Even the hooligans are chivalrous

It was off to a good start, my trip to London with my mom. There we were, me and my pink suitcase, on a crowded platform in the Amsterdam underground. The train was packed, but I thought I could squeeze in. Untill the doors closed and me and my suitcase ended up stuck between them. But there he was, my saviour: a young man jumped to my rescue, held the doors open and pushed me and my suitcase through the doors, causing him to miss the train. In case you read this: you are a hero!
You’d almost forget it, amidst stories of riots and misbehaving minors, but they do still exist. Real men, who know how to behave. Chivalry ain’t dead, it’s alive and kicking, especially in London.
“I’m getting old!” said my mother when several men offered her a seat on the undergound. We had barely left the train when a nice man offered to carry her suitcase up the stairs. When we were on the street, studying our map, someone asked us if we needed help. “I’m so sorry!” said a passing cyclist we nearly overlooked while crossing the street (look right, it even said so on the zebra). Doors were being held open, chairs pushed in: chivalry galore.
And even the F-side turned out to be reasonable enough. After a day trip to Oxford we found ourselves sharing a train with a group of real hooligans, on their way home after an away game escorted by police. It turned out to be the hard core of FC Gillingham, who, as they were singing from the top of their lungs, were topping League Two undefeated. Two male officers kept an eye on the group from both ends of the compartment, while their female colleague was right between the fans, chatting, having her picture taken and politely asking them to tune it down with a simple “shhhh”. And the hooligans? They kept on singing. Whispering, that is.