Notation
Northern Line, London. February 2008. Early evening. Almost empty carriage. Young white man asks Afro-Caribean woman for spare newspaper beside her. She refuses, claiming imminent appointment for reading. Frosty moment. Opposite, young Polish female smiles in amusement at irritation in voice of older woman and obvious umbrage taken by young man. American tourist, some feet away, overhears a four-letter expletive, but is unable to determine source of oath.
Twenty-two minutes later, young man emerges from train carriage, stands on escalator, is hit in face by airborne periodical. Swears profusely.
Gonzo
We were somewhere around Belsize Park on the edge of Hampstead when the drugs began to take hold. I remember saying something like "I feel a bit light-headed, maybe I should read that paper for you." Her hair was golden-blue, a kind of dense mat of irridescent tendrils growing from her scalp, each one ending in a puking arse. Her mouth was mocking me - a slashed tire smile and tombstone teeth. Ye gods. The young girl began licking my face, her tongue a fat, slavering lizard's paint roller, slopping and dribbling all over my eyes. I ran screaming from the train carriage, the newspapers chasing me up the escalator, swooping, screeching, an army of bastard bats, shrieking and wailing in my what was left of my hair.
London Blog
So, I'm the way home on the tube, yeah? And there's this guy beside me, yeah? Narky looking like fucker. Irish by the sounds of him, the pencil-necked cunt. And he leans over and he's all like 'Begob, do ye mind if take a look at yer paper missus?' and I'm all like 'I'm just about to read that, yeah?' and then he's all like 'OMG' and getting humpy and stuff. So he sits there like, smug fucking grin on his pasty fucking face, leering at some Eastern European biro-refill with tits who's sitting opposite him and I'm like, 'get over yourself', like. He gets off at Manor House, yeah? And he's all like 'I am sooooooo not bothered' and all and then the wind blows a copy of the Metro right in his ugly cunting face. The cunt.
Scientology
We know the Northern Line. We know that you know that we know the Northern Line. And we know that we can intervene to heal the conflict between the London-Lite hogging lady and the irate Irishman. Because we are the world-leaders in tube-hostility reconciliation facilitation. We can keep going when others can. Because we know that we can make the difference. We know. And so do you. Even if you think you don't know it, you do know it. You do. And we also know that you have a defective personality born of the thetan imbalances inherent in consuming mass-media. We know the history of free public-transport based news media. Oh yes. We know why it flies in your face. And we also know that by reading this text you now owe us two thousand pounds, your first born son and a pint of cum.
+Lost in Transportation+
Inspired by Raymond Queneau's 'Exercises in Style'.
+Choon+
Callin' on Sunday (Remix) by Party Ben. Wanna hear more? Go to the Blatherverse and click the BlatherPod tab.
+Art+
'Missing Canary' by Dr. Jo.
(thinks)....'Scientologists on the tube'..... (shudder).
(thinks)...Eastern European biro-refill with tits...on the tube...(blubber)
Roight ! "the conflict between the London-Lite hogging lady and the irate Irishman", you say. Gawd your so cleva, maybe you could figure this London-Lite hogging lady and this irate Irishman ?.