You might not agree with using them but there’s a good reason that stereotypes exist. People just seem to leap into them, wallow in them like pigs in shit. Like the man on tonight’s train. In his dirty white trainers and hooded top under a jacket. And his stagger up the aisle and the reek of beer. And his comical back and forth up the carriages. He deposited an unopened pile of Virgin magazines and asked if I’d look after them, he wanted to know what team my neighbour supported, three seats down and he wanted a cigarette, out of sight I heard him request a light. He tried to secure a reduction from onboard shop for a can of lager, all right then, a Miniature, how about a cup of tea? He didn’t want one anyway, apparently. He had a pressing need for the toilet that was entirely unrelated to the emergence of the ticket inspector at the other end of the compartment.
His friend had his ticket, he’d already shown it, he’d lost it, he’d lost his wallet, he’d been robbed, got on the wrong train, was getting off at the next station anyway, was being harassed, didn’t care, had rights, didn’t want to be touched apparently when confronted by staff.
For the rest of his truncated journey, he roamed our carriage, penned in by staff at either end. He managed to solicit a can of Carling from another slightly worse for wear passenger and having given up all hope of a negotiated settlement sat smoking a cadged fag, beer in hand.
Thankfully, never an organisation to mis-prioritise or overreact, the Warwickshire police sent eight officers in four cars to ask him to leave the train at the next station. It did at least give him a larger audience for the complaints about his treatment on board and more chances for a lift home.
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