Please Remove Your Armpit From My Ear

I have finally come to understand just why public transport is so despised.
On a trip upon the Piccadilly Line, a necessary journey to reach my home, I found myself sandwiched between the limbs and torsos of an army of travellers. These men were blue jersey clad, loud and I can only presume drunken because if that's what they are like sober I fear the chlorine level in the gene pool may need serious checking.
I have always read James May and found his column hysterically funny, witty, charming, I shall stop there before this turns into a love letter to Mr May. I have quite enough of those written.
My point is, despite all this I have always disagreed with him, and his Top Gear co-hosts, on the issue of public transport. I have not yet learnt to drive and always thought it too much effort considering how cheap and more environmentally sound the alternative is. He however extols the virtues of motorbikes and cars. Any personal transport over that provided by the government.
Finally I can say yes, I completely understand.
Perhaps trains and buses, thanks to bus lanes, are not subject to traffic jams and major delays but in your own car you are not subject to a bunch of drunken yobs who seem under the impression that their armpits are an extreme culinary delight that you simply must sample.
You do not share a level of intimacy with your passenger that would generally require a bottle of wine, dinner and some flowers and chocolates first. Or if you do these items will probably have been proffered before hand, which is fair enough.
So now if you'll excuse me I'm off to get a driving license, a car and something strongly alcoholic to get this awful taste out of my nose and mouth.

Moon, Carol Moon.

I realised today just why I have such an affection for The Mighty Boosh. I always knew it was partly due to the shows oddness and creativity. Today I realised something else.
I am Howard Moon.
I'm not saying I'm a jazz maverick or I work in a second hand shop in Dalston. Or even that I look like Julian Barratt because that would just be odd.
It's a much more personal matter. I am, like him, the eternal outsider. I am the equivilant of the romantic leper. I am obviously not to be touched. I'm shocked I haven't been handed a small bell and told to wander about shouting "unclean" as I go.
I'm the one who does the stupid things that make everyone laugh and then I laugh with them because maybe I can convince them it was a joke. I meant to do it to make everyone laugh. Or they'll see what a fantastic sense of humour I have because I can laugh at myself.
I'm the one who bores people senseless with their single minded enthusiasm. I certainly don't see any of my friends as real life Vince Noirs but I can certainly see how they would become as bored and sick of me as Vince does of Howard.
I know it's a comedy programme and to read this much into it is nonsense but I can't help it. My heart breaks every time I see Howard fail because I recognise it so clearly. Everytime the good looking, charming and witty people laugh at and reject him I know what he's going through.
I know he's only a character that Julian inhabits. At the end of a days shooting he can take off his costume and become Julian Barratt, successful and happy.
I on the other hand, I walk in Howards shoes every day. Seeing the popular people, the ones who fit. I see them all the time and sometimes even fool myself into believing I could be one of them but reality always comes around and spoils that illusion.
So all I can hope is some day I'll find an Old Gregg. Someone who has hit so rock bottom I'll actually become a consideration to them.
Until then I'll watch Mighty Boosh and laugh, then I'll go back to watching the beautiful people and trying to convince myself I could belong there despite knowing I never will.