When you’re walking to the train station or bus stop in the morning, there’s one thing you can count on seeing. It’s a long queue of cars, each with one single angry passenger. It’s worth cocking your head and looking in at them, fuming to a soundtrack of Chris Moyles, squeaking brake pads and the incessant tick of the dashboard clock, each passing second bringing them closer to a cardiac incident. Probably the exhaust fumes. The stress. And Chris Moyles.
What they’re missing out on is something that all public transport users know about. We all do it. Yet we rarely discuss it. We’re British, after all, and the unsaid rules of the public transport mind games are better left unsaid.
Well, I’d like to break the silence, like some kind of whistle-blowing parliamentarian who’s had his expense claim for a gold-plated whistle granted by the ombudsman. Let’s talk about commuter Olympics.
Round one: The Door Jump.
Even the most adult person gains a dizzying sense of satisfaction when, rooted to the spot and fending off other passengers, the train or bus draws up and opens the doors right in front of them. You might notice a few old hands who have their own spot, in the same place every day. They’re playing Door Jump. Your mission is to get there before them and jockey for position. I have a brilliant tip for winning this game: look for old chewing gum. The tell-tale black blobs underfoot are significant: slack-jawed masticators gob it out by the doors just before they get in the carriage. Hold steady above the dead Juicy Fruits and you’re on track for a gold.
Round two: Rucksack Judo.
Even on the most crowded train or bus, someone – never a local – decides to keep their backpack hanging off one of their shoulders. It’s inconvenient. For this event, you need a delicate touch and excellent peripheral vision, as you back on to the said miscreant, carefully waiting for the next jolt. Speed humps are good on buses, while on tube trains it can often be a investment banker on the line. At the moment of vehicular wobble, the elbow goes back, hooking the satchel and dislodging it from the offending shoulder. Double points if they don’t bother picking it up again.
Round three: Shame that Tune.
Works best sitting down. To one side will be an iPod-wearing music fan, thrilling over their latest download at max volume. The thrust of the game is to drum along as best you can on your knees, perhaps adding a cymbal crash here and there. As the game progresses, the drumming must become more and more high-impact. If you can actually name the tune before they get a chance to either turn it down or move to another seat, two points. If you clear half the carriage, just one point – you’ve gone too far.
Final round: The Sex List.
The most controversial of the events, but also the most comprehensively played. Some local variations are recorded, but the thrust of the game is the same. Simply put, you imagine that the vehicle is travelling towards impending doom. Perhaps the tunnel will collapse. Perhaps a virus has spread to all the rest of the planet, apart from your bus. Maybe a black hole is ripping the planet to shreds, and your train will be the final chapter of life on earth. Whatever. The upshot is you have to have sex with someone on your train, bus or tube. Who’s it going to be? And in what order would you select them, if you had to? There’s nothing untoward about this. Be honest. Tell yourself you’re doing this now, because if Armageddon was coming, humanity should be prepared.
The paradox is, of course, that by being on public transport in the first place, you’re doing your bit to save the world. So rest easy. That pensioner with the tartan shopper sitting in the priority seat is probably too old to repopulate the earth with, anyway.
Tags: Chris Moyles, iPod, Olympics, Sex
