Tuesday, 17 March 2020

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.

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