It was the second-to-last Saturday before Christmas, and the tube should have been hell on earth, particularly for passengers with very strong views on topics such as: “When is a good time to start experimenting with excess alcohol?” (not December; maybe March) and: “Who takes precedence when you want to get past each other and both of you have too many bags?” (neither of you; you just have to make this work, OK?). It was a packed carriage, about 6pm, and along one row of seats, four young men had a dilemma. One of them had a wife, who kept texting him to meet her back in central London. The other three wanted him to go south, to a different party. This discussion was happening with great volume but almost no progress, which is why bystanders started getting involved. “Just turn your phone off,” came a disembodied voice. “I reckon that would be an instant row,” one of the guys said to me, so I had to clarify, no, that wasn’t me. My own view is, you should go back in time and institute a “once you’re out, you’re out” rule at the very start of the marriage.
Turned out the bro party was huge – there must have been 10 of them, scattered through the carriage – and every time you thought you’d got their measure, a new one chimed in. It was like an experimental [drunk] choir. Someone told them all to fake going to A&E. Someone else said that was tempting fate and one of them would end up in A&E for real. A nice, thoughtful lady said to one young man: “Do you think your friend might have got married too young?” “This,” said my neighbour, weaving his eyebrows like beginners’ [drunk] crochet, “is a philosophical question.” “Realistically,” I said, like the Solomon of too-much-lunch, “you’re all drunk now. Just text her and say you’re all too drunk to be any use.” “Just because a point is valid,” said the married one, “doesn’t mean it’ll go down well.” I thought that was surprisingly mature. “Well, we’re 26!”, said a tall one out of nowhere.
They solved the problem by simply not getting off the tube. For all I know, they landed in Morden and are still there: it was like a heartwarming Christmas panto, successfully resolved.
• Zoe Williams is a Guardian columnist
