Stylist columnist Lucy Mangan tries to put this inappropriateness into words.

So, the other day I’m on the train in town with a friend and notice that the very young man sitting opposite alternates between staring at his phone and staring at me, with an odd look on his face. It registers, but only just. You would hardly manage to get from A to B if you paid too much attention to everyone who gives you strange looks on public transport. And given some of the states I’m often in when I leave the house, I am aware that a) I often deserve them and b) they are often kindly meant. “Should I offer to help this lady who appears to have her health and strength and yet has not managed to run a brush through her hair or find matching socks?” some will be thinking. “Were those jeans an active choice, or has she run out of medication?”

But this time, when we got up to leave, I was able to look over the man’s shoulder and see what was on his phone. Which was porn. I saw a random performer’s vagina closer up and in clearer detail than I have ever seen my own, her already raw-looking organ was obscured by various brutalising instruments going to further town on it.

“Watching porn in public? It’s 50 shades of wrong” Lucy Mangan on people who view porn on public transport