Two ruddy cheeked schoolboys wearing Armani — who may, or may not, have infiltrated the helm of our economic system — were engaged with the most pressing issue facing corporate masculine identity in the Western world today.
Whose socks are the best socks.
Readers, it was heart wrenching stuff.
On the left, we had the muddy stripes. On the right, the garish red.
Both appeared intoxicated and unpredictable.
Both brayed loudly.
Both clutched Big Macs as they proffered their ankles to the reluctant crowd.
Individuals, fearful of their carefully maintained solipsism and gag reflex, fled the carriage.
“Fuck. Well that was fucking rude. [Hiccough.] It must be your socks mate.” [Belch.]
“It’s YOUR Socks Mate. Look at those fucking socks. They’re fucking disgusting mate”.
“No way mate’. [Hiccough. Burp.]
In ferocious deadlock, they sought answers from their avid audience of one.
No readers, not me. I was spying from the top of my paper.
An intoxicated young woman to my left — grinning coquettishly at this raw display of masculinity — joined the fray with a definitive, razor sharp pronouncement.
“They’re both, like, really really disgusting. Why don’t you have, hmm, HARLEQUIN socks. That would be AMAZING. [suggestive belch.]
Red Socks, delighted: “Actually I used to play for the OXFORD Harlequins. Ha. So you want me to, [addressing the carriage with a 45 degree body pivot] WEAR my OXFORD HARLEQUINS KIT, like, every day. You’d like that wouldn’t you.” [squinty leer-burp.]
Apparently not readers, for she exited the carriage with a coy smile and a graceful face dive.
“Mate. What are you doing tomorrow mate.”
“Chillaxing mate. Desk by 12. Couple of contracts. Boom.”
And there readers, I had to leave it.
Truly, who needs Attenborough.