i’m not a morning person, but i’m quite good at functioning on ~`autopilot’~. most weekday mornings, i manage to get from the slumber wonderland of my bed to the slouching wonderland of my office desk without any of the neurons in my brain firing. i’m not that horny in the mornings, but, even on autopilot, it’s impossible to ignore the hot totties teasing me along every step of my journey.
i nod to the lollipop woman [crossing guard] as i cross the road, paying careful attention to avoid looking at her gnarly teeth. even by british standards, this woman has a bouquet of fangs that scares me to death, i can’t imagine how the 6yo kids cope.
as i approach vauxhall station on monday mornings, i pay careful attention to suss out the clubbers spilling out of afterhours club .fire. during the summer, you can spot them hiding behind sunglasses and wearing shirts soaked with sweat. i once spotted two cute boys outside the entrance to the station, looking at it quizzically like they’d never seen one before, as if it was a u.f.o. that had just landed. i assume eventually they figured out how to walk through the entrance.
inside the station it’s always a flutter of activity, with secret agents going to work at mi6 [easy to spot cuz they flash their badges to gate staff since they presumably can't afford a travelcard on civil servant wages], businesswomen impatiently queuing for the one working ticket machine, and a handful of gay boys going/coming home from last night’s trick. once again, be on the lookout for drugged out afterhours clubbers [we've all been there, right]… for example two brazilian boys repeatedly attempting [and failing] to pick a pound coin up off the ground. i wanted to help, but didn’t want to insult their pride. okay—they weren’t that cute.
i’m lucky enough to have an easy commute on the tube… trains arrive every 2 minutes, usually pretty empty [i don't schlep into the office until 930 or 10] and my journey is under 10 minutes. mysteriously, there’s never any talent on this segment of my journey. moving along.
i reckon victoria station is probably the busiest station in london, as it connects several tube lines, southern rail lines, london buses, national rail coaches and other third-party coaches. lots of hurried suburban rail commuters coming off their trains down onto the tube. lots of clueless tourists hauling their oversized luggage up the stairs to hop on the gatwick express to the airport.
but the worst are the backpackers.
every morning, in addition to the blur of thousands of rushed commuters blindly zigzagging in every possible direction at every possible speed across the station concourse, at least 1000 clueless backpackers are wandering around aimlessly, attempting to find victoria coach station. the coach station is where tons of cheap busses depart, taking penny-pinching tourists to exotic locations like leeds and blackpool, but also [somehow] to prague, dublin and warsaw.
most fluent-in-english, well-traveled london residents have difficulties getting to the coach station from the tube/rail station, so it’s no wonder that these mostly foreign, rarely fluent-in-english tourists are hopelessly lost morning after morning.
from the main tube/rail station, there are only a few signs, none of which have bus icons or the word bus on them, only the words coach station. this is confusing, of course, but is necessary as there’s also a [london] bus station at victoria.
i used to try to help the clueless, hapless tourists find their way. but it’s neverending, and, well, it’s quite time consuming to provide directions thorough enough to help them find it. sadly, these days i’m heads-down, headphones-in.
the signs lead you up escalators, into the victoria shopping center, which is a maze of mobile phone shops, fast food restaurants and lingere shops featuring an updated-daily window diplay with naked mannequins holding dildos, which never fails to grab my eye.
assuming they’ve made it through the maze, these backpackers emerge onto a busy crowded street corner, with no clear signs of how to proceed. this is where i see the most frustrated tourists, whipping out their tatted lonely planet guide books, attempting to find street signs [ha! this is london! no street signs for you!]
in one direction, across the street, is a starbucks and some office buildings. in the other direction, across the street, another shopping center. but—wait—its fancy sign, which reads victoria collonade shopping center has a little bus icon on it with an arrow. the sign looks far from official/governmental, but it’ll have to do.
cross the street, up some steps. start walking along, past the subway, past the fine china shop and the shoe repair shop. then, you see it, a huge sign saying green line coaches with an arrow pointing to the left. this is where the tourists start to smile, until they follow the sign.
of course, green line coaches is completley different from victoria coach station—two different companies, two different systems.
go back to the collonade shopping center, and you’ll notice some hot hot boys smiling at you, loitering outside some shop, smoking, laughing, smiling. as you approach, you realize it’s the cast of bel ami [nsfw]! you slow your pace a bit, and think to yourself, who is throwing deez boys at me?!* it’s a smorgasbord of deliciousness. twinky blondes, rough-looking skinheads, shy dark-haired lads.
then you glance at the shop they’re in front of, and realize it’s a polish travel agency that books cheap busses between warsaw and london. as your pornstar fantasy evaporates, you realize you still have no clue where the coach station is. at this point, you trip/tackle/bribe one of the locals to ask for directions. they point you to the end of the shopping center, and then tell you it’s on the opposite corner.
if you’re a tourist, at this point your backpack is falling apart, both wheels and the handle have come off your luggage, your traveling companion is in tears, about to jump in front of a taxi to end it all.
if you’re me, well, smile, cuz you’re nearly to the office and you’ve survived another morning commute, navigating successfully around clueless boys and hot tourists. erm, clueless tourists and hot boys.
*
marcos has a great story that he tells often. he was at small supermarket, trailing behind a large old black woman from the
caribbean, who was wearing a fur coat. eventually both
marcos and this woman make it to the front of the shop. as the woman tries to exit the store, she’s stopped by security, at which point several large hams drop out of her fur coat, onto the floor. all eyes are on the hams, and then slowly up to her face, for an explanation.
in a loud rasta accent, she throws her hands up and exclaims, who is throwin deez hamz at me?!.
can be adapted to any situation you find yourself in. e.g. who is throwin deez brazilians at me?!
