The Fatso on the Tube and my broken clownshoes.

I bought a new pair of red Converse yesterday. Yes, I exist in about 2006.

So I'm coming into work, very hungover, and tapping my heels together like some gangrel Dorothy with the booze-fear, and the train starts to fill up. I make myself as small as possible, and try to read my little book.

Eventually, there are too many people and they start to file into the aisle, to make space.


I'm reading away, trying not to think of the word 'vomit' and my right foot suddenly feels crushed, like mangled.

I look up, and there's a big fat woman repeatedly stepping on my shoes, my big fucking clown shoes, and looking the other way. The pristine white rubber toecap is smudged and blackening.

"Could you stop stepping on my foot please?" I ask, as politely as my broken foot will allow.

Fatso snaps "Can you not pull your big feet in?"

I have size 12 (US 13) so it's a fair question, and I struggle not to point out that her hoofs have the same texture, hue, shape and general appearance of two massive hunks of cowflesh, carved off a Creuztfeldt-Jakob'd bovine bloater, so I return,

'They're back as far as they can go, would you watch where you step please?"


She looks like she wants to slap (or eat) me, and her voice shakes as she says,

"Well...can't you FOLD them in at least?"

I laugh and say "I'm not a PENGUIN!", loud enough for everyone to hear, and with enough rage to allow a little raindrop of spittle to land on her fouracre, sweat-drizzled hamface.

Now my new shoes are desecrated, and I smell like the fury of an obese woman. Winning.

I'm moving flat in 2 days, the commute will be better...ins Allah!