The indignity of it

Today, I was driven by chauffeur to London.  We only got half-way there.

I was wearing my most head-turning outfit.  I was dressed as a swan.   Do you like my dress?

As we drove off the M25, the limousine broke down.  It turned out one of the wheels had come loose, flew off and crashed through the front-room window of somebody's house.  I do hope the wheel hasn't been damaged by striking an occupant - that would be a very grave misfortune.

I telephoned Special Branch at Scotland Yard and demanded they fly the Royal Helichopper out to transport me to Central London, but they flatly refused, leaving me dejected by their querulous "who are you?".    Alone and vulnerable in an unknown part of London, I headed for the bright lights of....

Whoever named this suburb of North London with this
ridiculous cartoon name should be flogged at dawn. Let me guess, the Mayor of Cockfosters is Daffy Duck.

Can you imagine how miffed I was to find myself buying a ticket at Cockfosters - yes, it's a real place - Cockfosters tube station in North London and sitting on a train that groaned and wheezed like an old man, all its long, laborious way into Central London, with a thousand sets of grubby, working-class eyes roving hungrily up and down my body (no doubt jealous at the beauty of my swan dress), whilst having to endure the nausea of travelling in a train carriage slowly filling with the obnoxious mixture of cheap perfume, audible flatulence, pungent aromas of steak pie and the stink of cheap ale.

 
These smells were not coming from my personage, I should add, as I never eat steak pie or drink cheap ale, and I only ever smell of roses, even when I gently release what I term 'polite lady's flatulence', it smells delightfully of roses and lemons and is a pleasure to behold.  No... the offensive stench was coming from the other passengers cooped up in confines of a carriage that had all the comfort of a hen cage).

There is nothing more so offensive than releasing untold amounts of flatulence, especially of a working-class nature, in a confined space.  As for the public shame of eating a steak pie whilst on a Tube train, all I can do is repeat the words of the Count de Monet --- "the peasants are revolting!"

The Piccadilly Line from Cockfosters to London, also known as the Tube to Hell: this - erm - rather large female passenger - spent the entire duration looking on the floor for her glass eye which had fallen out.  Meanwhile, rather than spend the 40-minutes gazing at her morbidly obese derriere, I wandered, swan-like, the entire length of the train looking for the First Class compartment, sadly in vain.  I've never travelled on a train before in my entire life and don't think I shall do so ever again.  I feel a bout of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder coming on after the rigours of the London Underground.

 

The whole experience brought me out in hives and I took a quick sniff of the good 'ol Poppers to steady me as I ascended from the gloom of Holborn tube station, cursing the metropolis' shockingly antiquated and impoverished transport system, whilst checking my swan dress for any stains that might have transferred themselves from the train seat.

The only redeeming feature of my train trip was this very polite ticket inspector who asked to see my ticket at Holborn tube station.

Cockfosters, by the looks of it, is the type of place populated by women named Sharon, who have a big, blonde hairdo, wear white stilettos all year round, and guzzle Malibu in nightclubs while dreaming of one day opening the doors of their mock-Tudor mansion to Hello! magazine.

I have already written to John Betjeman, poet, to ask him to change his mind about his epic poem 'Come Friendly Bombs and Fall on Slough' and instead to re-verse it 'Come Friendly Bombs and Blow the Smithereens out of Cockfosters and take with it the Oopsa-Daisy Line or whatever it is called'. 

I shall also be writing a letter to Mayor of London, Boris Yeltsin, to protest he do something about the horrors of the tube and next time to make available his limousine for my private usage.  I sharn't be coming face to face with hoi polloi ever again on London's public transport failure.

Good day to you.