pandemic behaviour

The Northern Line’s morning service is a bizarre environment at the best of times. 

Adults cram into carriages, creating a human “how many sweets in the jar” challenge, all suffering from overtiredness, overheating and overhearing someone’s shit drum and bass playlist blaring out of some Apple earphones. I don’t think anyone has ever been happy to be on the Northern Line. It’s the dentist of commuting methods: a dread-filling, sweat-inducing necessity of modern life.

Yet, despite the day-to-day sense of enduring a Bushtucker Trial, we tolerate it. It opens up the world of cheap (in the same way that designer gear is considered cheap at outlet stores when it’s still fucking ludicrously priced for what it is essentially a logo to showcase on “the gram” to people that essentially give zero shits that you just paid 500 quid for a picture of a posh carrier bag) rent in London and a path to Inferno’s for anyone that has had too many beers on a Saturday night. In fact, maybe we love the Northern Line.

What we probably never expected throughout our love-hate relationship with the TFL’s most “don’t lean against the doors” announcement-graced line, is that it would be considered a death trap.

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Okay, so a death trap might be a little strong, but you know where I’m going with this. If you don’t, then you need to crawl out from under a rock larger than the ones Post Malone shoves up his nose before a gig and take a look at the news.

COVID-19, or coronavirus to those with shares in Desperado or Sol, has struck the world and sent it into a frenzy. There have been several moments in recent history that have threatened to send the world bonkers – Trump attacking Iran, Trump sparring with North Korea, Trump denying climate change, Trump teasing Russia, Trump supporting every clinically insane, right-wing leader in world politics, Coleen Rooney outing Rebekah Vardy – but the outbreak of this pandemic has genuinely done it. The straw has broken the camel’s back.

love island: rating the islanders

Sometimes you get a tick. Not like one of those jungle buggers than buries its way into Harry Redknapp’s gooch, but an incessant, persuasive buzzing that follows you around buzz buzz buzzing everywhere you go. One week ago, I too fell victim to the tick. It all started when rolling down my Twitter timeline, glassy-eyed, discarding thousands of Manchester United transfer rumours.

Something then peaked my interest: @ITV2 Meet our 2019 islanders. Before I could face the reality of it being June again, I was faced with 12 of dazzling white teeth flashing back at me. Love Island, the reality TV show that dictates the social lives of a whole country for two months, was back. My brain started to itch.

“My mum kicked me out for bringing too many girls back!”

In Year 7 science, our teacher introduced us to hydrochloric acid. Dangerous stuff, he said. I remember wondering just how dangerous it was. What would happen if you drank it? Not the wonderings of a psychopath, merely an example of the dumb shit you think about when you're a kid. What happens when you spray deodorant on fire? How many Toxic Waste can one eat at once? Coke and Mentos... what's going on there? In this instance, it was just how bad hydrochloric acid was.

When I heard Anton, the class of 2019's token scotsman, brag about the above, I felt the pain of pouring hydrochloric acid into your own ears. 12-year-old me satisfied. 23-year-old me mortified. And there it was: the content tick. I gave these sparkly bastards a week to stamp their impressions before succumbing to the tick and producing some equally sparkly content.

Iain Stirling, step aside.

the world's greatest drama

At approximately 9:40pm on Tuesday night, my phone experienced an earthquake.

This was no disaster, however. It was a seismic rush of uncalculated expression charging through an array of group chat feeds. WhatsApp, Twitter and iMessage notifications cascaded into eachother. Unfamiliar vowels and consonants came face to face for the first time. Everything was in capitals. Nothing was spelt right. No-one cared. Football was on stage, and it just hit the top note.

In the stalls, anarchy ensued. Drops of lager sprayed the dried memories of the summer. Tribal divides were broken. Jaws dropped. Neanderthal semantics rose from extinction. From the ashes of genius-induced defeat in Barcelona, Liverpool's phoenix was soaring into the Champions League final.

"Did you see the game last night?" The question reverberated around work spaces, classrooms, playgrounds, lecture halls, kitchens, everywhere. Every football fan wore a glint in their eye, one that showed the pride of witnessing something special. Marvelling at Trent Alexander-Arnold's genius, smirking at Divock Origi's heroics, admiring the Kop's noise. As relentlessly as tribal forces contracted, it was difficult to hide a smile at Liverpool's achievement.

how it feels not to watch game of thrones

The world's gone fucking mental. And none of you are going to agree with me.

