I go to London.

Over the course of the morning my headache, which had started out in the ‘annoying, nagging’ category, progresses through ‘really quite painful’ and into the realms of ‘extreme agony’.

This, coupled with streaming sinuses, bulging stinging eyes and an interminably boring meeting serves to make me feel very sorry for myself indeed. A six minute wait for the underground train tops it off, and I slouch in the corner of the carriage, certain that I am at the lowest ebb that I could ever be at, ever.

A man gets on and starts playing the ukulele.

Yangtangatangatang yangtangatang “Oooh I would ‘ave given’ you alllll that you want…” he croons, launching into a sixties classic. “Next station Barbican! And welcome to ‘sing song on the Met Line'”.

I am flabbergasted. Not content with maintaining that all Jewish people are literally exactly the same as Nazi concentration camp guards, Ken Livingstone is now spending taxpayers’ money on singing and ukulele playing station announcers. Truly there is no end to the man’s looniness.

Briefly I consider throwing myself under the train, until I realise that it would be more sensible to throw him.

For some reason, somebody has seen fit to move King’s Cross station several minutes further down the line than it usually is, and I am still there as he finishes the performance and walks round with a large hat.

I give him a pound.

Well – he did make me smile.

Grimly.

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