DIARY: RANT

I’m on a Virgin train en-route to Manchester. Thankfully it’s first class and there are plenty of empty seats.

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.



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