This, essentially, is the diary extract of a societal loner. As Green Day once cried into my confused teenage ears: I am walking the lonely road, the only road that I have ever known. But this is no boulevard and my dreams are certainly not broken. This is all ludicrous and the fact I've witnessed enough content-worthy behaviour about this in the last three weeks frankly worries me more than Brexit and climate change put together.

In fact, climate change might have something to do with this: it's April and winter has come.

Game of Thrones. We are only three episodes into season whatever of Game of who gives a fuck and the world has already descended into chaos. Whoever decided it was a bright idea to put new episodes on at 2am UK time on a Sunday morning has ensured that normal people are subject to a Monday of absolute, overdramatic dragony bollocks.

The moment you enter your office/classroom/kitchen there's tension. It's like breakfast in rehab. A whole night has passed without a fix of powdered snow, ice and fire. People are cracking.

Any mention of any word results in a snap reaction of fear. DON'T SAY ANYTHING. WHAT DO YOU KNOW. HE DOESN'T DIE. NO SPOILERS YOU. You were only asking for a pen and you're suddenly being interrogated by a crackhead. Today I sent someone the link to a recap article as a bit of light-hearted Monday fun: word spread, angry mob descended, Steve Harvey public apology required.

the daily mail summer

"Sun is in the sky, oh why, oh why, would I want to be anywhere else" - Lily Allen

The clocks have gone forward, in case nobody told you. 

In case nobody relentlessly reminded you that you would ‘lose’ an hour of sleep on Sunday and that you would stay unconscious for a mere 12 hours instead of the luxurious weekend 13. Ergh, the hassle.

When somebody tells you that the clocks are changing, you panic as if your life is about to spin into a vortex. That is, until you realise that this is twenty bloody nineteen and everything changes itself except the oven, your car and Piers Morgan’s personality.

The truth of the matter is that something much greater has arrived. Something to trivialise the position of a clock hand into an oblivion of irrelevance that only houses things like David Moyes and the bit of plastic on the end of a shoelace.

This is an enigma that only graces British shores. It rocks up like that old family member that visits once a year. They bring rare sweets that you’ve never had before and smell like, how you’d imagine, the drawing room in Cluedo smells. They are fun and fucking annoying in identical quantities.

This is the, drumroll please, Daily Mail Summer ©.

What a strange name, I hear you say. Why would you label something that isn’t a school sports tournament after the Daily Mail, you ask with bewilderment. Well I have several reasons. One is here. Another is here. And here. Here. Here. HeRe. hErE. HERE. 

The Daily Mail Summer is the kid who goes to Spain eight times a year and returns to his snotty, vitamin D deprived classmates with tales of nutmegging Messi, fighting a shark and losing his 12-year-old virginity to an 18-year-old model from Malaga. The Daily Mail Summer is Jay from the Inbetweeners.

Well, William Mackenzie, it’s time to open up that briefcase and lather on some sun-cream because the Daily Mail Summer has reached Britain and – as fucking always – nobody has a clue what to do.

The first rule of the Daily Mail Summer is that it must be anticipated with at least a week’s notice. 

Any sign of a 17 degree, cloudless day must be preceded with a few days of ‘BRITISH HEATWAVE HELL’ tabloid headlines and awkward office conversations that consist of one person saying “it’s meant to be warm this weekend” and another responding with “oh is it?!?!” despite having heard this three times previously that day. You sip your scolding, instant coffee daydreaming about a chilled 5% alternative.

Rule number two, said BRITISH HEATWAVE HELL always arrives on a Saturday. On a Saturday, society undoes its tie, unbuttons its shirt and puts on a pair of flip-flops. 

You wake up in a slight sweat – new territory – and spot the lustful beam of sunlight shining through the curtains. You react to it like a moth, banging into it like a dusty twat. Before you reach the shower you’ve already played three Tame Impala songs and Summer Breeze by the Isley Brothers. You put the shower on a few degrees cooler than usual. It makes you feel fine, blowing through the jasmine in your mind.

Once you’ve nonchalantly rejected your trusty tracksuit bottoms for some shorts and completely discarded the idea of wearing a top – all to the beat of Will Smith’s Summertime by Will Smith – you bop your way into the garden and breathe in the sweet, sweet summer air. Just like Miami, just like Will said. 

But it’s early April and it turns out 17 degrees doesn’t feel that much hotter than 13 degrees. In the shade it feels colder, and you look down at your sad erect little nipples as you silently think about what top you’re going to put on.

But does that stop you? Absolutely fucking not. You are British, you are tough, and you have worked all week to enjoy the fruits of a Daily Mail Summer’s day. 

