The midnight train

Bowler hats, Beefeaters, Burberry. Such cliché images have nothing to do with real London life. For a true glimpse of what makes people in this city tick, you should get on an innercity tube train on a Saturday night. It makes for an entertaining, yet potentially stomic turning, ride. It's not all humanity's finest specimens that gather here. Despite the fact that since last year pubs can apply for a late license, many have passed up on this opportunity and so between the hours of eleven and twelve the inebriated populace of London spills onto the streets and into the tube, crawling and falling its way back home.

Last night.
After a Brick Lane curry dinner, I am on the tube home from Liverpool street. Standing next to me is a young guy, early twenties or so I suppose. He oozes a sickly sour smell and is struggling to hold himself upright. With every turn in the track he sways dangerously in my direction. When a seat opens up I jump at the opportunity to put some distance between myself and him before he can vomit on my feet. The guy now sitting next to me is trying to soak up the alcohol in his blood with a helping of sweet&sour pork. His motor skills have already fallen victim to his drinking. The food that was intended for his mouth lands on his T-shirt instead. Unfazed he simply redirects his fork to his shirt and continues eating from there.

Two men, each with their heads leaning against the glass in perfect symmetry, riding the train all the way to the land of Dreams. Giggling girls with bosoms overflowing from their glitzy tops. A woman in a dress so frigid that it would have made her look Amish if she hadn't at the same been holding a bottle of Corona. An elderly gentleman in a three-piece suit with a pocket watch on a gold chain and eyebrows turned towards the heavens like Dali's mustache.

As long as you're sober enough to take a good look around you, the midnight train shows a wonderful and hilarious cross section of London life. Mind the smell.