Belly acher

On the day:
18/09/2012 

On the way: 
How do you ensure you stand out from the madding crowd on a busy commuter train into London on a Tuesday morning? Here's how. 
Stumble into the carriage like a bear that has just gorged itself on the mash from an illicit Tennessee backwoods still, clutching an open can of beer, crash into a seat and growl: "Faahkin' people awways lookin at you." They'll notice that all right. 
It would help to be thickset, heavy built with a stubbly head - the very model of a certain species of Police Review thug - with an attitude to match: "Foreigners everywhere I go I don't hear an English accent no more." 
He carefully places his beer on the floor and lowers his head. "Gonna be sick," he confides to himself but, failing that task, he contents himself with spitting on the floor. 
It's not enough to settle his troubled tummy, so he tries another tactic, and politely asks for the window to be opened, failing to notice the orange headphones over the slick dark hair and light brown ears of the man in front of him. And is disappointed to receive no response. 
Rebuffed, he returns to his grumbles and mumbles, something about "New world.. Old world... 1960s... 1970s..." 
Then the dog barks. It's a small dog, half a carriage away,  the kind of pooch you' might strap to the end of a broom handle to clear cobwebs from those remote corners high above the stairs and behind the throne of porcelain if it weren't so cute. Some might do so anyway. 
He is probably one of those. And if he wasn't before, he is now. His train of thought has been derailed, bringing him back to 2012, and he's not letting that go. So he barks back bigger and badder. Twice. That'll learn it. Heh heh.
Maybe he'd have added a third bark if the train hadn't stopped. A gentleman stands up in the seat in front of him, smoothes down his smart black coat, steps into the aisle and makes for the door, passing the hunched figure nursing his his aching belly and any number of grievances. 
"Dickhead," he declares. Then, satisfied with his assessment settles back to roll a cigarette, retrieve his beer and philosphise: "Pretentious pleasantries that daahn't mean nothing...  They'll get off the train then slag you off... In China." 
Mate, you behave like that, they'll slag you off right here... In London.

On the pod: 
Want You More! - Duran Duran 

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