The Underground Pensioners Militia

Does anyone else think that there are gun wielding Grannies on the tubes, hell bent on causing chaos for the innocent commuters?

Earlier on my underground journey was delayed by an eternal five minutes. Five minutes may not sound like much but in the baking heat and packed like a sardine up to the armpits of hot and bothered sweaty commuters, it feels it I can assure you. It came as no surprise to hear people start to become irritated and complaining loudly to each other. Soon it was announced that the cause of the trouble was a passenger who had fallen ill and pulled the emergency cord. At this point most of the carriage relaxed into the idea that the reason was fair as long as they were really ill and suffering. We are a truly caring bunch.

One guy near me took it too far in my opinion, repeatedly telling his companion that the individual should be “thrown off the train!”. Thrown off the train, not escorted or helped but thrown off it. I assume, in his opinion, any idiot weak enough to fall ill during rush hour was very much akin to a yoof with a knife or a lager lout stopping the train for a toilet break. In a flash my angst at being crammed onto a train with the 10 finalists from Britain’s got B.O. was gone. I started chuckling. At first it was just a small inward chuckle as I wondered what sorry life this person must have to feel so little for the plight of their fellow commuter. I imagined that everywhere this person went somebody jumped out to hijack his journey by taking the last seat or not getting their ticket through the turnstile on the first attempt.

With my mind being what it is, however, my chuckle soon broadened into a laugh as I imagined a militia of Grannies founded in 1978 by Doris Snacklebottom in revenge for the March 15th bingo incident. Doris had been a regular at the Hammersmith bingo for 30 years without ever winning so much as a single line. Wednesday 15th March 1978 is the date forever burnt into her hate filled brain because Fat Pat from the 3rd table along had brought her daughter with her, and her daughter had brought a friend. The friend didn’t live local, he normally commuted to Stevenage. This trespasser never played bingo and was finding the whole thing amusing. Laughing and joking about the dibbers and dobbers. Then it happened. Doris was getting nervous, she could see her card was filling up and with those two little ducks being called she now only needed 56 and the full house was hers. It happened in slow motion, she could feel it rather than hear it …” Five and six … fifty… s…i…x!”

“HOUSE!” the young lads arm went up in triumph ticket waving manically in the air as he roared in laughter. Doris’ own hand still in mid dob. How did it happen – how did he react so quickly. Doris had blown it, her only chance of winning the house and worse still it was to an imposter, a non bingo lover!

Doris stormed out in a rage and within five weeks of trawling the sunshine directory she had formed the fearsome ‘Hammersmith Hobblers’. Ever since the life of this poor unfortunate young man has been plagued with bad fortune. Here he was now, much older and more respectable but haggard and aged beyond his years with the stress of 30 years plagued travelling. His name is probably something like Graham, Graham Anderson. The first identifiable incident was in 1981 when a masked fiend stood in front of him at the sole working turnstile and wobbled his hand fumbling with his ticket for a full ten minutes. As the hobblers grew in numbers they also grew in confidence and brutality as in 1987 they became armed. By this time the militia were ensuring they got credit for their efforts by sending code words in large print to the Stevenage Herald. Meanwhile Graham tried in vein to call a cease fire, donating triple his winnings to fund a commemorative bench for the long since deceased founding member outside the bingo hall. 1990 saw the first fully organised hit as bingo man was sitting on the top deck of the no. 48. Two seemingly innocent mobility scooters crept across the zebra crossing in front of the bus, suddenly the scooter drivers reached out and emptied their Ouzi magazines straight into the engine bay and then slowly made their getaway! The passengers were stuck for a full 45 minutes waiting for a replacement bus; our hapless friend knew that it was a message for him.

In 2001 the Hammersmith Hobblers joined forces with the Peckham Pensioners and renamed themselves the Incontinent Republican Army. In 2002 they changed it to the Really Incontinent Republican Army. Finally, after a lot of discussion in 2003 they became the Society Against Graham Anderson.

2006 saw their finest hour as 1000 passengers, including our Mr. Anderson, sat under Piccadilly Circus for 2 hours. A crack squad of commandos had forced some unlucky underground staff at gunpoint into pushing their pimped up wheelchairs along the platform. As they raced along they pumped cap after cap into the side of the train, laughing manically as they tried to remember what time matron said they had to be back by.

And so here we are now in 2009 and once again this crack team of aged warriors have struck our friend whose luck had peaked and burnt out at such a young age. No doubt somewhere at the front of our train a little old lady was telling some worried guard that if he didn’t show her some respect she was going to blow his kneecaps to Benidorm. It was quite exciting for a moment, but then the train lurched forward and without a word of explanation we were moving. The whole carriage looked out onto the platform to see the trail of devastation that would no doubt be present. I think we all were highly disappointed to see a middle aged man sat down with a TFL member next to him making notes. The man looked mildly pale. The man did not look like he was about to die. Graham was disgusted.