Commuter Spy: Lynch mob - Telegraph Eventually, we arrived. The aisle was full of people queuing to get off, and I was looking forward to a curative evening spent with a bottle of Pinot Grigio. But the worst was yet to come. Before we had all disembarked, the doors of the train closed, trapping us inside. As one, we surged forward and pounded on the button and windows. But the train moved off, taking us down towards the coast. I wanted to pull the emergency break, but I knew this would cause an even worse delay. We marched down the carriage and accosted the Guard, a weasel-faced man with a little beard. "Was it you who closed the doors?" demanded a smartly dressed woman with leadership qualities. "Everyone else managed to disembark in time," he replied, snidely. "How dare you?" came a loud, booming voice. That's just bloody rude. If you've made a mistake at least have the guts to apologise! You should lose your job for this. A few seconds later, I realised that the voice was mine. Suddenly, the Guard became aware of the intensity of our anger, and the extent to which we outnumbered him. He turned tail and disappeared. Enraged as we were, we did not follow him. In a dejected cluster, the would-be lynch mob got off at the next station, crossed the bridge over the tracks, and caught a train back in the other direction. We finally arrived almost an hour and a half late, in a foul mood. I took my new ticket out of my pocket and slipped it through the machine, marvelling at our extraordinary restraint.