The London Underground. It's dusty, it's grimy and it's full of people's body odours that I care not to sample. If i wanted your armpit shoved up against my chin, i'd be in a relationship with you. Then there are the breed of people who think it's acceptable to eat curries/pasties/burgers in such a confined place. This was my horrific experience recently:
I have assumed my position on the train platform for at least two minutes. Feet firmly placed on the ground and shoulder-width apart, safely tucked behind the yellow line that I like to call the 'barrier of death.' I guarantee where I am stood will be the exact spot where the automatic doors will pull up when the train arrives. I know this because I have calculated it. I'll be the first to board this train (unless a mother with a pram appears, or an elderly lady - in which case I have no choice but to surrender my position).
This space is mine. No old ladies, no snotty babies, no eager tourists. Every one knows it. The lady behind me knows it. We exchange looks of envy and pity.
The train pulls up. Its shabby presence is a welcomed sight. Soon I will be one step closer to my destination. In my head I start willing that there will be an empty seat onboard. Power of positive thinking. I'm ready. Bag in hand, music set to a comfortable volume, headphones firmly placed over ears (I'd rather not overhear the mundane conversations of the general public). Knuckles cracked in preparation for the elegant, swift move that's about to take place. Blink and you might miss me. All I have to do is keep my eye on the prize. Focus.
I get ready to make my move (not before allowing the passengers to exit the train first). My feet ever so slightly arched, my neck elongated. Eyeballs frantically scanning for an empty seat.
Sadly, in the blink of an eye all has gone to shit. An oily man with slick-backed hair, wearing far too much cologne and stinking like a teenage boy has just budged past me in his ill-fitting cheap grey suit and tacky lilac shirt. Sir, you offend me. He's definitely a horrible person; I know this because I can judge a man by his briefcase. He's got no chance. What's even worse is he's doing a really bad job of trying to act like he has no idea he's just totally ruined everything.
A man with a briefcase that bad needs help. Being the good citizen that I am, I let him go first. If he wants to be the first foot on the train carriage so badly, then I won't get in his way. He needs it more than I do. I shan't hold a grudge. However, I'm not mature enough to avoid grunting at him. A firm, authoritative and confident grunt. Just loud enough for him to know who it's targeted at. Yes You, with the beady eyes and perspiring upper lip.
Turns out, his destination was the same as mine. Ie: My chance to shine. I sprinted past him on the escalators, strongly nudging his arm, the sweaty bastard.