Getting you from A to B, taking a quick detour via F and U, the London Underground is a marvel of engineering, the backbone of the city, our saviour – and it’s also home to some of the very worst people in the capital. Here are a just a few of the nightmares waiting for you on the Tube.

Northern line travellers

According to Transport for London, the Northern line carries the worst behaved passengers across the entire Tube network. 64 fights broke out on the most miserable of all the lines in the last year, sparked perhaps by Camden Town station information boards, which always tell you the wrong train is leaving first, and the existential horror that can only come with having to live in High Barnet.

Barges on before you’ve got off

The staff on the platform bellowing “please wait until all passengers have got off before boarding the train” every 35 seconds, doesn’t mean you. No, not you, m'lud, because you have got shit to do, and why should you wait a millisecond longer to get on the train? Here’s the thing: no need to rush – wherever you’re headed, nobody’s ever going to be in a hurry to see your great big shit of a face.

Spreads out

We know all about manspreading, right? Charming blokes airing their balls to the world, taking up three seats with their outstretched legs, regardless of how busy the train is. But watch out also for coatspreaders, whose expansive winter apparel ends up half over your seat, or brushes you in the face as they cling to the rail above you. Beware also the news-spreaders, whose paper is simply too precious to be folded, and invades your space too. That constant action of fabric or paper that doesn't belong to you touching you, lightly but noticeably, timed to precision to most irritate, over and over and over – after a while you really do start to believe yourself capable of murder.

Is useless at the barrier

Those automatic ticket gates your bag so loves to get stuck in have only been around since the Sixties, so you can understand why some people are shocked to arrive at them, like they’re a massive mythical castle that just appeared out of the ground. They search for their travel card. “Ooh where can it be?” Try at the bottom of your huge sodding bag, or wedged into the tiny pocket of your too-skinny jeans. And if the card doesn’t work in the gate first time? Keep trying; I’m sure the fourteenth tap will be the charm. Just carry on; I’ve got all day. Oh, and unless you’re after a piggyback, or my phone number, keep your distance when we’re going through the gate. If I wanted to feel your coffee breath that close to me, I’d turn round and kiss you. Bitch all you like that I’m not fast enough; you’re not going anywhere until I am and I will cling to this power like the vinegar-tinged misanthrope that London has made me.

Dawdles on the stairs and platforms

Because the day you’re in a hurry is the one day everyone else is on a go-slow.

Buskers

I think I’ve heard La Cucuracha at ear-splitting volume in the confines of a Tube carriage more than I’ve ever heard my mother say my own name. And that’s before we even get to the lost Gallagher brother strangling the life out of "Wonderwall" at the foot of the escalators.

Judges a sniffer

Hay fever season, the depths of winter – sniffles and coughs on the Tube are a year-round pleasure. Not only do you suffer the snifflers, who gently dab their nose with a tissue – or, if you’re on the Northern line, the back of their hand – you also get the passive-aggressive judge and jury around them, winding themselves into a frenzy about someone else’s sinusitis. What they don’t seem to realise is that the alternative – someone heartily, yet carelessly, evacuating ten skips’ worth of nostril sludge into a handkerchief, before opening it and checking the contents – is much more harrowing to witness. Sniff away, gentlemen.

Grooms themselves

Women doing their makeup on the Tube don’t bother me in particular, as I love to marvel at the sheer artistry – although I do worry there’ll be an A&E incident involving a mascara wand and that really bumpy bit of the Jubilee line outside Green Park – but all other forms of cosmetic primping should be done at home. Women brushing their long hair and moulting everywhere, so you can watch it float down gently into your Pret salad. Men who trim their nails (I have seen this. Really) and let the odd one fly across the carriage to touch down deep within the folds of your scarf. Oh, and nail polishing – no. We’re trapped in an airless tin deep underground; I don’t want to arrive at work wired on varnish fumes.

Eats fast food

What is it about the smell of McDonald’s once it hits a confined space? It doesn’t even smell like food, does it? More like a by-product of something scientific. It’s not overly unpleasant, it’s just oppressive, clinging to your clothes and hair. Depending on time of day, how hungover you are and the state of your will to live, it makes you feel either desperately hungry or physically sick. But it could be worse: I once saw someone eating a can of tuna with their fingers. The District line is savage.

“Move down, please!”

So shrill, so entitled, so passive-aggressive. If you want people to move, play nice, be cheery, grateful, charming; work the crowd. However:

Doesn’t move down

They won’t move down anyway, because everyone is garbage. They don’t know or care about you; why would they? They were here first, they’re already on the train, thanks, and prefer not to be crushed like a scrotum in tanga briefs, so you’ll either have to push your way through or hop off and wait for the next train in 0.56 minutes. Tough one.

