Flaming Nora

On the tube this week, I read one of the Poems on the Underground stuck on a poster in the carriage. It was called Ballad of the Londoner by Flecker and you can read it here . It was good, it was old but it wasn’t relevant any more. So I thought I’d put pen to paper (or finger to keyboard) and write one myself. It’s called: Ballad of the Londoner (2007), With Apologies to the Flecker Fella. In the Piccadilly Line carriage Where I’m sat I can’t tell if that woman is just fat Or heavily pregnant and in need of my seat For which I’d happily stand To my destination Final station As long as I don’t get Mugged or bombed Or make eye contact with anyone

London Underground is one of the best - and one of the worst - things about living in London. The Tube will take you anywhere you need to go, quickly, smoothly, usually. Sitting so close to your neighbour on the Tube is the hard part. If you’re unlucky, you can smell and tell what they’ve just eaten. If you’ve very unlucky, you can tell if their stomach has disagreed. And if you’re having the journey from hell, then your neighbour will be going swish, boom, crackle, static from their Ipods-a-go-go as you try to blank out their bleedin’ headphone noise to enjoy Alan Bennett on the Piccadilly Line. *I nicked the picture from here, pictures of real London