Returning from the rugby at Twickenham, I found myself on the train to Waterloo sans companions. Taking the only chair available, I looked up and saw that I was opposite two guys – one dressed as what could only be described as the lovechild of Kurt Von Trapp and a wood-elf; the other as John Travolta from Saturday Night Fever (if John Travolta had decided what his character was really missing was a blonde mullet wig).
They were, at the time I joined the train, in the midst of trying to pick up two ladies sitting across the aisle. These girls looked as if they had accidently wandered out of an episode of Geordie Shore – set in an 80s aerobics class – and onto the train. Class!
To be fair, the lads weren’t doing too bad — they had convinced the ladies to join them in a singalong to their favorite Natalie Imbruglia songs, and had even determined their mutual destination was Clapham Junction. Cue the point where I should have jumped in and played ‘Millionaire Matchmaker’ by recommending wood-elf suggests to whory Madonna (circa ‘Into The Groove’) that it would be his pleasure if she would do him the honor of joining him for a cocktail at one of Clapham’s finer establishments.
Instead, wood-elf took matters into his own hands, and, after seriously misjudging the room, tried to the seal the deal by saying:
“I’ll tell you what, I’ll buy you a pasty at the station!”
Even as an Australian new to these delicious meat stuffed pockets of goodness, this seemed to be an underwhelming offer. But, then again, he may have been onto a winning formula given the recipient of his affections had only just loudly declared The Only Way Is Essex as an “overrated and undervalued” show.
The last I saw of them was their matching pink leg warmers making their way off into the night, Travolta and his breeched friend dutifully following behind. God speed wood-elf, God speed.
IMAGE: Via Pixabay
