Come on, ladies! Let’s go to war on MAN SPREADING

Know that feeling when a man on the train hogs your space . . .

THE train to Hastings was packed. It was one of those sticky days when the air bristles with the threat of thunder and having to stand seems a super-human feat. Luckily, there was one seat left. I took it — expecting the large man next to it to redistribute his bulk to give me room. Instead, he expanded into my zone, his grey-trousered thigh reaching half way across the under-side of my tray-table.

But instead, everything about him suggested he was put out that I had dared to invade his seating area.

I am not unassertive, but there is something oddly tricky about broaching the issue of personal space. The awkwardness is compounded if you are not sylph-like yourself. There’s a tiny part of you that thinks: ‘If I were skinny, this wouldn’t be such a problem.’

During the hour-long journey to east Sussex, I hung on grimly to prevent myself sliding off the seat when the train lurched around corners. The man’s thighs seemed to extend ever further on to my side.

So what did I do? I took out my mobile phone and photographed his leg under my table. Then I uploaded the picture to Facebook with the caption: ‘Man’s legs on train. Literally taking up half my leg space. unbelievable. Almost falling into the aisle.’

I am not given to whipping out my iPhone like a gun from a holster. But I did have a memory of performance artist Laurie Anderson snapping men who made offensive remarks to her in Manhattan streets — and what a thrilling feeling of defiance it gave her. And for me, once I’d done it, the atmosphere lightened. It felt like a victory.

I had wondered whether to just put myself out of my misery and stand, saying with a dramatic flourish: ‘Happy now?’ But that seemed rather passive-aggressive.

And it turns out I’m not the only one to have snapped a seat-hog. There are websites and blogs dedicated to men’s space invasions on public transport. MY LITTLE act of revenge had made me a member of a global movement. And the male slouch of the type which spoiled my journey has a noun and verb to describe it: ‘manspreader’ and ‘to manspread’. The Oxford Dictionary definition: ‘When a man sits with his legs wide apart on public transport, encroaching on other seats.’

I could have said to my ungracious neighbour: ‘you, sir, are a manspreader. In America, you could be fined and even arrested for such gross behaviour.’

For, in January, the Metropolitan Transportation Authority, which manages New york’s subways and buses, launched a public awareness campaign ‘to encourage men to share a little less of themselves’, as the New york Times elegantly put it.

One of the New york ads reads: ‘Dude . . . Stop the Spread, Please.’

In May, two men were arrested for it and were told charges would be dropped if no future infringements occurred.

It seems women the world over are mad as hell about men behaving badly on trains and buses, and will no longer suffer it.

Manspreading may be new as a term, but the body language is primordial — from cavemen on. I can imagine Henry VIII manspreading but not Oliver Cromwell. David Niven would never manspread but Marlon Brando definitely would have.

In ye Olden days — OK, 60 years ago —etiquette pages in magazines showed cartoons of ‘Space Hogs’ or ‘Leg Pests’ in Homburgs. But now, it’s so easy to click, post and shame. Instantly, your situation is shared and people who have had the same problem can advise you how to deal with it, even during your journey.

My own Facebook post attracted about 70 responses, from europe, Australia and America, with advice and personal anecdotes.

I was particularly impressed by a friend who says when eyebrow-wiggling fails to persuade manspreaders to give her more room, she fights back — with a little spreading of her own. She often ends up sitting with crossed legs, ankles on knees, in a bid to reclaim her space. She’s even resorted to the lotus position — a yoga stance in which legs are crossed and feet placed on thighs.

While I wasn’t quite prepared to go that far, the man in question must have been aware I was trying to reclaim my territory. I shifted towards him, resisting the temptation to shrink further away to avoid legs and shoulders meeting.

At one point, I had tried to get him to look at me and muttered, half-heartedly: ‘Do you think you could…?’ But he stared straight ahead, resolutely.

Men are not the only ones guilty of such selfishness, though. Some women — and I am one — have woman-spreading tendencies. If I have bagged a four-seater table on an empty train, for example, I will spread my papers all over it and use the seat next to me for my bag and coat.

The difference is, as the train gets closer to London and starts to fill up, I will remove my belongings and shrink into one seat, rather than hogging space regardless. BUT, oh, the unbridled joy if no one does board, and I have acres of space to myself. So it’s not as though I don’t understand the desire to over-occupy.

Several male friends posted comments on Facebook saying they find manspreading annoying, too. One wrote: ‘I’m currently on the night bus with my legs very much together as I have no choice otherwise.’ Another chap said: ‘It seems to be a power thing. I have sometimes allowed my knees to stay in contact with theirs, which has (not always) slightly freaked them out, and they shifted a bit.

‘Once, quite angry/sarky — I asked if the man had enough room and he got hostile — and yet did, in fact, make some room for me.’

Gay men seemed to think it’s usually straight men who are the culprits. One said: ‘They feel they own public space . . . I think it’s a primal instinct — the need to declare machismo — to let people know who’s in charge.’

How to fight back? Most people favour the direct approach, in the first instance, that I couldn’t quite muster. ‘excuse me,’ with a dazzling smile, ‘would you mind moving to give me a little more space?’ Or simply: ‘ excuse me,’ while moving your arms and legs into their rightful confines.

If this soft approach fails, ‘ then it’s WAR!’ according to one friend.

‘Spill your drink on him,’ says another. ‘Manspread yourself and push back, fighting the instinct to be grossed out by touching knees with a stranger and just giving up and fuming in silence; engage in some sharp elbow prodding; declare undying love for him; cough violently and mutter: “This damned, life-threatening, infection won’t shift”; claim both arm rests. And always carry a knitting needle that protrudes from your bag when a manspreader is about.’

One friend said she once dangled her handbag on the knee of a manspreader ‘and that seemed to do the trick. He obviously didn’t want to be used like a table’.

Another said she watched in frozen fascination while her six-yearold son tried to park his bike in a manspreader’s crotch, while the culprit was on his mobile, oblivious.

Could it be that more men are spreading these days because they’re so busy with endless texting, listening to music and watching films that they are literally more connected to their devices than to the people around them?

Last week, when news broke that ‘manspreading’ was now officially a word, I was speaking at an event in Hastings. Another writer there, Karen McLeod, read a humorous poem on the subject called Faberge eggs (referring to the precious orbs of the male anatomy that seem to require airing on trains and buses). ‘Your arms are on both arm rests, claiming your throne/I make myself smaller, small, sm, s/Invisible — you’d rather I was gone/So you can be full of gaps, cutting shapes with the open scissors of your legs.’ Doggerel, it may have been intended as, but I thought it absolute genius.

What will I do when I encounter my next manspreader? I will try to smile sweetly, ask directly if he wouldn’t mind possibly giving me a little more room. And if I don’t get anywhere — it’s out with the phone, click and post.