Now to fight with the most miserable annoying and selfish people on the planet. Commuters. Speeding to work and running for my life. I nearly lost my backside as I fly onto the carriage of the Bakerloo line, southbound. A couple of ladies smile, I slump in a chair(which seems an overstatement for underground seating) or seat(yeah seat) and exclaim “woah, that was close.” We all laugh, mainly out of nervousness and out of my bizarre and inappropriate tube etiquette. Getting to work by the skin of my teeth is my speciality. To make the time more bearable fro me I often use public transport as a literal platform for my comedic abilities/voicing political opinions/or just some pointless chit chat to pass the time of day. Most people do see me as a weirdo, but I am at peace with this now. Sometimes I get a laugh. Probably a nervous laugh. Either way my commutes are interesting to say the least.

One late night, half cut, on a last train home that I caught out of half drunk panic of being stranded in the back of beyond of Dalston Kingsland. I overhear some youngens’ conversation. Well I’m intently listening to their conversation. I may be the nosiest person travelling on the underground at any given moment. I digress. These wiper snappers are innocently wishing someone had invented the flying skateboards or scooters they have in back to the future so they could get home swiftly. Wouldn’t it be great their unlined eyes fantasise. I’m weighing up silently what they’re saying and in my idiosyncratic drunken style I pipe up. My neck elongating like a giraffe, my apparently zombie self waking, and blurting out in a cockney slurr. “Do you really think they haven’t invented flying scooters and skateboards? Of course they’ve invented them, they just don’t want us paupers to have them. They don’t want you to have them.” Their wide eyes, are now even wider eyed. “I’d put money on Cameron & Johnson whizzing around now, laughing, “”oh silly poor normal people, how dumb they are travelling on trains.”” I ain’t joking you. If we the normal people have iPhones and all this technology. Do you really think Cameron and Jonson haven’t got the latest absolutely out of this world technology. Technology that is taking them yo space, let alone flying around on a scooter.” I carry on, probably not making any sense. Scaring the life out these innocent bystanders, they are laughing, but probably out of fear. Definitely out of fear. A nervous laugh, while they wonder what they are going to do about this crazy lady on her soap box, and decided to make them my audience. Poor souls. I get off the train, and they slow their pace so as to loose me. I get the hint, and carry on my journey, feeling like I’ve put a few political lies to rest. Oh stupid drunken self, I doubt very much that you made any sense.
This particular morning I am in a more of a spectator mode. I have witnessed, so far a man secretly taking pictures of the woman opposite him-gross. A man punching his knee rhythmically- scary murderer type. Another business man, pulling weird expressions with his mouth and lower jaw. There’s a lot of psychosis on the underground. I’m not discounting my own. Oh god, then two Tory tossers sit opposite me. One sitting on two seats. Is there a reason for you taking up two seats? I am only wondering in my mind.  “I’m gonna vote conservative.” The man utters, oh wow what a revelation, everyone on this carriage could have guessed that, and another reason for me to vote green. This time my concious kicks in, this does happen on occasion, I don’t say anything for fear of embarrassing myself. (?) Instead I sit quietly scowling at them, hoping they telepathically receive my hate for them. God my hate for middle class suited men is soaring right now. Oh, I’d love to take no mercy with a spatula and hot wax, I can see the tears welling up in their cold heartless eyes. I also am on the look out for people I can annoy. If I annoy you on the under ground more than like I am doing it on purpose.  Oh my christ, this was the cherry on the cake. On this overcrowded carriage with no room for anyone,  an old man squeezes onto the carriage barging pass each person as if they are a blade of grass, and to top it off coughing his guts up as if he is gonna keel over any second. He is now sat in front of me of dying. He is looking round the carriage for sympathy, none from me old chap, none from me. I saw you push past the young fragile indian girl, clearly struggling with her baggage. I saw you cleary push past her throwing your hand in front of her face, and hurtle into the seat for no regard for any other human. This man is one of life’s atrocities. If he looks at me once more longing for symapthy I feel to punch him in the face.

I reach my stop and can escape the commuter hell. Only 5 mins walk from here, I power walk, and then break into a silly half walk run, attempting to give the impression I really want to get to work on time. 9.08am. Damn. Really I do not give a monkeys, they’re lucky I’m here at all. image


Waiting, part deux.


