A friend of a former colleague told me about an incident that recently befell his boss on a train. He was feeling chuffed at claiming a four-seat table for himself and settled down to a nice quiet journey reading his book. The whistle blew and as the train lurched away, a loud, acne'd yuppie trousered his way into the carriage, threw his bags down on the table, collapsed into the seat opposite, and immediately brandished his portable phone and began a loud, oafish conversation ? "Buy . . . Sell . . . Take a rain check . . . Hyper!" ? that sort of thing.
The quieter man couldn't believe his misfortune and tried to ignore the boorish city type, but he was so noisy, ringing up people and rustling papers and shouting, "Yah . . . yah . . . yah" into the phone all the time, that the bloke couldn't take any more and set off with his stuff for another part of the train.
He'd just sat down when an old man opposite him went pale and groaned. He was having a heart attack and collapsed on the floor. The guard arrived as passengers tried to come to the old gent's aid, and he explained that they'd have to wait 'til the next station before they could phone as the train's communication lines were down.
"I know someone with a phone!" said the bloke happily. "We can ring ahead and have an ambulance waiting for him at the station."
So the guard, the bloke and some other concerned passengers marched triumphantly back down the carriage. The yuppie was still in mid-conversation when the guard cut in to explain the situation and ask him, as it was an emergency, if they might have the use of his portable phone.
At first the yuppie waved them away as if he was busy, still talking down the line. But when they persisted and got increasingly agitated, he threw the phone down, went the colour of beetroot and looking down mumbled, "You can't. It's only a fake phone."
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