guy_threepwood
Looks like a Deutsch connector, although working out which one might be a challenge.
What a terrible click-bait headline. They’re not deleted indefinitely, they don’t have a date yet. It’s a complicated problem and will take time so solve, but it’s by no means indefinite.
Victoria, Circle, District, Hammersmith and City, Metropolitan and the new Piccadilly Line trains (due soon) all have regenerative braking. The rest will follow as new trains are procured.
As anyone who travels on the Victoria line in the summer will tell you: it helps, but not much.
I want a proper British kebab. I want an angry brown man who is 94% beard to hand me a congealed slab of suspicious meat drenched in garlic sauce. Like I can tell you the kebab I’m eating right now isn’t a real kebab because I’m eating it while sober. The Kebab shop is always ran by a huge dude called Amir. Amir does not speak English. He does speak every other language in the world. Including “I’m shit myself drunk” -ese. “HARGHN JUGHBO GELRCIH PLAGHS?” you ask him. He nods. He begins shaving “meat” off that huge fucking rotisserie beef thing. Your brain, floating as it is in vodka, offers one word, “hoss?”. Amir grins. He has heard that joke before. There’s no horse in Amir’s kebabs. Oh no. Horse is for those fancy fuckers on the main road. Amir’s meat is heady mix of rat, greyhound and eastern European girls who aren’t very good at holding their breath. Amir gestures to the sad-looking vegetables on the counter, but you’ve already fell asleep with your face pressed against the counter glass. Amir tops your kebab with lettuce, cucumbers, bubble wrap and Styrofoam. He then adds so much garlic sauce that those ingredients cease to be. Amir grunts, and hands you your kebab. He grunts again when you nearly leave without paying. You stagger back to the counter and thrust a - wad of sweaty fivers into his hands. Amir gives you your exact fucking change.
