Okay, let’s get this straight: I’m a car person. I started driving when I was just a wee lass of 15. I’ve always gone everywhere in a car. Having spent a bit of time in California, particularly in the hardcore car culture of Los Angeles, I can definitely say that I often feel as if I’ve had my legs cut off living a car-less life in Britain. It’s not that I’m “green” – rather I’m simply too skint to own a car. (Subliminal message: buy more books buy more books!!!!!!!!!!!!)
Which relegates me to the glorious dregs of public transportation, where you can experience a lifetime’s worth of experience just trying to get home from an evening out. Mind you, not all experiences are worth having. I mean, living in a cave with Osama bin Laden isn’t an experience I’d wish to partake of. I wouldn’t care to shack up in a cave (or anywhere else for that matter) with Robbie Williams either. Or George Clooney. Or Nicholas Cage. As for Andrew Garfield (oy, such a nice Jewish boy!) … now you’re talking! And let’s throw in Jamie Draven while we’re at it. If Osama still insists on lurking around, we can always get him to make the kebabs. But that meat had better be Halal!
Right, so where was I? Oh, yeah, trying to get home. I can write a book about this, believe me – and who knows, maybe one day I will. Perhaps another in my Erotic Travel Tales anthology series. Erotic Travel Tales on British Public Transport – now there’s a catchy title. Or how about Erotic Tube Tales? Err… no, better scrap that one! Speaking of which, I always need the tube (London Underground to you non-Brits) and the train to get home. Note that I’m not factoring in the bus in this discussion, since I tend to avoid them now that I’m living in the Greater London area. I’ve had my fill of psychotic drivers who slam on the brakes in a standing-room only bus, then sit back and enjoy the mayhem. These early-release programmes from prison just don’t work, in my humble opinion.
The other week while waiting on a train platform, I observed a young couple arguing heatedly over the controversial subject of mayonnaise. And yes, I mean that creamy white stuff you slather onto bread when you make a sandwich. I edged discreetly away from the pair, concerned there might be bloodshed. I mean, a discussion of mayonnaise would surely have propelled even a peaceful chap such as Mahatma Gandhi into the ranks of ASBO status. Things soon calmed down, however, when the fellow nearly broke into tears, proclaiming to his woman in a sledgehammer urban London accent that he wanted to be the best he could be for her (a rather syphilitic-looking specimen), and that he was concerned for her health (bit late for that, mate!). I almost wept I was so moved. Well, no, actually I didn’t.
The night would later reach a climactic crescendo as I walked home from the railway station and happened upon a quartet of lads with pint glasses in hand, whereupon two of them (the lads, not the pint glasses) proceeded to urinate the lager they’d been consuming all evening against some unsuspecting trees. (I’ve heard of taking the piss, but this is ridiculous!) They didn’t seem bothered about me, although that’s probably got more to do with the fact that I don’t look like I belong, since I don’t go around with my arse (and the bit wot goes in front) sticking out from under my skirt or my boobs falling out of my top or – the ultimate giveaway – staggering about shriekingly drunk on heels so high they’d give a normal woman (or trannie) nosebleed. Nope, I’m definitely not one of these fair English maidens who end the evening unconscious in a gutter with an all-new strain of STD incubating in their loins.
Now I suppose I could regale you with some tales of true horror, but that wouldn’t be fair. After all, it’s not all gloom and doom in the big bad world of British public transport. Why, I’ve even had my fair share of romance on these journeys, and that doesn’t include eavesdropping on couples indulging in sweet-talk about Hellmann’s or being felt up in a crowded tube train – which luckily has never happened to me and likely never will, since I AM the woman who edited Getting Even: Revenge Stories remember? Anyway, one time there was this rather curious fellow across from me on the train making quick work of two large tins of lager who kept insisting I listen to the music playing on his iPod, as I was sure to “love it”. I told him I only love Staind. He seemed to believe my love would extend to the song he was playing (and perhaps to him). It didn’t. He was crushed. Bad enough I’d broken his heart, but when he got off the train at the same stop as me, well… let’s just say that I walked pretty darned fast up that hilly road home!
Then there was that proposal of marriage from a rather cute bloke who, in an empty train, decided to come sit near me (thank god for CCTV), only to spend the next few minutes gazing at me all starry-eyed. He finally blurted out something about my being a very attractive woman (so who am I to argue?) and pleading with me again and again to please please let him kiss me. He later called out to me to please please wait as I hurried along the station platform to the exit – and consequently, away from his matrimonially minded clutches. Last I heard he was heading off to Southend (or Sarfend as it’s known round ‘ere).
