“And the winner of the award for the ‘employee thought most likely to machine gun a roomful of colleagues’ is….. Ian Napton!”
Rapturous applause rings out around the office until Ian is woken abruptly from his lovely dream by the 5.30 alarm.
A slog through the traffic to the station and an hour on the train into London later, Ian hopped on to the tube. “The next station is Westminster. Exit here for Tory skulduggery, Brexit chaos and dodgy expenses claims.”
Ok. The electronic lady on the Tube didn’t really say that, but it’s what Ian heard in his mind every day.
“The next station is Piccadilly Circus. Exit here for overpriced tourist tat, horrendous crowds and a disappointing statue.”
“The next station is Moorgate. Exit here for City fat cats, million pound bonuses and moral vacuums.”
“The next station is Wood Lane. Exit here for Cocaine, Sir David Attenborough and endless reruns fo Only Fools and Horses.”
“The next station is Cheapside. Exit here for a comedy accent, some fire damaged smoke detectors, mild racism and a back street mugging.”
“The next station is Victoria. Exit here for a look at the home of people that have surpassed everything you could do in your life simply by being born and northerners who can’t the difference between a bus station and a train station.”
The next station is Wembley Park. Exit here for an under-performing national football team, over-priced burgers and Elton John.
Ian had an alternative announcement for every station on the Underground. He wasn’t a great fan of London, or his job and colleagues, as it turned out.
Mentally putting away his automatic rifle Ian Napton enters the office, affixes the stiff upper lip and gets on with a completely pointless day.
Meanwhile the government continues.