One thing sets me aside from all other Londoners. I love the Tube, sometimes the Tube journey contains the highlights of my day. Sure it’s cramped and stuffy and almost unbearable in summer, but most days it’s like speeding through a comedy goldmine … and it’s how London’s cutest girls get to work.

Where else could you end up pondering whether it’s wrong to fancy a girl who looks like a lion. Not a lioness, but a male lion. Big bushy reddish/brown hair, tanned slightly orange skin, freckles on her cheeks, big brown eyes, sunglasses (well it’s very sunny in Africa). She was even wearing a zebra-patterned jacket, as if she’d just killed one and made it herself. But she was so so cute. Never saw her again though, maybe she went back home.

Getting on the Sub-Saharan Line.

Getting on the Sub-Saharan Line.

A few months ago, I was standing beside a woman who was entertaining her kids, making sure they were OK, holding on to them and playing with them on what seemed like a rare Tube journey. She was making such a noise with them she was bordering on becoming annoying but at least the kids seemed to be behaving and enjoying themselves. Five or so stops later, the doors opened and the woman left, alone. A bunch of us on the Tube seemed to be thinking the same thing “Oh my God that woman has abandoned her kids”. Turned out they weren’t even hers, she had just met them on the train before I got on and started chatting to them. Their real mum was sitting down reading a book.

But the Tube is such an easy mode of transport I’m sure the kids would have been fine on their own. One time the doors opened and a pigeon walked on. He stood by the door impatiently as it closed and the train set off. Stop after stop, the doors would open and he’d just stand on his spot, occasionally shuffling over to let people on – he clearly saw the sign not to obstruct the doors. Eventually we got to Clapham North, the doors opened, and he just jumped off and walked off down the platform towards the exit. It was genuinely as if he was commuting, he seemed to know exactly where he needed to go. All he needed was a briefcase, an iPod and a mini copy of the Metro newspaper under his wing. (God-damn it why can’t I think of a hilarious bird-related newspaper pun).

In the summer on the Underground we have the constant fear of wasps. Now everyone knows wasps are inherently evil, and their only purpose in the insect kingdom is to wander around threatening and bullying people. Bees on the other hand, are funny, sociable and fluffy, always good-humoured and generally charitable. Especially the fat bee I saw in my garden this summer, who was so overweight his little wings could only manage to hold him about 10cm off the ground. Oh and of course, everyone knows bees make flowers and are mainly responsible for sunshine and fun times.

One day, one such happy-go-lucky cuddly bee wandered into the Tube train I was in. It was a little after 9 am, so not packed, all seats taken but only a few people standing.  The bee had injured itself (or more likely was attacked by a gang of mother-fucker wasps) and was crawling around on the ground. A man was trying to help – I knew him from somewhere, he was definitely some kind of D-list celebrity, a stand-up comic or a bit part actor in some comedy. He was quite bulky (maybe a bit fat but more stocky – basically kind of just wide) and had greying hair and beard. He was bending over as the Tube was moving, trying to pick up the helpless little cute bee, but the Tube moving and the fact he was bending right over pretty much touching the floor was playing havoc with his balance, so he was stumbling around trying to coordinate his chubby hands on this little bee.

Another stop, and he got bumped out of the way by a couple of new passengers, clearly as late for work as I was, but his massive frame, still hunched over, meant the bee was protected from trampling. As the train set off, he still hadn’t picked up the bee. A couple of minutes more of him stumbling around hunched over, like a drunk with a bad back, and finally he got a purchase on the bee and clasped his hands around him (or her, do they have female bees, of course yes, queen bees, but what kind of queen would let herself get in that state (only in Soho)).

The moderately famous man was exhausted, his cheeks bright red, gasping for air after his honorable ordeal to rescue Mr Bee from almost certain trampling, or impaling on the high heel of one of the Northern Line’s many mutton-dressed-as-lamb suited office trollops. Seconds later, the doors opened at the next station and with relief he turned and threw the bee off the train onto the platform…

…right down some poor blonde girl’s top. There was some squealing, some flapping, the odd giggle, and the doors closed again and off we went, safe in the knowledge the bee was in a better place. A bee in a D-cup you could say.

I wondered, why go to all that trouble to rescue the bee just to throw him off the train onto the platform, where he’d encounter all the same risk (although at least there’s an escalator to help him get home). Surely one of the pigeon communters would have been happy to take him under his wing and help him get home or get to work.

I haven’t figured out how to edit these posts yet, otherwise I would go back and big-up this guy as being a bit more famous so he could be a Bee-list celebrity. That’s the kind of forward thinking comedy you get on other blogs.


Don't just sit there, say something, the silence is freaking me out!