I admit London is probably the place to see and experience it all (whether you want to or not), but that’s not to say other cities in Britain are lacking in travel weirdness. The strangest (well, it’s a toss-up since it’s ALL pretty effing strange) was in a Leicester taxicab, where the driver held me hostage outside my flat as he begged me to let him take me out to dinner. He insisted he could make me happy; apparently he knew what I needed in my life and he could offer this to me – and I should give him a chance to prove himself. I gotta admit, that would’ve been one hell of an offer if he hadn’t been so keen for us to move to India – though I reckon it would’ve been a lot more exciting than Leicester. He wrote his mobile number on the back of the taxi company’s card, then grabbed my hand, not letting go until I promised to call him. Funny that he didn’t waive the fare though. Now THAT would have made me happy.
Gosh. I do hope he’s not still waiting for my call…
As a lifelong non driver I have suffered the slings and arrows of public transport for over twenty years. Last Tuesday, I spent an hour and a half waiting at Leatherhead Station waiting for a train, while three drunks peed against the wall at the back of the platform. It transpired that one of them was going to prison the next day, so his mates had taken him out for one last day of freedom… This was all at two o’clock in the afternoon.
I now spend 10% of my annual salary on getting to and from London, most days wondering if I’ll ever get my money’s worth. I’d write a book about some of the hoops that South West Trains make me jump through, but from the disgruntled looks of the other commuters on my train each morning, everyone else has probably had the same idea.
And yet, Mitzi, having taken public transport *all my life*, I can’t help feeling that you’re holding back!
Wow. I think the times I had to take public transportation I must have really been missing out. *g*
a woman in demand though, aren’t you?
Hey, what can i say? 😀
Mitzi you are hysterical. I love it! During a storm storm in White Plains New York, I was in a taxi cab driven by an alien…as in a another planet. I wonder would he have paid for your plane ticket?
I’m allergic to any form of public transit…I always have the worst experience…for some reason I feel better about that now:)
When I was a mere runaway lad of thirteen, waiting for the downtown number 6 train in Union Square station at 3:00 AM, I was happy when the train finally pulled in—and should have been even happier when the only woman in the car I was about to enter lifted her blouse to show me her boobs (quite nice ones, too)—but I, so young and naive, entered the next car. I’ve regretted it ever since.
Good to see you here. More later
Two weeks ago on the tube I was ‘treated’ to the sight of a fairly good looking man, maybe in his late twenties, stroking his penis while blissfully listening to his ipod with his eyes closed! He was doing it through the material of his trousers (be thankful for small mercies), but it was very obvious what he was doing & it lasted the 7 stop duration of my journey. This was about 11am on a Sunday mind you – I looked around for the candid camera crew, but sadly it was a genuine real life performance.
I was in London last weekend and at the end of my stay was debating how to get with my suitcases back to St Pancras from Marble Arch. I was quite willing to take a bus, but didn’t have change for the automatic ticket machine and couldn’t find a shop with the funny symbol saying it sold tickets on it anywhere. Fair enough, you can buy singles on the bus. Walked about half a mile to the nearest bus stop, waited for bus to pull up, only to have the driver communicate to me (after several failed attempts due to our different interpretation of English) that he only went to Euston. So I waited for about 10 minutes for another bus. And another 10. And finally decided to walk far enough away for the cliche of three busses to arrive and depart without me. I ran into three Canadians who had been at the conference I was at, who suggested that I there was a tube station nearby. I shuddered at the thought. In the end, my rolling bag and I made it to St Pancras on foot, taking in a coffee and a museum on the way.
Thankfully I only end up in London a dozen times a year. My sympathies to those who have to traverse the jungle more frequently!
What? You mean you actually expect London bus drivers to speak English???
I know, it is shocking how things have changed.
There once was a time when Bus Drivers were only required to drive. In fact they would be secured in a box away from the public with only the engine for company. The ‘conductor’ (or as I now have to describe him to friends ‘bloke that gave out the tickets and acted like asecurity guard/ sat nav/ travel guide’) would be on the bus with the paying public.
Still, such is progress.
By the way, Southend rocks!
My oh, my! I read this on board the #6 train So I read this on my Blackberry while traveling from Brooklyn to Manhattan. Nada happened!!!! Zilch. Zero. Zip. However, I have no clue where my Blackberry is right now. And, for the life of me, I can’t remember why I tied my wrists and ankles with rope and climb inside the trunk of this car!
Two marriage proposal just by using public transport? Damn, I need to scoot my arse across the pond!
Hi,
You managed to hit the spot!
Dee :- 0
I happen to love public transportation. (I know, I’m strange that way.) I absolutely hated driving in L.A. even though I played the game just fine, and was so happy to sell my car upon moving to NY. But I haven’t spent much time on the public transpo in London so I can’t weigh in on that. I will say that it sounds like crazy is crazy on both sides of the ocean. 🙂 LIz
I loved your post. Being from the countryside in Ohio where we had no public transportation available and now living in South Florida where there’s only a few bus routes, I can’t imagine living without a car. However, many times I wished I could and I’d love to get the exercise of being able to walk more.
South Florida is usually pretty nice, but my son got held up at gunpoint and robbed recently and I’ve seen people urinate outside, too, so it’s not all wonderful here, either. (sigh)