More poo puns than are strictly necessary

I’ve developed a phobia of the ticket barriers on the tube. All it took was one temperamental Travelcard that left me in a Russian Roulette situation every day and I’m a quivering wreck. Too many times I walked into those unopening doors, smacking my hips, injuring my pride and, worst of all, upsetting the fragile balance of the daily commute.

Now, although all Travelcards since have been in rude health, I hesitate till the last minute and then rush through in stricken panic. Teeth a grimace and hands flapping, looking for all the world like Gromit’s Wallace. I know that everyone despises me and my hesitant ways. I despise me too. There’s nothing worse than a flapping commuter.

Lucky, then, that I no longer have to suffer the trials of the trains during rush hour. The constipated stations desperately trying to excrete their passengers packed in too tight. There’s still room in this metaphor for me to shoe horn in some bad puns about London’s citizens lacking the necessary moral fibre to effect a good clear out to its tubes, but poo has become too much of a faecal point of this post, and it’s perhaps best to keep the crap gags (in both senses of the word) down at the start.