Shit Ben

As it struck me in the face disturbing me from the solitary slumber of Rick Astley on my iPhone, I spun around like a fat ninja to meet my attacker. To be met by the coarse red fabric of a rucksack.

The rucksack was attached to a rucksack 'type'. Tailored shorts, walking boots and wraparound shades. Like Ben Fogle, only shitter. If being more shit than Ben Fogle is humanly possible.

'Shit Ben' shot me a look that suggested I had just slept with his mother and not wiped up, then continued to read The Metro arms stretched obnoxiously out in front of him. Still attached to his red friend.

After several thousand other sardines had packed themselves onto the 17.53 Jubilee Line from London Bridge, 'Shit Ben' was forced to remove his red 'shell' using the double-flailing-arm-wiggle manoeuvre making it look rather like he had shit himself. Or was about to.

I rubbed my nose stealthily flipping him the birdie and glancing a knowing look. This was a small but satisfying victory for AngryBritain's stinging face. Bad luck 'Shit Ben'.

Rucksackists don't be selfish 'Shit Bens' please remove them before boarding.

And don't even get me started on suitcases with wheels ...