When the Revolution Comes...

The carriage was empty. It was divided into groups of six seats, four seats and two seats. I made my way to a group of six and sat by the window, stretching out my legs and emitting a deep relaxing sigh.

A man got on and made a beeline for the seat opposite me, completely ignoring the millions of vacant seating areas, plonking himself down with the air of a gimp grandchild who has no understanding of personal space.

I shifted to the next seat along and glared at him. He squirmed uncomfortably.

A few more people came into the carriage. Another man joined our area, pulled a little laptop out of his bag and proceeded to type away. My adversary watched him intently, studying his laptop, apparently examining everything he typed.

The man looked up from his laptop, clearly irritated, and glared back. Our adversary squirmed once again and looked away.

I took out my book and began to read. This incognizant hooligan sat there scrutinising the cover of my book. I put my book down impatiently and glared at him. He squirmed like a worm and looked out the window. I took out my phone to check for blog posts. He studied it intently. Once again I glared at him. He noticeably quailed.

We reached my stop. I stood up, gave him a killer of a glare and left. I didn't feel the need to say anything, my glare was an open book, written against him and his kind. The man with the laptop caught my eye as I walked past, we shared a moment of collective frustration.

Where do these people come from? Protocol Violators I call them. I once saw a Protocol Violator watching a fellow passenger do a Sudoku puzzle, it was the most heinous violation of intellectual privacy I have ever witnessed.

When the revolution comes the Protocol Violators will be the first up against the wall.

How to irritate me on the train.

The guy next to me on the train is really, really irritating me. Firstly, he's too big for the seat, so I am perched right on the edge of mine, twisted, uncomfortable and with an aching back. Sticking out into the aisle, I keep getting knocked by traipsers (more on them later).

Asking him to "move up" is out of the question because he can't. Moving is also out of the question because the train is full. I could stand, I suppose, but I'm not quite ready to make that sacrifice. Besides, what would I write about if I did that?

Secondly, he's playing his music so loud that I can hear it over my own. Before anyone suggests that it could be because my music is so loud, it isn't. My music is very quiet. For me to be able to hear his music through my music, my headphones and his headphones, it has to be pretty damn loud. If I played mine at that volume my ears would bleed over my nice white shirt.

Thirdly, he keeps yawning so loudly that I can hear it over my music, his music, and the sound of the train.

Fourthly, he's reading The Times, which irritates me. To be fair on him, that's not really his fault. The main reason for my (irrational?) irritation is Salman Rushdie, who sometimes writes in The Times and drives me crazy. I'll stop being harsh on The Times, it's not that bad, and Hugo Rifkind is a genius.

I guess it could be worse, he could be reading the Daily Mail ("that sulphurous organ of Satan", as Rod Liddle put it), or even The Guardian. If that was the case, I would have to pull out a pair of scissors...

I have a recurring dream when I go round all the newsagents with a pair of scissors, cutting out articles from The Guardian, removing them before they can be read. Ha, I tease you, I don't really have that dream.

But gosh it would be a nice dream to have. Actually, it is mainly Polly Toynbee and George Monbiot that I have issues with, but more of that another time.

I'm clearly a pleasant, patient type of chap, and certainly not easily irritated. But here are a few ways you can irritate me on the train, should you wish to.

1. Cut right through vast swathes of empty seats to sit next to me. Do this with an air of deliberation, making it clear to me that you were genuinely trying to decide whether to take one of the many thousands of free seats, or the one next to me.

Then, make it clear that you have decided on the one next to me, and that what follows is no mistake. Single me out as if you were an assassin. If you are really determined, do this every single day. Wait at the same point on your platform, get straight on my carriage, and head directly towards me. Plonk yourself down next to me and make sure you are wearing a smug-as-can-be expression.

2. Eat stinky cheese and onion crisps at the unholy hour of 7am. I can't begin to imagine why you would get any pleasure out of those crisps at that hour, but it is an excellent way to drive me mad.

3. Faff. Come charging in like a flustered bull. Hot, bothered, and clutching a bundle of papers, a coat, a coffee and some half-eaten pastries. Faff around with all your gear, smothering the table and grunting.

4. Wear a massive rucksack, and crash around in the aisle, knocking other commuters around. To achieve maximum effect do not take the rucksack off, and do not display any sense of coordination or spacial awareness.

5. Slurp your coffee. Enough said. It's simple to do, and it won't just irritate me either, it will drive every one of us balmy.

