Been a funny old couple of days in London for me recently. Being witness to some very odd behaviour by members of the public. We all tend to get frustrated at minuscule things, sometimes unfortunately I take it out on my colleagues at work between 9-11am each morning. Until of course coffee kicks in or I feel the sadistic pleasure of ripping the last remaining shred of decency from someone during that time.

As I subject myself to the public mainstream my observations have me a little jumpy lately. I feel the zombie's are getting a little restless. Brain's are off the menu and hormonal badgers the chef's speciality.

Sunday 10:43am.
I found myself in ASDA buying more ingredients on a hangover, my research has found it to be common that I find the following in my basket.

• 1 garlic bread (knowing full well it'll be forgotten about in the oven and burnt to a cinder like last weeks)
• 1 large bottle of juice (usually involving 3 different varieties of fruit which 1 of them I hate with a passion)
• 1 bottle of Chicken Tonight (no chicken to go with it)
• 2 large slightly impressive sweet red peppers (they looked weird but delicious.. they will probably rot)
• 1 loaf of bread - brown (I hate brown bread)
• 6 cans of tuna (I have 10 already, maybe things will get nuclear)
• 1 mop head (last week it was a toilet paper holder)
• My research continues

Having a dazed and confused glazed stare at the passersby underneath a baseball cap,I hear a sudden crash of twisted metal behind me. My sphincter clenched with savage primal instincts prone to an attack by an oncoming column of dog food tins, I pivot to see two ladies (equally as wide as their trolleys) within a heated frenzy. Each trying to either fly or communicate with bizarre but underrated peacock language used by ancient Aztecs.

I then realise it seemed so loud and crazy in the store one moment ago. Now it seems that I have been thrust into a gladiatorial battle arena and the acoustics of their little argument are suddenly amplified for the masses. I'm even sure the zombie soundtrack on the airways above me has been abruptly halted. Where the hell are the camera crews, dog's and search lights. Is this an invasion. I love the feeling of lesser brain activity on a Sunday morning plus the added hangover... and an overactive imagination.

Their tiff was something to do with who had the right of way in the aisle. To tell you the truth though folks, one of them was going to have to back the hell up, 'beep beep beep' style. It ended 30 seconds later with both of them turning their junk-food hi-carb chariots around in an acute three point turn and wobble off in different directions.

"Damn Sunday drivers..." I slurred to myself which didn't raise any hint of a smile with my queued com padres. But I did get a 'Hi how are you doing' from the check-out dude, so I raised my hand for the high and got the five. Whip-lash!

Monday 7:35pm.
Finally getting home in my monkey suit, I contemplate quickly my work-day. It seemed to be a cross between a safari in the Congo hunting crazed midget water buffaloes and the need to commit suicide by ritual paper cutting to my nether-regions while chanting Sting albums. Maybe it was because I was out of nicotine? I head over to Dave's on the bus, one of London's finest red go-go mobiles. Close to the jump-point for Dave's an elderly man from the Caribbean hops on with a jovial personality. I can't understand a word he is saying so I presume he's drunk to boot. Way to go my mon!

He starts speaking jive - 'You dun know who da hell I's am.. mon... blah blah.' The bus driver is taking none of his Beegee's back catalogue and is refusing entry. Rasta-bob continues and continues and continues.. jiving on the spot, rapping like Chuck Dee in dreadlocks with a hint of NWA, because I definitely heard 'Fuck tha police'. I feel inclined just to get up and pay for his ticket, but realise I just spent the last coins on some Marlboro's and a packet of extra-fruit bubblicious (Mastication for the nation!). Rasta-bob seems to be now jigging on the spot arguing with the driver and I'm feeling a tense wave of 'Hurry the fuck-up' around me by the passengers. I smell this breeze of stale perfumed Tampax air rush passed me and a stocky short cropped middle aged woman rushes to the front of the bus and confronts Rasta-bob. She's polite.. Rasta-bob isn't, he's fired up with on a boombastic rhyme and she's hurried up with a hormonal imbalance. Within 20 seconds the debate turns vicious. I stand and everyone turns looks at me...
It's funny that feeling, where you throw on your invisible blue cape and you have that ' Time to save the god damn day' tune coursing through your veins. I try to wince in the stomach with hydraulics and pigeon out the chest to form the ill-fated hero stance. All I am succeeding in doing however is the look of a year long constipation and a half baked impression of an Elvis move with one knee. Fortunately for me, Rasta-bob takes flight with a series of Bob Marley songs and asking the woman to show him her badge. I could use that line in a bar next time so I pen it down and sit back next to the cute Indian girl with a moustache.
I say "Wow Monday Blues" but alas it doesn't seem heard over the murmurs of 'Nice one lady' from the audience as the lady returns to the back of the bus saying something about having 'kids to feed'.
The air returns to a thin crust of stale vomit and sweat, inappropriately bad braking and the random ding-ding-ding's.

Tuesday 8:39am.
Every morning I am faced with the entire task of getting to work through a series of sardine cramped body presses. I am sometimes lucky to be crushed between a couple of women. Soft breasts crushed into my spine with my crutch pressed up against the higher recess of a 5 foot 3 inch blond and the warm smile of joy and daydream. That is a good day, hell, some would interpret that to be a perfect start to the day, I'll concur!
Today however my balls seemed to have worked there way accidentally into the knuckles of a man grasping his bag and I'm getting hot air blown on the back of my neck by some bastard who is taller then me, and good hope he's carrying a banana in his pocket because I dread to think otherwise.

I sweat all the way to Waterloo, get off in haste and walk my way to the Waterloo to Bank underground line. I arrive at the end of a moving queue which infrequently stops with banana-boy stepping in front of me. A middle aged well spoken English chap turns and says to the cucumber-kid.
'There's a queue don't you know.'
'Yes I know I'm at the end of it'
'No you are not, you stepped in front of four people.' The toff looking my way for acknowledgement, I just have this smile on my face of bemusement and not really caring about the situation. Hell the last two days have been entertaining.. so bring it.. banker boys!
They then go at it with verbal assault telling each other in polite circumstances how to fuck-off and jam appendages into their orifices. I finally pipe up behind them as it does suddenly go off on a very childish tangent as I heard 'No, you are' come from one of them.

"Now now boys.." I say with a smile.
They stop.... red faced and open up there respective papers and read on about who Paris was jerking off this week.
Smiling broadly I utter aloud "Tuesday tantrums" - this time I see a girl smile my way who actually heard the call and a couple of muffled guffaws.
I wink at her and tuck my blue cape back in my pants, as salami-steve is now nestled in behind the toff and life returns back to the informal.