It Wasn’t a Laughing Matter

The London Underground is where dignity dies, usually somewhere between the escalator and the slamming doors.

We all know that feeling. When you sprint down the escalator and spot people getting off the tube, every bone in your body says, “You can make it!” Except one. That brings on a serious decision.

Do you take the risk and bolt for the doors, knowing they’ll either slam shut in your face (with the embarrassment following you like a shadow all day), or you’ll just about make it, minus your dignity and maybe your bag?

The people in a rush certainly aren’t on your side when the doors reopen and you get that sarcastic announcement telling you to make sure you’re actually on the train. Brutal.

The Art of Pretending You Meant to Miss It

Alternatively, you could smooth it out. Pretend you were never going to try. Just waltz down the platform like you’re exiting with the others.

I’ve done that. Realised I wouldn’t make the train, but still committed to the long walk down the platform and up the escalators — only to go right back down again later, all to preserve my dignity.

But sometimes, there’s a story. One where I’m not even the main character.

Welcome to the Bakerloo Line, Unfortunately

I was on the Bakerloo line, the tube I dislike a perfectly normal amount. It’s slow. And the fact that the tube is meant to be fast-paced and energetic makes the Bakerloo feel... wrong.

Anyway, I got on, expecting the usual hot and steamy journey, when we pulled into a station. A swarm of bustling commuters began streaming off, while a few soulless plebs snuck through the crowd trying to score an early seat.

A false start. That’s what it is. You can’t enter the tube while people are still getting off. It’s disrespectful and deeply uncivilised.

Enter The Leg

Then came the sound. The whining of the tube doors — always a cue for panic. That’s when you heard it: fast, heavy footsteps. A man was sprinting down the platform, clearly scanning for his soulmate — the carriage with the fewest people.

My carriage.

The doors began to close. I thought, oh my God, is he going to make it? And time froze.

He got his leg in just before the door shut. And then... it stayed there. Jammed. The Bakerloo doesn’t care for commuters playing chicken with death.

Most people gasped. A few didn’t give a toss. I just stood there laughing. I couldn’t handle it — I’d be dreadful in an emergency. I’d panic, cry, and, knowing me, probably be sick. Not ideal — unless we were starving, and I’d had a big dinner the night before.

A Hero Rises, Then Regrets It

The poor guy was struggling. So was I, to be fair, from laughing too hard. I was barely breathing. Yes, I’m aware I’m a horrible person.

It got to a point where we all wondered: if the tube starts moving, how long can he hold on?

Then, just as apathy reclaimed the carriage, a gentleman folded down his newspaper. He stood up. Popped his glasses into his pocket. It was the moment we all knew would come, but hoped someone else would handle. Because in the end, we’re all selfish bastards.

He grabbed the door. Started pushing. Took multiple shoves. Sweat pouring down his face — unclear if it was from the exertion or just the swampy climate of the Bakerloo line that day.

Finally, relief. The door shifted enough for the trapped man to stumble on board. A win. Or so we thought.

What followed was a torrent of gratitude. Endless thank-yous. Multiple unsolicited hugs. The air got thick with emotion.

And finally, the gentleman, clearly done with this interaction, turned to the man he’d rescued and said:

“Please leave me the fuck alone, mate.”

Then he sat down, put his glasses back on, and resumed reading his newspaper like nothing had happened.

London May Not Always Be Kind, But It’s Rarely Boring

And that, dear reader, is why I no longer run for the Bakerloo. If it wants me, it can wait.