Your favourite tube station tells you more about yourself than you'd ever care to know. Dare you find out what your Central line station of choice reveals about the real you? Something awful, probably.
You like the simple pleasures in life. A nice cuppa. A nice tepid of Pride (served in a dimpled jug, mind). A game of conkers (played nicely, mind). A nice steaming mug of Horlicks. Warm drinks mainly.
You're a sniffy sod, who insists on pronouncing it 'On-velope'. You'll take good grammar over a good friend any day. Quite horrid, really.
You live in Debden.
You're handsome inside and out, leading a quiet but charmed life. Everyone who knows you respects you, and a lot of them want to sleep with you too. You once made an A-list celebrity chuckle.
You're pretty and demure. Homey and simple. A good egg.
The Hainult Loop
Round like a circle in a spiral, like a wheel within a wheel. Never ending or beginning on an ever spinning reel. Like a snowball down a mountain, or a carnival balloon. Like a carousel that's turning running rings around the moon. Like a clock whose hands are sweeping past the minutes of its face... You're basically just going round in circles, mate.
You are an artful soul with a predilection for 6Music and sepia Japanese films, pre-1960. People would like to hate you, but your taste is too damned impeccable.
You're trying to bite off more than you can chew. You wish you could focus on one thing at a time. But your thoughts are cooking up a messy head casserole. You need to slow down. Fast.
You are writing a novel. You have been writing it for the last 23 months. You haven't got as far as the title. You will never write a novel.
You appear normcore on the surface — all Gap jeans and ready-to-eat avocados. But you have hidden depths. And dark secrets. Hold them close.
You're always too busy to give attention to the ones you love. It's always "tomorrow this, tomorrow that." Even though you can find time to watch Suits. Your attitude will come back to haunt you one day. Badly.
You are on a mission of self-destruction. You are sleeping with two of your best friends' other halves. You clandestinely glug a beaker of calvados before going to sleep every night. You won't make it to 40 at this rate.
You allow yourself to be used by people — people who have no intention of ever coming back. Why do you do this to yourself? Why?
You badly want to be one of the big cheeses. But the things you desire will always be just out of reach: that girl you see on the bus every day. That promotion. That jackpot win on HQ Trivia.
You are having a mid-life crisis. It will pass.
Tottenham Court Road
You only wear those Nike Air VaporMax Pluses because your mate wears them. You only listen to Chance the Rapper because your mate does. You despise the taste of bubble tea but drink it anyway because your mate does (and it's a snazzy liquid prop for your hand). Face it dude, you don't really know who you are.
Your life is in turmoil. You know you need to see someone, a professional. But admitting you have a problem is harder than it sounds. The turmoil continues indefinitely.
You have delusions of grandeur. You think that wearing shirts from Charles Tyrwitt, and signing up to The Telegraph's wine club, will gain you respect. But you don't have the wherewithal to appreciate a good Burgundy. And you don't know how to pronounce Charles Tyrwitt.
You are insecure and under-appreciated. You must learn to speak up. Your ideas are good. You should be earning at least £20k more than you do. You can do this.
You live in Lancaster Gate.
You make everything far more convoluted than you need to. You need to learn to chill out. Watch some Netflix once in a while, rather than pretending you enjoy reading Proust's In Search of Lost Time. Rick and Morty is much more enjoyable.
Notting Hill Gate
You like to host dinner parties, so that you can blab to everyone about your new finance job. You check yourself out in the mirror whenever no one's looking. But everyone laughs at you behind your back. Fewer people are accepting invites to your dinner parties these days.
You are well spoken and well liked. You go to at least one major art exhibition every month, and are able to talk about them to people in a non-wanky way. You always find the really nice shirts in TK Maxx.
You're a solid guy/gal through and through. Trustworthy and a good laugh. You lend people your favourite novels, and don't get all whiny when they don't give them back. You'll live well into your 90s.
You are able to reinvent yourself at the snap of a finger. You're basically Bowie. Not everyone digs your reinventions. But that's their problem. You keep doing what you're doing.
You are a dark horse and a black sheep. A swarthy animal really. There are many strings to your bow. Few people know you can speak three languages. Few people know about those night classes you do. But god help anyone who angers you.
You'd like to reinvent yourself in a new and exciting way. But you're 37, and you really should have done it at uni. Sorry, but you're no White City.
You say things like "Hanger Lane is my favourite Central line station" to raise eyebrows at the office water cooler. But behind your back everyone is saying that they know Oxford Circus is your actual favourite station. And it frankly makes them sick.
You are smartly turned out, with a style all of your own. You turn heads in the street, but are too humble to brag about it. You will go far.
You're polite, mild mannered and watch your Ps and Qs. You're utterly forgettable.
You're good at the whole stiff upper lip thing, but could also do with taking that rod out of your arse. 'Up tight' is an understatement. Allow yourself to get tipsy every now and then. Let your hair down.
You shouldn't be living in London. You don't like it here. You tell yourself that you do. But really you pine for the hinterlands of North Norfolk. If only circumstances would allow otherwise.
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Article inspired by this bit of genius.