is it ok to be sick on a tube?
Is it ok to be sick on a tube
I firstly want to say, I do have dignity. I don't know how much I will lose sharing this story with you, but I hope there will be a shred left for some respect as I'd call this somewhat empowering. I feel it was my entryway into the proper life as a commuter.
Introuduction
Over this story, I will explain why being sick on almost every tube line should be frowned upon. You should be judged and belittled for such a vile act. The pain you put on others as you stand there gagging and retching, and they have now here to go except watching. It's like your first stand-up gig: no one has paid to come see you, and you end the night having stage fright and emptying your guts over the front row. Luckily, there weren't many people in the audience, so you just had to pay for two people's dry cleaning with the little money you had...
The Northern
Back to my point: The Northern Line is the one true tube line where you should be allowed to be sick because your sick is probably the cleanest thing on there. It's like a clown car. I'd imagine those would be unbearable, and even though you would think there's not enough room in there for 50 clowns, out pops another 25. That's the Northern Line. The only good thing about the crowdedness is you don't need to hold on to anything as you are so tightly packed. As a tall person, it's a luxury in most cases as I'm not in the sea of sweat, smells, and bad breath. I can breathe amongst the clouds.
The Problem
It starts off like many of my other stories, after a long night of drinking. This time, it was my work Christmas party, and I got trolleyed. The moments I remember include singing "Sweet Caroline" by myself on the train home and breaking out into dance. My food of choice was a chicken Caesar salad from Leon, which didn't mix well with Neil Diamond. By the end of my journey, I was curled up in the seat singing the Macarena. To the lovely passenger who walked past me and checked if I was okay, thanks and sorry for scaring you like that.
Well, the next day I was not myself. I felt like a shred of meat in the hot dog making process. Something to Google. I got on the tube at London Bridge, and it was packed. Not like how it's normally very difficult to stand up or do anything; this time, I felt like I became part of the people on the tube. But I won and managed to get a spot on the edge next to the door. As the sounds of death were bellowing, I felt a rumble, then I panicked. In this situation, you aren't prepared to puke, but you do. I gave the tube doors a lovely new paint job; I could see bits of the chicken Caesar salad covering the windows. And no, I wasn't done. It turned out everything I had eaten the day before wanted another view of the world.
As the tube pulled into Borough, I knew I shouldn't stay on the tube, but also, how could I leave that mess? How could I not feel guilty if someone fell and face-planted my sick? Well, I did leave it because WHAT THE FUCK WAS I MEANT TO DO? I don't carry tissues, and I wasn't going to use my shirt. Just a shirtless, pukey guy wiping sick around, trying to hide the thick clumps, it wouldn't have gone well. As it was the Northern Line, I didn't feel too bad because I knew that tube would have a worse day than me.