Had the misfortune of being on the Jubilee line at just after 11pm yesterday. The O2 arena was playing host to guitar donning Chippendales, Kings of Leon. Subsequently, a plethora of doughy thirtysomething men in plaid shirts converged on to the train at North Greenwich. They had obviously made prompt exits after realising that a plaid shirt 'doth not make ye a hunk', and that any babes present at the show were not in the mood for copulating with recruitment consultants from Penge.
Maybe the single laydeez that these would be sex pests were looking to 'bone' had popped into one of O2's numerous bar and grills for a cheeky cocktail. Certain laydeez would be nurturing the implausible belief that the dreamboat KOL bassist had singled them out for meaningful eye contact during Sex on fire. Maybe, just maybe, young Jared would pop into Las Iguanas for a chilled bottle of Desperado and a blowjob. STRANGER THINGS HAVE HAPPENED.
On my sweaty carriage, which at North Greenwich had become tangibly saturated with sex hormones, there was also a smattering of bland, gloomy couples wordlessly resenting the evening they had just spent together. They could have been at the show, or they could have been tucking into an American Hot plus dough balls at Pizza Express. It makes no difference. The O2 is teeming with examples of this breed of couple, each pair linked by a limp, loveless handhold. Look in the window of the Haha Bar and grill, and you soon realise that whoever named the eatery was exercising a keen sense of irony.
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