A long ride Down(s) the Northern Line
I don't believe in a god, an immortal soul or an afterlife. However, if, against all my expectations, after my embarrassing, Flymo-related death, I awake to find myself atop a vast expanse of stratocumulus, confronted by towering, shimmering gates, and a chap called 'Peter' asks me to account for my sins, I shall have to tell him the following: I tried. Really, I did. I never meant anyone ill, I just made mistakes, and to err is, after all, human. And if I ever did anything really reprehensible, it was probably because I'd been drinking beer. Because that is the only excuse I have for guiltily laughing at the lad with Downs Syndrome who sat across from us in the tube carriage.

L, a friend of ours, had been down to visit, so we'd taken him round a few choice pubs around That London and had got on the Northern Line to make our long way home. After attempting to eat the mountain of bargain-bin sandwiches we'd acquired as 'beer sponge' for the journey, conversation returned to the usual drunken topics, and much talking-of-bollocks and hapless giggling ensued.

All this was of great entertainment to the lad sitting across the carriage from us. He looked as though he might be in his late teens, and was quite clearly afflicted with Downs Syndrome. Bless him, he looked so innocently cheerful. I don't know whether he had a clue what we were talking about - we probably didn't, so anyone else would have had no chance - but it was as though our raucous laughter resonated with him and made him laugh as well. It was almost endearing to see him deriving so much enjoyment from our merriment.

But of course, alcohol makes you do things that decency and shame would prevent you from doing normally. It's like the slightly malicious child in the playground that dares you to do something really naughty. And so, L sat down next to him on the seats opposite us. As T and I continued our conversational exchange of meaningless but tremendously amusing rambling, we couldn't help but notice L was mimicking all the gestures, actions and haplessly mongoloid laughter of our poor lone audience member.

Of course we felt bad for laughing. But we were laughing, and the poor lad seemed to be oblivious to this, just laughing along like he had before. It's alright, we told ourselves, the tube carriage is almost empty. There's the three of us, our Downs friend and a middle-aged couple sitting further down the carriage, who will probably just do The British Thing and look away in embarrassment at this awful spectacle.

And so we laughed. We meant the lad no harm, we meant him no upset, but L's tasteless impersonations seemed so funny at the time. It was all in jest. But then, as the train pulled into Clapham South station, our travelling companion got to his feet. Fun's over lads, this must be his stop.

Our eyes followed him as he walked over to the doors of the train. He was leaving via the same doors as the middle-aged couple. In fact, he was talking to the middle-aged couple. In fact, judging from the very familiar way in which they're talking to him...oh shit. Oh holy fucking shit.

They were his parents. Oh, god only knows how much they must have wept that night. All we could do was bury our faces in our hands as they burned with an ashamed redness that could have fried an egg. Laughter, drunken or otherwise, has never had such a horrible aftertaste.
(LongJohnBaldry, Fri 23 Jul 2010, 12:01, 4 replies)

Hmm
Does the Northern Line go directly to Hull?
( Undercovercarrot got done for gross misconduct on..., Fri 23 Jul 2010, 12:13, closed)

Eww

( whenanimalsattackhumans clad in global hypercolour, Fri 23 Jul 2010, 12:25, closed)

Bloody hell
And I thought my story was the acme of twatishness...
( Scaryduck LIKES EGG, Fri 23 Jul 2010, 13:15, closed)

that blows, nothing like proper shame

( zulu eh?, Fri 23 Jul 2010, 13:51, closed)