MELLIPOP AND AISLE-SEAT ASSHOLES

OK, so note to rail commuters on packed suburban peak hour services: MOVE THE FUCK OVER.

So I’ve been commuting to the city for work over the last couple of months and have noticed a dramatic upsurge in a somewhat bizarre seating phenomena that threatens to tear at the fragile fabric of our urban society like a burgeoning (and most unwelcome) subculture with it’s own inexplicable behavioural codes of conduct.

What’s with the fucking aisle-hogging?

Surely anyone who has had the misfortune to have hopped onboard one of City Rail’s finest in the last few years would have noticed this. An inexplicable stubbornness to move over in one’s seat to allow other commuters to slide their tired arse in effortlessly beside them. What the fuck is that all about?

This isn’t Greater Union or Qantas Economy. There are no snack bars or other “conveniences” we require facilitated access to. So why this insistence on clinging stubbornly to the aisle spot and making your fellow commuters squeeze themselves through the Kate Moss-like micro-gap between seats and knees to park their sad arses in the window seat (after first having parking them in your face to get there).

At the risk of sounding repetitive. And perplexed. Just move the fuck over.

I think about some things a lot (and some other things a lot less than I should), one of which happens to be the behaviour of my fellow human beings. At the risk of sounding both pompous and deluded, I also fancy myself to be a fairly perceptive and insightful lass. But for the life of me, I can’t work out this obsession with the goddamn aisle.

Sitting rigidly in the aisle seat = people shoving their arses in your face to get in and out. Awkward. Uncomfortable. Annoying. Inconvenient.

Moving over in your seat = a seamless seating arrangement assurring the maximum comfort of all passengers. Logical. Courteous. Fucking obvious. And very fucking simple.

So what up?

Ok, so I understand that there is a tangible dichotomy in seating arrangements on City Rail trains. We have the two-seaters and the three-seaters on either side of the carriage. The Commuters Apartheid.

And, to be fair, I can extend my fecund powers of behavioural analysis to understand the profound difference between the two modes of seating, vis a vis the lamentable aisle-hogging behaviours I’ve witnessed of late.

Admittedly, three-seaters pose their own unique challenges, not least of which is the “Stranger Sandwich” (insert the word “Sweaty” as required). I can acknowledge that there may be those amongst our kin who aren’t all that keen on extended periods of thigh-and-torso rubbing with two total strangers (also acknowledging that “strange” takes on new meaning when we’re dealing with the typical patrons of public transport).

However, this rampant aisle-hogging in the two-seaters leaves me profoundly bereft of insight. We’re talking about the window seat here. The fucking window seat! Don’t we usually fight for this on airplanes? Though as an irrelevant aside (are there any other kind?) – I have noticed an interesting trend with online airline bookings and the relatively new facility of choosing your possie from an online seating plan. If the jaw-dropping stupidity of humankind is recorded for all of posterity in no other way, surely the overwhelming tendency for the majority of seats at the BACK OF THE PLANE to be reserved first has to speak true to our woefully ignorant hearts and minds.

For God’s sake people! Take it from me. If the fucking airbus is going down, YOU’RE ALL FUCKED. The hapless travellers in seats three D and three E are just as likely to meet as fiery and pulverising an end as the even more hapless passengers in seats thirty fucking three D and E. This is not an episode of Lost. Just to clarify. You are going down from 40 000 feet. YOU’RE ALL FUCKED. In fact, the folk at the front are actually better off because they generally perish instantly on impact. By choosing the seats at the back, you’re only afforded the luxury of dying more slowly - in addition to the added luxury of getting to the bathrooms more quickly. Before you die. It’s a trade-off.

Anyway, so back to my spurious point about suburban rail commuters. As far as I can see, all you get in the aisle seat is elbows, handbags and other assorted bodily parts connecting painfully with your head as the rickety old train weaves and winds its way over the raggedy old patchwork of railway tracks constituting Sydney’s “complex” rail system (quoting official NSW Government PR material here).

The window seat is king. No accidental blows to the head. No uncomfortable squeezing in and out. No connection between your arse and some random stranger’s face. And – best of all - no connection between your face and some random stranger’s fat, sweaty arse.

Just move the fuck over for godssake.

(And this is Mellipop’s grand comeback? Two long-necks of Tooheys New and too many “fucks”. Bodes well.)

Editors note: Just to clarify for any bemused punters, the previous several posts are old material that I've recycled from the archives to disguise the fact that Mellipop was in the deep midst of a profound and protracted blogging rut (which she has hopefully now overcome). Hence all the quizzical chronological references to Perth and jobs I've long left behind. They are all posts most definitely past their use-by date. I just like them, is all.