The Bloodclot and the Ambulance
I came very close to pushing someone down an escalator on the way home today.
Outside Baker Street Station is a controlled pedestrian crossing. Several other cold, wet, and tired commuters and I waited diligently for the lights to change and then crossed. As we reached the central island in the crossing, an ambulance arrived with its sirens and lights making a blinding racket behind the traffic stopped at the lights, so we stopped in spite of the green man flagging our safe translocation across the street. Cue Fat, Balding Idiot.
FBI ran up behind myself and the other CWTCs and shouted “Excuse me!” in his best impression of Norris from Coronation Street as a car slowly began to move against the lights so the ambulance could get past. Naturally, none of us moved, and FBI was stuck behind myself and a very pissed-off nurse. He then says this:
“Oh, you are all so slow!”
I span on my heels so fast my manbag whacked against the railings and the Swedish-looking blonde next to me eeped, and I broke the first rule of Britishness: I voiced my thoughts to a complete stranger in the street in full view of other strangers. In fact, my exact words were as follows:
“Slow?! What the HELL were you going to do, run out in front of an ambulance, you bloodclot?! Please, be my guest! With a little luck it’ll have reached 30 by the time it squashes your pathetic skull under its three-tonne body, and the person you prevented from receiving life-saving help would die in excrutiating pain whilst the paramedics instead spend their time on your pathetic waste of skin!”
Someone behind him cheered, and a couple of others clapped whilst FBI looked on in stunned silence. A moment later, he said, quietly:
“I only wanted to cross the road…”
I lifted my hands, and my finger automatically moved into that claw-like position that happens when someone’s brain issues the command to do right by society and perform the public service of throttling the life out of the low-grade inbred standing ready before them, but I growled with frustration and shouted “DIE IN A FIRE!” at him before flouncing across the road with the now green light.
I entered Baker Street station and bought a bag of dried cranberries from the little shop on the concourse (for I am Middle Class Scumbag) and went through the barriers and started walking down the escalators. On the second down set, I passed FBI, who was standing looking miserable on the right-hand side of the escalator. I honestly had to force myself not to stop walking and grab him by the collar and frog-march him down. It’s nice to know that London, like all cities of the world, has the sort of fat and selfish low-lives who are so busy that they are prepared to hold up an ambulance responding to an emergency call but are too lazy to walk down a 20-metre escalator.
Some days, a license to eviscerate and expunge would be a most welcome possession.
One Response to “The Bloodclot and the Ambulance”
Drew - January 17th, 2010
*applauds!!!*
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