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The Uncool Man stumbles into the Underground carriage on the Jubilee line at Waterloo station. His purple earphones dangle from his ears down to the left pocket of his trousers which have been meticulously arranged to sag just enough to allow people to read the Tommy Hilfiger logo emblazoned across the elastic of his boxer briefs. Between his lips dangles a lit cigarette rolled so poorly, small tufts of tobacco spill out of it onto the ground. He holds a bottle of Grey Goose vodka in his right hand, about half full, and wears a retro Mario T-Shirt which he seems to be wearing ironically though why this is supposed to be funny is a question nobody on the carriage is able to answer. On his inner arm, he has a tattoo of a triangle which you just know if you ask him about it, he'll start going on about how triangles are the simplest shape and sometimes we need simplicity in this crazy, crazy world, man. It is clear he has put a great deal of effort into looking so effortless.


He drunkenly drags his feet across the floor towards a seat in the middle of the carriage, at pains to show how much he is enjoying his music by bopping his head up and down furiously and mouthing the lyrics, leaving a trail of acrid smoke in his wake. He sits down, leans forward and takes a look around, as if analysing the situation though the booze on his breath and the lack of focus in his eyes makes one wonder whether he is able to see beyond the middle-distance. He continues to mouth the lyrics of what must be a hip-hop song as he now begins to make cool hand gestures an MC would make – albeit an MC who thinks making cool hand gestures consists of loosely flailing his hands about as if he were trying to get mayonnaise off his fingers.


The carriage lurches forward and bumbles along as The Uncool Man alternates between puffing on his cigarette and reminding everyone how banging his tunes are with his aforementioned hand gestures. By the time the carriage reaches Southwark station he has finished his cigarette – or rather it has gone out by itself because the tobacco inside was not packed together densely enough. He takes it out of his mouth and throws in the direction of a passenger stepping out of the train. He dramatically looks around the carriage to see if anyone wants to call him out on his provocation. Nobody does.


As the doors close the train begins its journey to the next stop, The Uncool Man swings round his backpack from his back onto his lap and clumsily searches through it. He pulls out his Uncool Bright Red Party Cup, a cup he presumably stole from the beer pong game that was taking place at at the party he was attending that evening even though nobody invited him. He fumbles with the bottle-top of the Grey Goose vodka, eventually managing to screw it off. He pours some of the vodka into the Cup, but pulls a puzzled expression as he looks inside it, as if there was something inside the Cup he did not expect. He tips the Cup over and pours the vodka out, making a point to stretch out his arm and pour it up and down the aisle to cover as large a surface area as possible in case anyone seated around him didn't see what he was doing. He repeats this process once more because clearly doing it the one time did not clean out the Cup to a degree he deemed acceptable. The third time The Uncool Man pours the vodka into The Uncool Bright Red Party Cup, he takes a sip. He holds the cup in his mouth, puts the Grey Goose vodka into his backpack, closes the backpack and swings it around onto his back.


At this point the train pulls into London Bridge station and The Uncool Man gets up to leave, either because this is his stop or because he is afraid that if he stays in the carriage too long, someone might try to pick a fight with him for being too cool. In any case, he dramatically spreads out his arms to no one in particular as he steps out onto the platform.


If only he had taken a moment to look back into the carriage before continuing on his way, if only at any point in his life he had looked back on any party or social gathering after leaving it, he would see the utter indifference his absence is consistently met with.


Alas he never has, and he never will, and so he is unknowingly condemned for life to remain a total fucking tool.

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