Opinions are like arseholes, Kat... everyone has one

Drinking on London’s public transport system has never really struck me as that much of a problem. One seldom hears news reports pertaining towards booze related misdemeanours on the vast network of trams, tubes, trains and busses that we rely on to chariot us around this vast metropolis. I’m sure there are far more important matters to be resolved than how much we are allowed to enjoy ourselves, in our own time, riding a mode of transport that we paid for with our own hard earned cash. So, when it was brought to my attention that Saturday, May 31^st, would see the last carriage of every Circle Line train converted into a booze fuelled shindig, I took it upon myself to make an appearance and document what I experienced as faithfully as possible.

I arrived at Liverpool street station rather late, due to my insistence on spending the better part of the morning baking a carrot cake to bring with me. A prudent move, it was awfully tasty and helped me to make friends and influence people later on in the Chronicles of Motherfuckery of which I am about to impart on you. You can see the cake being enjoyed in the picture below.


We boarded the circle line at Liverpool St. After much debate about whether to travel eastbound or westbound, someone eventually realised that the circle line is, in fact, circular, and that it really makes the the blindest bit of difference which direction we travelled in. Our destination was Motherfuckery. And that's omnipresent, you don't travel to it; it comes and finds you.

The first train we boarded was was already commandeered by some booze tubers. But, if I'm being honest, they looked a bit unsure as to what they were doing. Granted, they were drinking on the tube, but there was no party buzz afoot. So we made short work of the task at hand, converting the carriage into a mobile NEC National Indoor Arena with a game of Hang Tough.





Mayhem ensued. More and more booze tubers were boarding the carriage, bringing with them booze and body heat. The temperature was rising, and the heat and alcohol was causing some early casualties. Yet, not everyone was affected. Amidst this carnival of carnage sat a lady who exuded nothing but indifference towards the whole situation. She remained seated and oblivious throughout, polishing off the Pick Me Up crossword.

The desire for cigarettes led us back up top. We alit at Baker St and settled down for a brown. I was enjoying the first sweet pulls when my attention was snaffled by a man wearing, what can only be described, as an alco-utility fanny pack. Here he is, proudly displaying not only a mighty swan, but an ability to drink from the hip.


We once again headed subterranean, but the inevitable had happened and we had become separated from some of our booze tubing companions. We are a proud lot, and like the Marines, we won't leave anyone behind. The train was at the platform, we were all but one aboard the carriage, and I witnessed one of the noblest acts of the day. The train doors were prised apart and held in wait for the straggler. By the time he arrived, some 5 minutes later, the rest of the train had been emptied by the driver who had taken the train out of service. We were left facing a heaving platform full of angry looking non-booze-cruisers, royally disgruntled at the inconvenience we had bestowed upon them. Mercifully, the next train arrived shortly after, and lo; the havoc was switched up to the next level.



The carriage was twice as busy as the first one, due to the fact that we'd caused the amalgamation of two train loads into one. Amongst the crowds we found two horrible Sloane Rangers, horsey as you like and full of pretentious airs and graces, drinking champagne. the picture on the left is not of a cleavage, or of a builder's silken hammer pants, it is in fact the Sloane Ranger's back. She had tried to fit a lot of body into a corset, and the result was the ability to perform a back wank. It was decided that she needed to be taken down a peg or two, so it was attempted to untie the string. Alas, the knot was too intricate, so a cigarette lighter was produced and the string was torched. The pressure release was immense, possibly a mere 5 miles an hour away from emitting a sonic boom. In an effort to suppress my laughter as she turned around to investigate why she was hanging loose, I spilled Guinness all over my face.

Not long after this, I witnessed an act of homosexual tenderness that can only be described as stirring. One of our party found himself embraced with a short, portly, bespectacled young Gay in a tank-top. Luckily, the unholy union didn't last long and he realised that he'd just played out a homo-erotic fantasy in the real world, in front of his peers and swiftly withdrew before everything got bums-a-blur. Still, better out than in I say

We left the Circle Line after almost a full lap, and headed towards the West End to meet up with some newcomers. Needless to say, we once again lost a handful of people; including our now drunk and distraught token homo. He was beginning to prove himself a bit of a liability, between drinking copious amounts of foul concoctions and copping off with fat little Gays, his mind was clearly somewhere adjacent to his body.

It was becoming apparent that the day was starting to take it's toll on some of us. Flake was setting in, but we were pepped up by the news that it had all kicked off at Liverpool Street; soundsystems, riots, the lot. Well worth an investigation, so off we trotted, in search of a police horse to startle. Not before I spotted this family. The son had a pair of balloon headphones on,which surely beats a poodle or a giraffe all day long.

On the way to the bedlam, I came across a wedding reception near Bank station. I asked the bride if I could have a snap, and she obliged. The picture was taken just at the point realisation that she didn't have the foggiest idea who I was. When queried, I apologised for any inconvenience, offered my congratulations and wished her good luck. Hand shakes were offered all round, but sadly no bridesmaids.

We arrived at Liverpool Street station and couldn't believe the mayhem that had clearly gone on earlier. The station was closed to the public and empty, but through the windows, the devastation was clearly on display for all to marvel at. By this time, the tubes had stopped running so we were at a loss for what to do. We had one possible party hook up that we were investigating, and in the meantime it was decided that we would go back to a flat in Stepney Green that someone had the keys to, to carry on the merriment and await further instruction in regards to the party.

And thus my narrative is reaching it's conclusion. The shenanigans were far from over, but I had come to report on the booze tubing and I'm a man of my word. In fact, the boozing continued until 11 pm on Sunday, where, having had no sleep since Friday night, I found myself in regal Windsor with my brain stewing in alcohol. I boarded the train home, fell asleep, missed my stop and awoke in Paddington.

I stood on the platform in a cold, tired, hungry, angry, drunken stupor. I had 2 hours to wait for the train back in the right direction, so I had plenty of time to evaluate what I had experienced over the course of these two days. The conclusion came to me in a flash, a mere 3 minutes into my contemplations.

The sheer brilliance of Boris Johnson's plan struck me square between the ears. Drinking was never that big a problem on public transport, but in prohibiting it, the biggest alcohol induced display of civily disobedient Motherfuckery imaginable was unleashed, thus giving BoJo the perfect reason for an all out ban. He made a problem out of nothing that he swiftly and firmly dealt with, portraying him as a pragmatic man of action. With fantasticaly foppish hair. Thank you Boris.