To Come Or Not To Come?

Londoners are hilarious. They angrily pile onto the tube each day, demonstrating almost no form of etiquette. As more and more people cram themselves into these carriages of love, certain issues arise: How long do you leave it before you subtly move away from the person who smells? Is it acceptable to smile or stare at people on the tube? Are you allowed to unashamedly flirt with the fit guy who's about to get off at the next stop and why can't he stay on a bit longer? Do you avoid sitting next to someone because you're secretly fattist, or racist, or just a bit odd? And then, how many seats away from them do you sit? For the rookie Londoner, this can all seem a bit daunting; but it got SLB thinking about all sorts of social miscellany.

If SLB had a jogging partner for example, how would he know whether to run slightly in front of his partner, or behind him? Or merely beside? If his partner offers him a sip of water from his own water bottle, should SLB feel obliged to return the favour at a later date? And how often should they run together? And what happens when one partner wants to finish before the other? Does he keep running out of courtesy, or does he simply give up once he has given it his all?

Was this sort of etiquette limited to jogging partners or could it extend to tennis partners, business partners...tango partners?

Extended metaphors and clever linguistics aside, SLB did wonder about the sexual education of Britons and considered it an ongoing duty to find out. And yes, he was looking for answers that Sexcetera or, say, Celebrity Big Brother couldn't provide. Of course, the rules of sex are slightly different in the gay world due to logistics, but SLB did wonder what proportion of gays abstained from bum fun on a first date, or a one night stand, or at all. SLB did wonder if certain boys had preferences for coming on, in, around, beside, before or even after their partner.

And despite having had more sex than a nympho at a sex convention, SLB still wondered whether
people still thought it was acceptable to come first and then give in to boredom or tiredness. No, no it was not.

So, to come or not to come? To jog or not to jog? To heave yourself into that Aushwitz-like throng of masses they call The Commute or to exercise patience in the face of rush hour absurdity? Whatever the answer is, you can be sure that at least one wanker at the back of the queue is always going to try and ram himself onto the already full carriage during peak travel, crushing you so hard into the armpit of someone else (probably with body odour issues) that you no longer know your own arse from your elbow.

London. City of love.