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my question was of course facetious
What a fool I must look now!
£8 is less than £10. You'd have had £2 left over if you'd have gone for the £8 option.
The world is your oyster.
£3. You do not have enough.
If you want to look threateningly at the guard until he buckles turn to page 89.
If you want to start crying and hope the guard will take sympathy turn to page 464.
If you want to perform a sonic boom turn to page 8.
You walk backwards for two seconds and at that key moment throw your arms open and shout "Sonic boom!" to an unsuspecting, defenseless ticket guard. As you open your eyes again to survey the damage, you're disappointed that the ticket booth remains intact. You recall the events and were pretty sure you'd walked backwards for the full two seconds, but unfortunately the situation remains as it was before, save a confused looking guard and a number of commuters deciding whether you're a terrorist or not.
A wave of embarrassment falls upon you as a mutual realisation kicks in and the angst ridden looks turn to derisive sneers from a gaggle of teenagers amongst the mild chuckles of those around you.
To leap over the barriers and run towards the trains turn to page 10.
To unleash a spinning bird kick upon the gaggle of teenagers turn to page 377.
To walk back out of the tube station trying to keep your dignity intact turn to page 84.
As your head falls down and you kick your legs backwards, you swiftly realise that this manoeuver was a lot more difficult than Chun Li would have you think. The teens below side splitting laughter as you lie on the floor slightly dazed from hitting it head first.
As you pick yourself up and dust yourself off in order to try and salvage some dignity from your dillusional escapades, you the teenager who seems to act as the ring-leader of the gaggle as none other than George Samson, the winner of the ITV hosted national talent contest "Britain's Got Talent".
To walk up to George starstruck and become tonguetied as you ask for his autograph turn to page 37.
To dislocate your jaw and attempt to eat George as an anaconda would feast upon its prey turn to page 444.
To settle the beef the old fashioned way and engage in a dance off with George using your handy ghetto blaster turn to page 654.
Whilst attempting to compose yourself as calmly as possible, you place the ghetto blaster down on the tickethall floor and press play on the right tape deck (the left one never did work after you got all that jam in there). Your face fills with embarrassment as you are publicly reminded what the last song you were listening to was. George's face ripples with laughter as Saturday Night by Whigfield reverberates around the solid surfaces of the tickethall. Determined not to let this put you off, you lock your gaze upon George's punchable features, draw your feet perpendicular and prepare to serve.
To perform the jitterbug turn to page 123.
To perform the watusi turn to page 69.
To perform the macarena turn to page 77.
To perform some good ol' b-boy breakdancing turn to page 32.
As you launch yourself into a Lindy Hop, the collective raise a communal eyebrow as the realisation dawns upon them that
Save for a few missteps probably due to the pain you still feel in your head, you gyrate through some of the best jitterbugging seen this side of 1950. As the words "be my baby" sound out to mark the end of the final verse of the song, you catch in your eye something quite peculiar. All teenagers other than George begin to surround him in a semi circle whilst simultaneously lowering their flies.
You back away to see what George is going to make of your performance as the tape rolls on to The Strikers and Children of Selston Bagthorpe Primary School Choir's one-hit wonder "I Wish I Could Play Like Charlie George". A smirk raises onto your face as you realise the near undancable nature of the track and the impending mountain of expectation that's errupting in front of George.
It's at that point the unexpected happens.
As the choirboy introduction ends, the teenagers simultaneously unleash a torrent of urine upon George as he kicks into an identical rendition of the dance that won him the prestigious "Britain's Got Talent" competition. A sense of satisfaction overwhelms you as the grotesque, mismatched show continues in front of you.
To pick your ghetto blaster back up before the urine spreads to it and storm away in disgust turn to page 222.
To act as a visitor of Rome when in the city itself and urinate on George turn to page 321.
To point at George and his gaggle and scream "terrorist!" turn to page 635.
To drop your trousers and curl out a tribute to George's performance in an act of performance art turn to page 829.
As your relieve yourself upon George, the teenagers look horrified at you and begin to run from the tube station leaving George alone to conclude his dance lying on the floor alone under the lonely stream of a single man's piss.
You finish up, return the chap to his caravan and await George's next move in this debauched act of filth.
And you wait.
And you wait some more.
After some time you nudge him with your foot.
It becomes apparent that George isn't conscious. A sense of panic kicks in. Have you killed George Samson on the London Undergroud?
To run away out of the tube station turn to page 435.
To leap the barriers and run towards the trains turn to page 666.
To poke your fingers through your jumper and attempt to hold the entire station hostage turn to page 999.
To drop your trousers and curl out a brand new brown moustache for George turn to page 411.
Disregarding the severity of the situation in front of you, you take some timeout to lay the dirtiest Sanchez known to mankind. You feel a burn in your leg muscles as you try to position yourself over George's cold face whilst avoiding the puddles of urine that surround him the best you can.
You feel the muscles contract, and then... The unexpected.
Maybe it was that curry last night, maybe something else has upset your tummy, but rather placing an elegant moustache above George's lip, you instead pebbledash his face with the blunderbus your arse has become.
