Tales of a City Girl

Tube hate – why everyone on the tube, but me, is an awful person

The tube gives me rage. The kind of rage where you wonder whether everyone you are crammed into the small sweaty carriage with, slowly edging into the pit of Hell, is deliberately put there to irritate you. It’s even worse in the summer, where everyone is around ten times stickier and smellier.  I’m amazed there aren’t more instances of tube rage, where people just rip off their own clothes and start biting others. 

To make it worse, my commute is on one of the worst tube lines in the whole of London. It’s bad enough to put me in a bad mood right up until I get to the office; take a few deep breaths;  perhaps muttering ‘It’s OK, I’m here now’; and try to get on with my day.

What makes the tube so awful, I hear you ask? Well here are, in no particular order, my top three worst things about the tube –

1. People with massive backpacks – The people that look like a cross between a human and a tortoise are just the worst. They’ve probably got at least one laptop in their gargantuan backpack, potentially two, and get right up in your personal space with it.

I hate these people. Take off your backpacks. Put them between your legs on the floor. Stop taking up space that two people could stand in with your annoying choice of work baggage.

2. People who get on the tube after you but still nick a seat before you do – This happens all the time. Some smart alec hops on five or six stops after you and immediately slots into the seat you’re trying to slope towards.

They look all smug and pleased that they haven’t even had to go one stop standing up. Us Brits are supposed to love our queuing, but the concept of all the other people scrambled on the tube for the last 20 minutes surpasses these smug seat thieves. They also tend to be the people who wear sunglasses on the tube, and you should never, ever, ever trust anyone that does that.

3. People who push and shove – Now, granted, sometimes there’s room, and I totally get it. That guy down in the carriage probably needs space to read his broadsheet less than you need space to get to work. But sometimes – IT’S JUST NOT CALLED FOR. These people seem to think you’re magically hiding some space, perhaps beneath your coat, or in your hair. They authoritatively bellow at you, failing to see there’s absolutely no space at all.

Then they inevitably try to squash on, simultaneously crushing a toddler and puncturing one of your lungs in their frenzy.

In summary, I hate you all.