As I was returning from watching the England/South Africa match in a Wimbledon pub (though I only arrived in time to see the second half and then spent most of that queuing at the bar waiting to get served, so I’m not sure that qualifies as “watching”) a very drunk young man staggered into my tube carriage. He was awkwardly clutching five separate cans of Stella which were randomly pressed against his body, pointing in different directions. Looking into his confused and red eyes it was obvious that he was extremely drunk already, so God knows what damage would be done by those five extra cans that he was so haphazardly, but protectively holding to himself as if they were each his dearest off-spring.
“What kind of a bloke is that drunk at 5 o clock in the afternoon?” I asked myself, before remembering that I had also had three beers watching the game and could scarcely define myself as sober at this exact moment. He wasn’t your usual tube alcoholic (let’s face it, they would be too busy drinking to ever have five unopened beers all at once), he was young and looked otherwise healthy. Perhaps he’d been watching the rugby himself, though I thought possibly he was on his way home from a football match. It was strange that he was alone. I don’t think all the beer was for him. Maybe he’d been separated from his friends (or at least his carrier bag). Maybe he was on the way to a party. Maybe he'd just grabbed the cans from some kind of beer based display and then legged it. I don’t know. I’m not Mystic Meg.
The man slumped into a seat, still hugging his beers. There werenÂ’t too many people on the tube, but a young lad of about 11 or 12 was at the end of his row. The manÂ’s head lolled around with the motion of the train, as if his neck muscles had decided that theyÂ’d been working too hard and it was time for a holiday. But his precious Stella was still firmly (yet precariously) in his arms. The man was so drunk that he was having a lot of difficulty keeping his eyes open. All his systems were doing their best to shut down before he could open another beer and do himself some serious long-term harm. Luckily he ahd too many beers in his arms to be able to free his hands up to actually open one of them.
And something within him was determined not to lose consciousness. Every time his head dropped and his eye lids drooped he would wake himself up with a start, with a look on his face that suggested that in his alcohol soaked state, a tube train was the most bizarre and surprising place a man could be.
He didnÂ’t look much a threat and I donÂ’t think he was a thug. But in the company of other such idiots, who knows what he could have been. Everyone else on the train was enjoying the spectacle, whilst being aware that they mustnÂ’t be caught staring or a violent monster might be roused.
The cheeky little lad near him, spotted the strange pantomime going on to his right and began to laugh, looking around at his father and brothers. He was old enough to appreciate that alcohol was the cause of this manÂ’s humiliation, and also that he mustnÂ’t be caught laughing. Whenever the manÂ’s head lolled in such a way that the boy might be in his blurred eye-line the laughter would immediately stop. But when the eyes closed and the head pointed away, the little one knew he was safe and enjoyed the fun all over again.
This in turn made me smile, but also conscious that I mustnÂ’t be caught by the drunk, who might think I was laughing at him (correctly as it would turn out) and thus take exception to my existence.
It was a wonderful moment in time though, as might be caught in some old fashioned morality painting where all the expressions of the players in the scene are caught in one telling instant of time.
Later as I waited for my Hammersmith and Shitty train to take me back to my home, more soccer fans got on. They were drunk and lairy and in a group and started singing and shouting without concern for any other passengers feelings. In fact, they knew full well that they were intimidating and frightening other people. They were similarly drunk, though not on the point of collapse just yet. They were heading to the train station to get back home to the Midlands (canÂ’t remember from their chants if they were pro or anti Wolves. I don't suppose it much matters either way.)
There was no humour in the drunkeness of these sport fans. Nothing sweet or endearing. I felt like telling them all to shut up and have some respect for the other people in the train, but knew that this would only lead to trouble. They knew this too. Which is why they could carry on.
As the train pulled into Shepherds Bush, one of their drunk mates was waiting on the platform and was greeted like a hero. Pushing in as others tried to get off.
Maybe somewhere my Stella carrying friend was being similarly greeted and on the cusp of turning from a loveable clot into a threatening idiot. Something like the transformation of a caterpillar to a butterfly in reverse (still with the comatose pupae state in between).
