriage.

"Oh, how awfully terrible," says one woman, earnestly sniffing.

"No, it's just bloody selfish," says a businessman, full of wrath. "People who commit suicide in such an public way,  delaying people getting to work, pisses me off. If you wanna kill yourself, go do it at 'ome privately!"

 Now you're never escaping Hell...