There are no clients again. The boredom sets in, and my body begins to sink. All the cleaning has been done. Overwhelmed by sighing. At the edge of boredom is a sweet craving, the little sugar rush aids the entertainment and silliness that lives alongside the quiet moments, and lifts the sinking feeling. The waiting can be fun.It’s in these lulls you begin to talk nonsense, forced into a place where you must entertain oneself, especially after a sugar hit. BTs are perceived to be young & dumb, which, like many generalisations, is wrong. I’ve met plenty of fun & funny, smart, young n old fat and skinny blonde, brown, redheads, lovers of false eyelashes and layers of makeup, to the natural, I been working 7 10 hour days and not fucked to put any makeup on, beauties. We can share our grim tales of dodgy customer experience. Laugh at the lunatics that come in, and their demands. And, on a night out bt’s are wild. I don’t know if it’s bowing down to every customer need on a daily basis, being quiet for long periods of time, or sometimes not talking at all. But rarely have I seen a quiet BT on a night out. In fact, most of my colleagues I’ve worked with over years gone by, are wildly funny, yes girls, yes wildly funny. Missing funny banters & mucking about with the girls. Here it’s just me, myself and I, sitting waiting hoping sitting waiting.

One hour to go,  shoot me now. I pop into the barbers to say hi, they’re always up for nonsensical chats and some inane amusing banter there. Heartfelt murmurs are coming from the tiny, cluttered staffroom kitchen. The young barber can be heard singing his heart out to bohemian rhapsody. I pop my head in the staff room, Galileo Galileo Galileo! We all join in. There is nothing like a sing-a-long. Everyones a Queen fan, when they pop up randomly on the radio, and we all know the words how??? Predictably, we all headbang like the characters from Wayne’s World; this never ceases to be amusing. Then to mix it up, us three skinny white kids start to boogie down to a bit of rap as magic FM is flipped to kiss. White dudes effectively rapping-along make’s me smile.

I wonder if the barbershop quartet originates from moments of boredom and waiting for custom.



Training is done, lady bits a a thing of the past, I am now a professional waxer of balls.

There are lots of pros to being a Beauty Therapist; which I am now gonna refer to as a BT! If you don’t mind the abbreviation, it’s quicker, beauty therapist is a mouthful,and sometimes, I find the word disconcerting as a former colleague once pointed out, it also spells the rapist. Which with some very prudish, and extremely shy older women, as they climb on the couch with their trousers on for a bikini line wax. I have to state the obvious. “It’s quite hard to do a bikini line wax through your trousers madam.” To which they awkwardly lower their trousers half way down their thighs. Mm still pretty tricky I think to myself, and smile. At this point I can feel like the rapist, trying to go somewhere you ought not to. But generally we are quite far removed from being the rapist. Never the less, BT it is.

The pros to being a BT, are no work to take home, meet loads of different peops, find out the gory goss, & best of all, once in your treatment room, you’re the boss, controlling the airtime. Which I take full advantage of, if I’m honest, and it becomes an audience with Tamar. The poor unsuspecting clients have to listen to me ramblings. I really make the most of my captive audience, to practice my comedic abilities, discuss theories and mostly nose into strangers private life’s. To me, this is most fascinating. I never tire of finding out about people and how they’re life is rolling out.

There are also cons. If there are no clients, there is no work. This part is excruciating. There are few agonies close to being at work, but having no work to do.

I have an empty column today. No customers yet. The waiting, what to do when waiting? To fill this time I clean the tiny room within an inch of it’s life. I faff as no one else can faff. I am pretty good at killing time, but even I, 3 hours in, am completely done. Lunch time, ah lunch time, food, breaks so many moments of monotony. Time to take a stroll.

I pass the barbers, and glance in. Give Dan, the head barber a nod of hello. He acknowledges me with raised eyebrows, and goes back to being mesmerised by his phone, hunched over, engrossed by temple run, candy crush, utube, whatever…. oh facebook everyones on facebook. On my train journey to work I often have a cheeky look over a guy on the train’s shoulder, yep facebook! Crazy. Lots of people moan about Facebook, but it’s astounding how often I nose at what the person traveling next to me is looking at on their phone, the amount people scrolling through their news feed is astounding, well I find it astounding, others may find me, just plain nosey. I am always the annoying passenger leaning to read me neighbours paper. It is a social no ,no, but my ‘I don’t give a fuck’ attitude, coupled with a curiosity that killed the cat, I commit social faux pars continually.

Luke, the young 17/18 year old barber just outta college, is lounging in the barber’s chair, face in hands, staring into the mirror, deeply & intently looking. A few sweeps of the hair to perfect his quiff, cute. The young make boredom look cool, bearable, desirable, wearable. Bitter & twisted old fools, like myself look exhausted, angry, bitter, drained, beaten. Not good. I grab a macdonlds in the hoping of getting Mayfair and park lane. A cool £50000 would be sweet right now, I could pay of me credit cards an get out of here for a month or so. Ah so that killed an hour.

I want to hide away when there’s nothing to do. I fear people seeing me in this defeated state. Bent over, lacking in purpose. Having nothing to do is not becoming at all. Please someone save me from this dole drum. Give me sumink to do. For now, I will lie and daydream, where the work should be, on the waxing couch.