There’s an entry currently held in the Guiness Book Of Records for the most number of people who ever squeezed, all at once, into a mini (classic) motor car. It happened in 2014 during the London to Brighton car race. Apparently 28 people got into one.
Don’t say you never learn anything important from this blog.
What it didn’t say was whether they were technically midgets, but I reckon even for 28 midgets it must have felt like a jam. The reason I know this interesting fact is because this evening I looked it up. And the reason I looked it up is because earlier I’d gotten myself into something of a jam. In between Bank and London Bridge stations on the London Underground, the packed tube train I was travelling on got stopped in a dark and drafty tunnel for 45 minutes. My heart went out to those midgets I can tell you. Though at the time it was my husband I was blaming for the tight squeeze I was in.
Guido sent me a text on my way home which read – buy bleach we’ve got another unaviodable blockage – and he’d attached a zoomed in photograph of our toilet with the lid graphically still up. It was followed by another text which read – washing line in cafe courtyard just snapped – followed by a picture of Guido holding a frayed rope end with pegs and our wet laundry still flapping from it. So that’s why I’d gotten off at a Bank Station convenience store and bought an extra large bottle of Domestos, a nylon rope, and two half priced pork chops. Ok, the latter was an impulse buy, but trust me, I know what Guido’s capable of with a dollop of French mustard.
Then I got back on the tube and that’s when there was a loud screeching noise and 300 of us got stuck together in that tunnel. Interestingly I was wedged up against a guy who was a dead ringer for one of the lead guitarists from ZZ Top. I’ve got to admit it’s a very long time since I’ve been that close to any man with a similar amount of ginger hair protruding from his chest as he had from his chin, and not enjoyed it.
“There’s something hard and ridgid in the vicinity of your groin which is sticking firmly into my inner thigh,” he said without blinking or smiling nor hint of enjoyment.
“Oh, relax,” I said quick as a flash, “it’s definitely not what you’re hoping for.” I pulled my shopping bag up to eye level and exposed my big bottle of bleach. “My husband has an emergency blockage which I’m on my way home to flush through,”
It’s the sort of thing you can only say to someone with as much joie de vivre enthusiasm as you can and not get punched on the nose. But as you probably know you should never judge a book by it’s cover, and, the longer you talk to a complete stranger about bleach the more you find you actually have in common.
His husband’s name is Simon and apparently he’s always having blockages. After 20 minutes of bonding I inexplicably found myself humming that tune, Gimme All Your Lovin’.
A word of advice. If you ever get stuck in a tunnel, I recommend doing it with a guy who thinks nothing of playing air guitar on a pork chop.