You head straight to the WhatApp group chat and send a bait-loaded hook into the pond: “Pints” quickly followed by “Pub garden” in case anyone has lost their mind. There are no question marks as this is not a bloody question. The sky is blue, the sun is visible and summer has arrived. The Daily Mail said so.

Once you settle on some jean shorts, a white t-shirt and some sunnies, if you’re a middle-aged white kid, or shades, if you’re a father of three, you leave the house with the world at your feet. 

You bounce your way into town to the sound of chirping birds, paddling pools and lawnmowers, reminiscing about the times you were a little shit and used to gleefully chuck piles of cut grass on your mate with hayfever. You pass the ice cream van: wash pastel cartoons, 90s kids music, same middle-aged man, same wife beater vest. A cone of suspicion with a 99 flake and sauce.

Walking through a town centre on a Daily Mail Summer’s day is a safari. The population of your town evolves, flexing the gems that you knew existed but never saw. 

The convertible Audis driven exclusively by estate agents and the local drug lord. The family of nine with an Childline inducing communication style. The pre-pubescent worms smoking weed under a tree. Everyone that voted Brexit. The North Korea-esq sized armies of kids on bikes. The 9/10s. The tattooed blokes drinking Stella on the street. Your town living its best life, tears in your eyes.

If an alien decided to take a holiday to planet Earth – the poor sod –  and wanted to experience an authentic Daily Mail Summer, without reading some prestige content, they need not look further than a beer garden in a suburban JD Wetherspoons.

Populated by all of the above and the ice-cream man, whole towns pack into the adult playground to get their fix. Trays of Strongbow Dark Fruits and Carlsberg cascade onto splintering benches as you nod and shake hands with former schoolmates like you’re about to play an FA Cup fixture. 

Through the pints, the fights and the sobering five minutes when the sun goes behind the clouds, sunglassed Brits across the country are gleeful, pissed and  – somehow – pink.

It’s seven o’clock and still light, cries everyone. The insanity! Once pint glasses stop refilling, herds of dozy wasps leave the pub to return back to their respective hives, content. 

Under a tree, in the shadows, the Daily Mail Summer, wired from success, sniffs, looks towards the camera and winks: it’s rain until May boys, we got ‘em again.

twenty percent (of doom)

Low Battery

20% of battery remaining
|||

For the love of God, it's only 8:30am. You gaze down at your good for nothing, cracked screened iPhone 6s - let's be honest, it's always an iPhone - as the turtleneck-wearing ghost of Steve Jobs takes a bite out of an Apple and nonchalantly turns the egg timer counting down to you and your phone's imminent death. 

You knew Jobs was a bit of a knob, you've seen Fassbender in the movie, but it turns out his ghost is a bit of a twat too. 

Yet, in that one moment of panic-stricken frustration, your attention does not direct itself to the pittance of his corporation's batteries.

Oh no.

What you're thinking about is the iPhone XR. You know your time for an upgrade is on the horizon and you've seen the tweets about it having 'the best battery yet'. You forget that's like saying Theresa May's latest Brexit plan was her 'best yet' - a bit better but, ultimately, still completely shit.  

18% |||

Right. So we're skipping percentages already are we? What happened to 19%? Sure, it's one of the uglier numbers, along with 17, but to skip it out altogether is a bit of a dick move. But there's no time to start feeling sympathy for numbers: it's time to enter fight or flight mode. 

*Double taps Home button* 

we're sorry for the delay

We are sorry to announce that the 7:15 train to... London King's Cross... is delayed until approximately... 8:00... due to a signal failure. We are sorry for the inconvenience caused.

inconvenience (ɪnkənˈviːnɪəns/)
The fact of being troublesome or difficult with regard to one's personal requirements or comfort.

Ah yes, how inconvenient. How very inconvenient indeed. To put this simple inconvenience into perspective let's think about some other inconvenient things. An empty tube of toothpaste. A dead lightbulb. A fire drill. A card machine without contactless. Bird shit. A spot on your forehead. Light drizzle. Forgetting your password. Needing petrol. Diarrhoea. Need I go on?

Now, National Rail, you petty fools, I would not personally apply such a passive term to such a cataclysm. Sure, you are currently thinking that relating a train delay to a large-scale and violent event in the natural world may be a tad dramatic. Well you too are petty fools and have not taken into account the domino effect that ensues once the rail announcer's sweaty finger pokes the first, delicately balanced tile over.

Your time is now. The apocalypse is now. Is cataclysm to apocalypse too big a jump for the third paragraph? I'm angry just thinking about what's coming. On a day like this the sun should fall by 10am and an emergency bank holiday should be called. I'm fuming. Let's just do it.