Pole position

If you started reading this post because you thought the word 'pole' hints at some rudie nudie business, you will soon find yourself disappointed. Call me a post tease if you will, but I just don't want to put anything in the window that i ain't gonna sell in the store.

This is merely the story of me, a packed tram, two scheming Nordic backpackers, and the scent of Eau de poorly digested curry. Anyone who has ever travelled on an extremely packed tram knows how vital it is to find yourself something to hold onto quick smart, otherwise you might find yourself lurching towards the nearest stranger, invariably grabbing their privates in order to steady yourself, apologising profusely afterwards, and then spending the rest of the journey wondering whether you should offer to take said stranger to dinner and promise to call them tomorrow.

So there I was this morning, having found myself a nice little niche on the tram where I have a firm hold of a pole, no one's armpits are in my face, and I don't have a briefcase bruising my shins. I thought I had it made. Then before I knew it, my world came crashing down - my pole position was taken by stealth.

Events unfolded like a Shakespearian tragedy. Me as the hapless Duncan, Nordic backpackers as the Macbeths - the usurpers of my throne, and a mysterious gassy passenger as the three witches brewing their cauldron full of bad vindaloo. At first the usurpers stood behind me, and one tanned arm came around my head towards the pole in front me.

"gokkgoolglkookgnk" a female voice said.

Shoulder slowing follows tanned arm.

"gooodygoodygookkkygooggy" she said again.

Tall Nordic male body with backpack follows shoulders and tanned arms, effectively shifting me out of the circle of arms holding onto the pole. Macbeth slowly shifts so that I had no other option but to let go of the pole, allowing Lady Macbeth to triumphantly occupy freed up space and grab onto the pole space that was rightfully mine. So there I was, a mournful and vanquished Duncan, looking into the stony faces of my fellow passengers for signs of mutual outrage, but finding nothing more than bits of dried toothpaste around their mouths.

In hindsight, I should have gone viking on their ass, but it's never too late for karma to do its thing. Afterall, there is nothing quite like a good rectal probe by customs to add a happy ending to your holiday. Just make sure you ask for Neville.