As an onlooker watches in horror at the vile creation of these artificial freckles then involuntarily vomit onto the innocent rack of tube maps causing a Mexican wave of human oral discharge made all the more violent from the overwhelming stench now filling the claustrophobic airspace.
Once you are spent, you face the dilemma of a filthy rear end with no obvious source of TP.
To act as though nothing's happened and resheath yourself within your trousers turn to page 915.
To waddle over to the leaflet stand in the search for some leaflets with which to smear the scat around your disgusting behind hoping some may come off turn to page 567.
To crawl towards the trains in order to use their seat covers as bog roll whilst making your getaway turn to page 146.
As you waddle through the stream of excrement towards the leaflet stand, you lose the grip between your shoes and the floor and fall forward in an exaggerated cartoon character way and cracking your head upon the floor.
You open your eyes and try to make sense of your surroundings. You are in a small room with no natural light and one heavy duty door. You are wearing no shoes. You have a splitting headache. A solitary neon light flickers above your head. Your head is really really hurting.
To bang on the door and shout until someone responds turn to page 735.
To attempt to climb the wall in order to get the bulb from the neon light turn to page 112.
To cry in the corner and wonder where it all went wrong turn to page 335.
You bang on the door and open your mouth in order to attract some attention. As your fist strikes the door a first time, it swings upon its hinges and opens in front of you. As you look ahead of you, you see the same tickethall as earlier though rather than being filled with the melange of excreting commuters, instead it's filled with numerous police. The hall is alive with photographers, and forensics experts combing through the foul atmosphere. You notice a number of them surrounding the spot where you remember George Sampson once lay.
As you take the scene in and look around you, a concerned looking man in a long brown coat marches up to you.
"Hey! Who are you? Are you alright?"
To engage the gentleman in polite conversation turn to page 945.
To burst into tears confessing that it was you who killed George turn to page 777.
To ask if the trains are still running before trying to make as quick a getaway as possible turn to page 554.
The gentleman asks you a few questions to find out if you know what had happened. You keep a low profile with short answers and claim that you fainted early in the proceedings so are unaware of what had happened, apologising for your uselessness. The gentleman finishes his questions and ends the conversation with his eyes locked upon you in an uneasy silence. You try to remain nonchelant and look anywhere else to avoid his uneasy stare. Eventually he breaks the silence.
"Oh, and one more thing. Why aren't you wearing any clothes?"
To push him to the ground, and flee the station turn to page 252.
To act shocked and embarrassed at your state using your arms to cover your essentials turn to page 466.
To nip the problem in the bud with a rising dragon fist turn to page 268.
You sheepishly try to cover your shame as you look around the room to see if anyone else has noticed. As you scan the room, you see all the girls you fancied growing up in school standing in the corner pointing at you laughing. The gentleman in front of you slowly opens up his big brown coat revealing his insides to in fact be a series of electronics and robotics. A fear grips you and the room starts to spin.
"Is he dead? Oi. Can you hear me?"
Slowly you come to. You look around you and you're still in the tickethall amongst the barfing choir. A do-gooder stands over you trying to bring you out of your haze. As your mind begins to acclimatise to its surroundings you recognise the person standing over you as none other than the heartless sociopath Sharon Osbourne. As the realisation sets in, you begin to panic.
To kick Sharon in the vag, pull your trousers up and leg it towards the trains turn to page 898.
To get up, push Sharon Osbourne down, straddle her back and ride her like a Blackpool Donkey turn to page 747.
To neutralise the threat by attempting to flirt with the soulless witch turn to page 423.
You use all of your might to kick Sharon right in the vag and due to your incredible fighting skills manage nothing more than a shin to the thigh. Regardless, the shock of the attack is enough to make her stumble aside as you make the most of these valuable seconds, pulling your trousers up over your rusty crack. You run as fast as you can towards the barriers, thursting your leg high to clear them in a way that would make Colin Jackson proud. Just as you draw your leg up, you glance to your left and come eye to eye with Colin Jackson himself who stares at you with a slightly manic look in his eye and a trail of dried vomit down his chin. At this point your leg strikes the barrier and you go tumbling over the gate as elegant as the Star Wars kid.
The tumble proves to be incredibly fortunate as a huge hole appears in the wall in front of you amongst a small explosion. You look back over your shoulder to see RoboOsbourne with her laser cannon arm extension placed where her synthetic human one once was. You turn back and run for your life towards the trains, sliding down the partition between the staircases to save valuable seconds that could save your life. As you come to the bottom you hear another explosion from behind you, most likely Sharon doing away from the gates. You spy the train in front of you and hear the beeping of the doors above the screams from the ticket hall behind you. Picking yourself back up from the floor, you leap towards the doors in the vain hope of a manoever in the style of Indiana Jones.
The doors slam shut on your midriff causing you to yelp like a small female child in pain. After a little struggle you manage to pull yourself onto the near empty train and take a seat.
Breathless, you look up in front of you, eye to eye with the lone other commuter on the train. The blood runs from your face as you realise who it is. How? How can this be possible. Your adrenaline rushes to levels you've never felt before.
It's Sharon Osbourne.
To yoga flame Sharon turn to page 191.
To try to reason with Sharon turn to page 725.
To run towards the door joining the carriage to the next turn to page 223.