Trouble on the trains
At this time of year, many trains leaving the City are known as vomit comets, packed with revellers from various festive bashes. There have been numerous instances of people misbehaving as they stagger home. I have been reminded of two classic examples, both of which are absolutely true.
A former colleague of mine, who I shall call Ben because that’s his name, had a very liquid lunch with his broker a few years ago. When he left the restaurant, though it was still quite early, he took with him a half-Stilton cheese. Pie-eyed, he got on a train home. But he soon started to feel a bit queasy as a result of the copious amount of alcohol and, possibly, the whiffy Stilton he was clinging on to. Sandwiched between passengers, he feared the worse, but came up with an ingenious solution. He raised his arm, put his hand to his mouth and puked into his suit sleeve.
At this point, the woman sitting opposite him burst into tears. He was initially baffled, but then realized it was his wife, whom he had failed to recognize and who was crying in shame. Ben still works in the market.
Another old mucker called Richard went to a staff party with his wife when he worked for Barclays. Both got what is known as slaughtered and fell asleep on the train. Fortunately, Richard woke up at his station and jumped off the train. When he got home, Richard was puzzled about where his wife was, until he remembered that he had forgotten to wake her. She had remained asleep until the train reached the end of the line. Believing there was little he could do, he went to bed. A couple of hours later, he was woken up by his irate spouse and sent to the spare room. He has never really been forgiven.