Leans on handrails

Hey, thanks for travelling with us. Did you know the huge handrail in the middle of the carriage is – as the name suggests – to hold on to, with HANDS, as the train lurches out of the station? It is not, sadly, your personal leaning post, back-scratching station, or pole dancing practice opportunity. Even worse, you saw I was already holding this handrail and leant against it in the hope I’d give up my spot. No way. As much as having my hand halfway up your arse is turning my stomach, there’s a principle at stake here and I will die on this hill if I must.

Wears huge backpack

I get that you don’t want to put your pristine Herschel on the dirty floor. Please do turn that way and this, smashing me in the chest with it. I’m kinky. I’m sure you won’t mind if I open the various pockets to see what’s in there, perhaps leaving you a few “gifts” of my own. My chewing gum is secondhand, but still quite fresh – enjoy!

Travels to and from Heathrow

Feeling left out among travellers on the Piccadilly line? Simply go home, pack everything you own into ten suitcases the size of Switzerland, wrap them in plastic – what is that stuff, cling film? – and take your seat on the most cost-effective, yet ageing, way to get to the airport.

Talks

Don’t talk or make eye contact; it’s an unwritten, and unspoken rule. There’s a particularly weird strain of attention-seeker who thinks their lives are so fascinating that they chat at Black Sabbath-concert decibels to make sure their fellow passengers get a slice of the action. Tourists claim immediate exemption, sitting as they do ten seats apart and screaming at each other across the carriage about how miserable everyone else on the train looks. Yes, I wonder why.

Stinks

I know, it gets hot on the Tube, and we're all jammed in there tight, but it should be physically impossible to smell as bad as some people do at eight in the morning. What do they do on the way to the Tube station? A shift at the ironworks? Drown yourself in something scented, anything. Even supermarket deodorant is better than nothing, guys.

Uses their phone

Not all of the Underground is actually underground. If you’re lucky enough to live on a stretch that sees daylight, you’ll likely meet passengers who spend the journey babbling minutiae into their handset – and the screen is always cracked, have you noticed? So far, so annoying, but you can’t say anything because it’s London and simmering rage is the best you can hope for. Things really move up a gear, however, when the Tube wanders into a low-signal area or actually heads underground, and the polite chatter gives way to a puzzled, desperate “HELLO? HELLO? JANICE? YOU STILL THERE? YEAH, I’M ON THE TUBE”. You sit there, a ball of bitterness, praying the guy gets strep throat before the next stop.

Practically shags in front of you

We’ve all got our peccadilloes, but no kink is as grim as a carriage packed with people shooting daggers at you while you get acquainted with each other’s tongues. Or worse. Get a room. Preferably one with no windows – so you’re not tempted to bonk against the glass so the whole world can see.

Holds the doors open

There’s another one along in three minutes, you’re going to break the doors by jamming them, the friends you’re holding the door open for aren't running fast enough, you’re making me late, I don’t think I want to be in a carriage with someone like you, and I now hate you with every fibre of my being and it isn’t even 7:45am.

Drunks

When we’re drunk too? Yay, nice to see you mate. Raaaaaaay. Brilliant. Hi-lar-i-ous. When we’re not drunk? Get away. You’re garbage. How disgusting. This is public transport. Same applies for the hungover mess the next morning.

Presses the button to open the door

This in no way impacts on your life, takes up none of your time, and it just makes them look stupid – yet every time you see someone do it, you want to scream “YOU DON’T NEED TO PRESS IT. IT JUST OPENS”.

Sleeps on you

Hey, I always thought this jumper I’m wearing would look better with epaulettes, so how kind of you to plonk your big drunk head on my shoulders and DROOL one on for me. Have fun getting home from Amersham.

Is in a flash mob

Oh my God why has that man dressed as a lion stood up and started singing Katy Perry’s "Roar"? Am I going to be attacked? Is he… dancing? And… oh hell there’s another one. And another one. And… oh, it’s a flash mob. Just hurry up and film your crap for YouTube and sit the f*** down. We’ve all got places to be.

Wears sunglasses

Take them off you egotistical twunt. Nobody thinks you're famous if you can't even bankroll an Uber.

You

All you ask for is a quick, painless journey so you can sit reading your paper or messing about on your phone – why is it always such a nightmare? But look down at your legs; could they be closer together? You've got a cold – have you been sniffling? Is your music maybe a bit too loud? And, yeah, you’re eating a cheeseburger, but it doesn’t smell that bad, right? That’s the thing with the Tube – everybody's the bad guy.