Corpses on the commute

Dodging traffic isn’t one of my favourite hobbies, nor is counting cars or observing Britain’s pollution in full effect. Traffic lights exist not only to control traffic and reduce how often we witness fresh corpses on our commute, but also allow us to access other areas of the country without drilling under the road or attempting the world’s most dangerous long jump.

Pedestrians lose all logic when arriving at an obstacle that messes with their complex plan to put one leg in front of the other for five minutes straight. They’ll stop immediately in the middle of a busy high street when deciding they are going in the wrong direction, then moan when the pram I’m pushing takes the skin off their legs. Oh I’m sorry, next time you want me to predict what you’re thinking, weld some fucking brake lights on to your back.

These people will walk in groups of four, but in a sort of hand-in-hand fashion that means you have to either walk up the wall of the adjacent building, or break through them by initiating an informal game of Red Rover. Worst of all, these pricks feel the need to press buttons, like those twats who call all five of the lifts just to go up one floor in the bloody car park.

The worst offenders are the cocky late arrivals at pelican crossings. You know the crossings, where you press the button and wait for the green man to appear, so that when you cross you don’t end up looking like the red man. A great piece of kit that’s present on the pelican crossing is the red light that turns on, or the yellow “Wait” wording that lights up when the button is pressed. Yet, no matter how many times I arrive first at a pelican crossing, some dickhead will appear shortly after to press the button.

Now look, I’m not one to have a go, but what you just did there was treat me like this is my first time crossing a road. Up to this point I was fine just working my way through the underground sewage network to get across Bristol, but you’ve opened my eyes to a whole new world. You mean to tell me that I’ve been stood here, expecting the hundreds of cars on this road to somehow simultaneously grind to a halt just for me? I ought to kiss you for enlightening me and my journey from here on in.

But I won’t, because I really want to grab you by the groin and remind you that you that all you’ve done is wasted two seconds of your life by going to press that button. Two seconds risking your life by touching a button that’s gone unwashed for years, having been used by thousands upon thousands of commuters. I had to touch it, because I was here first, but you didn’t need to – you didn’t just lose two seconds, you also gained germs and the disbelief and disgust of everybody else patiently waiting for the lights to change.

You’re an idiot. And next time I might be eating Wotsits, or sticky toffee, or I could have been playing with dog shit, and you’ll be none the wiser.

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