There's very little that can make you feel more uncomfortable than a conspiracy theorist. I have met people who believe in Governments hiding intergalactic aliens, cancer being cured but pharmaceutical companies are refusing to admit it and Jesus. Comedian Ray Peacock genuinely believes that the moon landings are fake and never happened. Ray Peacock isn't even that loon's fucking real name. Who's the real liar, "Ray"? I don't believe in any nutty conspiracy theory, no matter how funny they are, but I'm starting to get suspicious of tube stations. I think tube stations don't like me. I think tube stations are trying to kill me.
First things first: this blog is definitely NOTHING to do with me aging and getting much stupider as I get older. No way. It's about the London Underground using mind manipulation and brainwashing and my fondness for booze to confuse me, upset me and make my murder look like an accident.
It's been going on for about two weeks, dear reader. I get on the tube, confident of where I'm going, and within seconds (actually, about half an hour), I realise that I've somehow ended up on the wrong tube going the wrong way. For ages. Not only that, I have completely forgotten where I was supposed to be going in the first place. This first began on the 2nd February just before noon. I was on my way to meet The Trap to have a LQC rehearsal and really should easily have met them about 12.30. I turned up about 1.40. AN HOUR AND 10 MINUTES LATER. I entered the tube station at Charing Cross at 11.58am (have the 24 timer noise in your head) and walked to the Northern Line to journey north to Golders Green. I would have got to the Northern Line Northbound platform at 12.01. The wait for the train would have been approximately 2-5 minutes. The journey: 20 minutes. With the 3 minute walk from Golders Green to Paul Litchfield's flat that brings us up to approx 12.30. SO HOW THE HELL DID I END UP ON THE BAKERLOO LINE AND ONLY REALISE I WAS GOING IN THE COMPLETELY WRONG DIRECTION WHEN I GOT TO MARYLEBONE?
I knew I was on the wrong train so got off immediately. That's when my second problem began. Although I knew that I wasn't supposed to be on the Bakerloo Line, I had completely forgotten where I was supposed to be going or what I was doing. I would like to say that this only lasted a second until I instantly remembered what to do but no. I stood there like a gaping mouthed idiot for ages. Well over the normal amount of time you're allowed to not know where you are or what you're doing. I'll be honest, I fucking freaked out. Not because it was scary but because it was exciting and funny. I found myself on a Bakerloo platform with no clue what I was supposed to be doing and I started laughing. At least laughing because you're lost isn't the first sign of madness. Talking to yourself is, I said to myself. For about 20 seconds I was free. I didn't know what I was doing so ANYTHING could happen. I might be off to a party or a speedboat race or YES! A SPEEDBOAT PARTY! I would drink fine champagne and laugh at Donald Trump's jokes and then Famke Janssen and I would finally get off with each oth...no. That's right. I'm going to Paul's to meet The Trap. Balls.
This happened again the next day. THE NEXT FUCKING DAY. I got on the Northern Line and, after one stop, I got off again. I wasn't supposed to but I did. What the fuck is going on? I realised after I got off and walked towards the exit. I ran back just in time for the doors to close and the train moved away letting all the people in the carriage have a good look at my lack of dignity. Idiot.
Pretty much every time I've been on a tube since has been confusing and paranoid but yesterday was the worst of it. I'd had a meeting with my agent and, OK, yes, I'd had a couple of pints BUT ONLY A COUPLE. I should be able to think and walk properly. But NO. That's what these secret little bastards on London Underground want to take away from me. They are using secret poisonous gasses to destroy my thinking and they are putting some sort of slippy liquid (rain water?) under my shoes to make it treacherous for me to get around. I got on the escalator and just as the bottom was getting close...I fell. It was the stupidest, cack-handed, helpless old man fall I've ever experienced. It took a really long time, for starters. I tried to balance. That was my mistake. If I'd only just let my carcass hit the moving stairs straight away it would have been fine but instead I decided to fight against the London Underground and it's evil ways. My arms flapped, my legs flew and my voice squealed. I neared the ground but I could just grab the handrail and then I could pull myself up. DAMN! It was too late. I was now so near the bottom that when I went to grab the handrail it just moved further away from me and I hit the ground. I looked in front of me and my eyes widened as I saw my feet getting nearer and nearer to the scary, evil, toothy mouth that Tim Burton used to draw on all his schoolbooks. I was doomed.
Luckily, a member of Polite Club quickly picked me up. I had never actually met another member of Polite Club before. I was embarrassed and elated (mainly embarrassed). He was a really friendly and helpful guy and I was happy to be his Gary while he took care of me. That was luck but when will the London Underground strike next. Or I could just take the bus, eh?
By the way, I haven't checked on Gary yet because I'm too scared. Think I should? Now. Where was I?