My journey can cause no further retinal pain, surely. Spoke to soon, my lumbering carriage pulls into New Cross where I am shocked to spot another die hard trendy. The baggy 'knob-head' jumper combined with ubër skinny jeans makes me wretch, but not nearly as much as the Elvis-on-acid greasy do. This pretentious streak of dribble piss has some liquorice coloured Mr whippy spilling down his forehead. As far as chip-fat-chic goes it is fairly impressive but something about it's overworked styling left me cold. Then I spotted his worst crime and the last of my mental vomit bursts forth onto his pouting face. Mister New Cross spiral hair is wearing a pair of Crocs. Is there a worse crime for some under the age of 'dead'?
I'm tempted to punch him, attack him like a crazed zombie tearing him limb from limb. The crowded carriage is suddenly electric as every suffering soul arrives at the same thought. Even the walking-highland-acid-flash is keen to get involved in the carnage hoping somehow a commuter bloodlust would absolve him of his own lesser crime.
A woman wearing a charcoal Evans two-piece makes the first move too late as the train doors pop open and the hair and Crocs abomination steps off. Relief washes over the carriage and every violent urge is purged.
Then we remember the Tartan Taggert as he answers his phone, 'yah, running a bit late. Was out with Miles last night, got totally mullered hahaha!'.
Evans two-piece is first to leap.