I’ve been working from home for a while now, which, apart from turning me into a deranged shut-in, at least means that I don’t need to catch public transport anymore. This is A Good Thing, because if twitter is to be believed (and I think we know that it is) Melbourne’s trams and trains are full of farty, shouty people, constantly whacking each other with handbags, using “like” as a preposition* and burping dim sims and fermented yak’s milk into the air conditioning.

Yes, I’m very happy to give trams a miss; on the other hand, trams are probably quite glad to be giving me a miss too.

As regular readers of my drivel may know, I’m prone to idiotic pratfalls, usually they’re entertaining for the people around me. Usually…

A few years ago I was working in Collins St and used to catch the No 67 tram down Swanston St. Trams, with their jerky start/stop thing, are difficult for everyone and I like to believe I’m not the only one who regularly ended up sprawled like an inebriated giraffe on the floor, which explains why we all elbow our way past old ladies and pregnant women to get to the last remaining seat.

This particular time the only available seat was facing forwards on the aisle. Facing backwards was a very expensively dressed couple - an impeccably groomed woman in a cream suit that only very well co-ordinated people who don’t tip soup over themselves every lunchtime can wear and a manly looking man, sitting in a powerful and manly fashion, with his knees wide apart and his arm around the cream coloured woman. They were chatting in genteel, well modulated voices to another be-Zengaed chap sitting opposite the woman, next to the window.

Refusing to be intimidated by all this discreet successfulness, I went to sit with them, but just as I was trying to co-ordinate feet and bottom to a smooth sitting movement when the tram driver slammed on the brakes and I pitched forward towards the manly man on the seat facing me.

In a brave attempt to avoid landing in his lap I put out a hand, planted it firmly on his penis, got a good, firm grip and shouted “fuck” as helpfully as I could, about an inch away from his face.

The tram driver (who clearly has to make his own fun) then flung the tram back into gear and took off at a spanking pace. Physics, trying to be helpful, picked me up and threw me back into my seat, but forgot to tell me to release my death grip on the poor man’s penis.

The ensuing conversation went something like this:

Me: oh…oops

Cream Coloured Woman: *horrified glare*

Manly Man: MMXPHTF!

BeZengaed Friend: *hyena-like laughter*

Cream Coloured Woman: LET. GO. OF. HIM.

Me: Oh, yes, of course *gently releases death grip on Manly Man’s penis*

Manly Man: HNNNNNGHT

BeZengaed Friend: *hyperventilating sounds*

Me: umm, I’m so sorry about your penis…it must be awful….

Cream Coloured Woman: *glares at me again and tries to kill me with her brain*

Me: Oh..look…it’s my stop…um …have a nice night

I got up and ran down the tram like I was in a pinball machine. The giggling tram driver slowed to a crawl and waited a full two minutes before opening the door, just to make sure that everyone got a good look at the person they never ever wanted to share a tramride with ever again.

I lurched out of the tram and fled gawkily into the night, vowing to never ever go anywhere where there are people, ever again. And if I’d been able to stick to that vow the world would be a much safer place for all of us.

*It has been brought to my attention that "like" is, in fact, a preposition. But you all knew what I meant.

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