I’m on a Virgin train en-route to Manchester. Thankfully it’s first
class and there are plenty of empty seats.
Just as the train is about to pull out, Mr Nob Head gets on board. His
noisy settling down directly opposite me does not bode for a pleasant
journey.
He has a mobile gripped in his pudgy hand rather like an infant clutches
a dummy. When it rings like a cheap Taiwanese doorbell, he looks
orgasmic.
He talks on it in a loud, polished voice and it is clear that Mr Nob
Head is going to be ’entertaining’ us for the next two and a half
hours.
This man’s life is dominated by action points, faxes and internal
memos.
’Beware of being sucked into endless meetings,’ he advises one caller
with a mixture of concern and smug satisfaction.
Attempts to mentally block out his drivel are almost successful - until
he unknowingly slags off a mutual acquaintance. Uncomfortably, I find
myself agreeing with his character assassination. Having put the phone
to one side, he tips all his papers onto the table and proceeds to
noisily screw up a large number of pages.
He catches my eye, which I avert in the manner I save for pushy Big
Issue vendors. He is clearly impressed to see me writing feverishly.
Perhaps he thinks I’m one of him - slaving over a report. Nope, I’m just
writing this piece about Mr Nob Head, on the 13:00 from Euston on 26
October.
With any luck he might just read this.
