A Return Ticket to Being an A Class Wanker...

So it appears the legions of this country's most annoying travelling wankers don't just move around on National Rail between Kent and London Bridge. In fact, they're everywhere - and in gloriously high numbers on the Tube.

When I'm travelling I travel FAST. I walk fast, look for the fastest route and, at every available opportunity, I ACCELERATE.

Like a crippling disease, there is one group of people who ruin, not only my own, but my fellow commuters' chances of catching anywhere near the next train:

Suitcase walkers.

These progress devastating weak bastards, at best, need to be thrown head first down an escalator.

Like walking a terminally ill chihuahua or another small rat like canine, they inconsiderately tow along their minuscule boxes at a stoned snail's pace - and by handles long enough to scratch a man's arse on the moon. This is utterly inexcusable and really deserves nothing less than the electric chair.

Another fury evoking activity of A class wanker commuters is people who sneeze or cough into the raw air - or their pathetic 'hand cones'.

Making an open hand cylinder does NOT, even vaguely, correspond with the government guidelines of 'Catch It, Kill It, Bin It' - and I don't want any of your filthy germs.

How about I put a hand cone around the nozzle of a pipe pumping out deadly nerve gas, then shove that in your face? Will you rapidly perish in shaking agony or will you survive, safe in the notion the trusty hand cone has prevented the spread of the toxic chemicals?

You'd be fucking dead. Cover your face properly, you horrible bastards.

My last gripe (for now) involves the gormless subway rats that, during the peak of rush hour, get to the front of a gigantic ticket barrier queue with no money on their Oysters or the wrong tickets.

It makes me grit my teeth to dust. Any sane and sensible human would check their balance before wading into the massive, yet these twats have a look of surprise on their faces similar to the look someone would display watching Pat Butcher brake dancing in a mankini.

At that hour the only reasonable course of action should be a trapdoor opening beneath them, introducing the cretinous mugs to a pit of furious cobras. Area cleared, delays avoided. London and, more importantly, me happy.

And people wonder why travelling on the Underground makes folks angry?