I get on the train every day, and unfortunately, my fellow commuters and I have developed a sort of dance that we perform which is hell for everyone…
The dance goes as such:
- I get on and see that there are no available seats for me to perch my gorgeous backside on
- I announce to the carriage that I need a seat
- Some absolute bastard asks why
- I give them a list of reasons of why I deserve a seat
- They tell me to shut the “fuck up” and “go sit on the toilet if I need a seat that badly”
Here are the reasons why everyone on the train should get up off their pimply hairy ass, and give me a seat:
My heavy weight is hard on my knees. Why am I so heavy? Could be my habit of visiting my local bakery 10 minutes before it closes, when coincidentally the quadruple chocolate doughnuts are 20p. Or it could be my heavy burden of fighting the patriarchy and giving the means of production back to the people. Or it could be my big bones… Whatever the reason, my knees are wrecked and must not bear the weight of my 16 stone belly for the seven minute train ride to work.
I’m carrying a lot of babies around with me. Yes, they’re in the form of tiny unfertilised eggs in my fallopian tubes, BUT THEY ARE MY CHILDREN DAMMIT! It’s disgusting the number of people who fail to give up their seat for a mother carrying approximately 300,000 unborn children.
If men stood more than they sat down, gravity would cause their willies to get longer, and although I’m a lesbian and won’t actually benefit from this, I’ve heard that men like having longer willies. So get up Clive, and let’s see if you can turn that wiggly worm of yours into a trouser snake.
Unequal pay means that technically I’ve paid more for this train journey than my fellow male travellers have. Therefore, I’ve earned that seat more than they have. This also applies to food purchased in my local bakery, so if I’m actually paying more for my quadruple chocolate doughnut than the bloke next to me is, then I should at least get the biggest one. Or perhaps two extra free.
I need to preserve my energy for more important things that fill up my day. Like extreme ironing, collecting my navel fluff and carving Barry Manilow’s face into vanilla scented soap. It’s getting the shine for those cheeks that really takes its toll.
I won the most promising young actor’s award at my local stage school when I was 12, meaning that not only do I perform a great Hamlet-style suicide, but I can also create quite the dramatic scene by screaming like an absolute bitch who’s suffering from chronic PMT and has just discovered that there’s no wifi on the train.