6. Speak on your phone the entire journey. Every time the signal cuts out as we go through every one of the ten tunnels on route say, ring them back yet again and say "Sorry I lost you, it was another tunnel". Speak very, very loudly. It is important that everyone in the carriage can hear you. Let them know that you don't care.

7. Smooch in front of the other commuters. Don't worry about us, we like the sound of kissing and cooing on the way to work. It distracts us from the stink of cheese and onion crisps.

8. Whip out a humongous "laptop", one of those Macs that doesn't just cover your lap, but infringes on the people either side of you. Tap away at the keyboard the whole journey. Tapity-tap-tap.

9. Watch my free paper like a vulture. Let me know you want it, and want it bad. Read over my shoulder and ignore any glares that I fire back. It's a free paper and a free country after all.

10. Don't bring a paper, magazine, book or music. Come completely unprepared for the journey so that you sit there restless and fidgety. Tap your fingers, watch the rest of us, and if possible, imitate the body language of an impatient child. There's nothing worse than a restless commuter.

11. If you are listening to music, treat the rest of us to some hearty humming and tapping.

12. Get on the wrong carriage, and then traipse up the train. Or better still, just traipse up and down. Bang the doors and knock any elbows next to the aisle.

13. Cut your nails on the train. Sit there in your own little world, totally oblivious to the rest of us. Clip, clip, clip. If you like, pick at the skin around your nails with a tiny little pen knife. Disgusting? I've seen one guy do this for the entire journey.

That will do for now. If I think of any more I will let you know.

When Ivanhoe killed my Kiwi Fruit

Yesterday got off to a bad start when I overslept. It was only my wife's alertness (unusual for that time) that saved me. The day got even worse when some schmuck ignored countless free seats in my carriage to take the spot next to me.

Schmuck? Be graceful I tell myself. Schmuck is a bit harsh. He's just flagrantly breaking the rules, the standards, the protocol. Protocol, the conventions or standards that define the right way to live.

He had clearly not read the handbook. Why would anyone completely ignore all those free seats?

I had just taken my seat, and was just getting into my routine. Flicking through the sports pages of the free paper. Berbatov gone yet? Nope. I took out my magazine and book, and then bang, this violator of protocol plonked himself right down beside me.

I moved and found a new seat.

The protocol is simple. You should never sit next to another commuter until all other options are exhausted. A free pair of seats should always be chosen above a partially occupied pair.

So if you get on a train and you have to choose between sitting in a vacant pair of seats, or taking a free seat next to someone, you always do the former. There are a few exceptions to this. If you have heavy luggage with you, then sitting in a seat right next to the luggage holding area is allowed - even if that means violating said protocol. But this commuter showed a total disregard and lack of respect for the most basic of rules.

It is all to do with personal space. The daily grind tests us all, and therefore at all times protocol should be followed to keep us all sane.

Unfortunately there are protocol violators everywhere. There used to be a commuter on one of the Brighton trains whose goal (I can only assume) was to ignore protocol and drive me crazy. I would see him on the platform at Preston Park in his Bellocian coat. He would get on the train and head straight towards me. Not even the old "evil eye" would deter him. Vast swathes of unpopulated seating areas would not tempt him one bit. He knew exactly which seat he wanted.

Remember this. It is impossible to dissuade a determined protocol violator.

But there are a few techniques I recommend that can make a difference. There's the old "evil eye". And then the old "bag on the seat" trick. This can only legitimately be used when there are free groupings of seats available. You can use this to give the illusion that the seats next to you are taken and deflect the protocol violator towards a free pair or group of seats. Note, leaving a bag on the seat of a crowded train is a violation in itself. That forces a seatless commuter to ask you to move it, even though there are no other seats.

There are a few other variations of this, such as holding your paper in such an expansive way that it has the "puffer fish" effect, again giving the impression that your area is taken. Again, on a crowded train this is also a violation.

Anyway, this guy was a protocol violator and I simply had to walk away.

The day hit rock-bottom when I found my banana and kiwi obliterated at the foot of my bag. Actually, obliterated is the wrong word. That implies there was no trace of the fruit. But oh yes, there was definitely a trace...

I don't want to talk about it, but I believe they were crushed to death by either my lunchbox or my hardcover copy of Ivanhoe. My money would be on Ivanhoe.

The day redeemed itself when I tasted my apple. The apple was coated in kiwi juice, and was absolutely delicious. If there's ever a call for GM fruit, it's an apple-kiwi hybrid.