Tuesday 29 March 2011

The Central Line

This is my line and my claim to London. I am not from Essex, shut up. The Central Line is often the hottest and filled with the most pissed off people... I love it :)

Ilford Boys' natural habitat is from Mile End to Gants Hill. Despite their name this term can be applied to most cliches in East London. You can recognise an Ilford Boy by his trousers - which are worn to a level ensuring impressive exposure of his boxers. Think of them as the La Senza's vs. the M&S' his mother lovingly bought. Ilford Boys also tend to sport 'lines' on their face or cut into their hair (though my living in Leicester has meant I'm not completely sure how popular this trend is at the moment). Real Ilford Boys opt to wear mass-produced and overpriced labels which a very distant relative back in their homeland (almost always Asian) created - and then proceed to mock people who don't. Contrastingly, Ilford Girls (who pretty much equate to 'Harrow Girls') embrace too much liquid eyeliner and foundation for what was an already pretty face. You can often tell when it is about to rain because, in the distance, a wailing sound screaming 'my hair!' can be heard. This is because Ilford Girls have incredibly straight hair. Water is its kryptonite. Every girl brought up in the East has gone through this phase but some never make it out. Sadface.

Patrick hangs around the Stratford - Holborn area. He tends to perv quite openly at the attractive 20-something blondes whose Basic Instinct is to 'pull a Sharon Stone'. Mr Bateman considers himself a ladies man, if he does say so himself. The middle aged man who often tags along beside him never notices this carriage flirting and has become accustomed to Bateman's lack of eye contact when he talks at him about the annual turnover of a company his colleague feigned interest in to get the job. Sometimes there are Mrs. Batemans. When the two combine it leads to an overwhelming realisation that, yes, we are in the 21st century where women can have powerful jobs too. Yes, women can wear tailored suits and be taken seriously. Go girl power and feminism and hairyness! Then they begin cooing, and exchanging DNA through saliva, and make it very uncomfortable for other rush hour passengers who are already struggling to find something to look at after having exhausted their reading materials (the ads) in the morning. Everyone proceeds to mentally 'awkward turtle'.

From Holborn to White City you can find every Londoner’s favourite group: tourists! Technically each type of tourist should have its own group - from the unnecessarily untrusting Chinese to the unnecessarily trusting Americans (who we don't trust). Nevertheless there are several ways to spot a tourist besides the quintessential 'I <3 London' T-Shirts (which I have, suggesting it’s crap evidence anyway). For example: did you know an adult Tourist rarely ever sits down? This is likely to be because they are not trained in the art of ruthlessly shoving someone to get that seat. Tourists also seem to have an unnatural addiction to H&M, especially when they come from a country which already has H&M stores. The clue as to whether someone is a Tourist is the speed in which they travel. Using Speed Equals Distance Over Time establish whether the person in question is moving at less than half the rate you are. Obviously account for illness and disabilities, otherwise this is a fool-proof way of working out whether the dude in front of you is a Tourist or someone you can tut at.

White City-onwards is out of the way and should be kept that way. Face it.

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