I have already explained some months ago that I have a tendency to eavesdrop.
Sometimes it is easier than you would expect.
Sometimes the conversations are shouted across crowded rooms or busy streets.
On this occasion it was shouted across the aisle of the bus.
It went ...
"H'lo Dai! How're you? Haven't seen you for ages."
" 'm'all right Will! Doing well ... doing well! As well as can be expected anyway".
"What's happened then Dai? You're missus caught you womanising again?"
"No, no!" answered Dai. "The wife, see. Taken ill, she was. Rushed into hospital on Christmas Eve ... died Boxing day".
"Oh No!" said Will. "That's awful! I'm so sorry!"
"Oh she went peaceful ... in her sleep ... so she didn't suffer".
"Must have been hard for you" said Will.
"It was, it was. But I believe, you see, like, so I managed to cope because God was with me".
"God got me through something similar" said Will.
"Oh I'm sorry!" said Dai. "Did you lose someone close?"
"No!" came back Will. "I lost my lottery ticket! I had a £150 winnings on it and I lost it, but God got me through it!"
A stunned Dai answered "But that's nothing like the same, like, is it?"
"Near enough" answered Will. "Near enough!"
"Yer a sinner, Will Williams! Yer a sinner!" snapped Dai as he made to get off the bus.
Showing posts with label bus. Show all posts
Showing posts with label bus. Show all posts
Sunday, 10 February 2013
Friday, 7 December 2012
Splash or A Bus Drivers Guilty Pleasure
Careful observation and a few knocks have led me to the conclusion that some bus drivers in South Wales are having a little fun at our (the passengers) expense.
We all know that boarding a bus can be a daunting experience.
You know how it is;
you buy your ticket or flash your bus pass
you turn to head towards a seat, and ...
the bus wheel-spins it's way back into traffic
you hurtle down the aisle of the bus, passing your intended choice of seating at
a very high velocity
if you are unlucky, your passage down the aisle ends with you sprawled on the
floor just above the buses rear axle.
It's happened to me many times ... without the sprawling ... and it's damned annoying but, strangely, like everyone else, I never complain.
But there is new game afoot!
I call it 'Splashing'.
Let me explain by telling you about yesterday.
It concerns a young gentleman (he wore a floppy woolly hat and those ridiculous off-the-arse jeans displaying multi-coloured underwear and never took his texting-thumb or his eyes from his mobile [cell] phone, so I'm more inclined to refer to him as 'knob-head') who, realising that he was approaching his point of disembarkation, stood up and began to make his way to the front of the bus. He continued to stare at the small screen of his Blueberry, his thumb still jerking about over the keypad.
The bus was little more than fifty yards from the bus stop but still travelling at about 25 miles per hour.
As knob-he ... sorry, the 'gentleman' ... was half way down the aisle, the driver applied the brakes!
Hi didn't push the brake peddle through the floor to bring the bus to a grinding halt. No!
He applied firm pressure, bringing the bus smoothly, but quickly, to a halt.
Knob-h ... the gentleman ... still focusing on his mobile phone began to accelerate towards the front of the bus.
His left arm flailed uselessly at the hand-holds on the backs of seats and the support post, missing everyone as his speed increased to a level Usain Bolt would have been proud of.
The bus stopped.
So did knob-head!
A fly hitting the windscreen of your car splashes; it turns itself inside out in a fraction of a second.
Knob-head 'splashed' against the inside of the windscreen ... he didn't turn himself inside out or leave a bloody smear on the glass but he did say ...
"Oooooof!" as he rebounded onto his arse.
"You ok?" asked the driver?
"Oooooof!" said knob-head as he picked himself up and, red faced, left the bus.
"There you have it, ladies and gentlemen!" shouted the driver to the sniggering passengers.
"Mobile phones can be very, very dangerous!"
We all know that boarding a bus can be a daunting experience.
You know how it is;
you buy your ticket or flash your bus pass
you turn to head towards a seat, and ...
the bus wheel-spins it's way back into traffic
you hurtle down the aisle of the bus, passing your intended choice of seating at
a very high velocity
if you are unlucky, your passage down the aisle ends with you sprawled on the
floor just above the buses rear axle.
It's happened to me many times ... without the sprawling ... and it's damned annoying but, strangely, like everyone else, I never complain.
But there is new game afoot!
I call it 'Splashing'.
Let me explain by telling you about yesterday.
It concerns a young gentleman (he wore a floppy woolly hat and those ridiculous off-the-arse jeans displaying multi-coloured underwear and never took his texting-thumb or his eyes from his mobile [cell] phone, so I'm more inclined to refer to him as 'knob-head') who, realising that he was approaching his point of disembarkation, stood up and began to make his way to the front of the bus. He continued to stare at the small screen of his Blueberry, his thumb still jerking about over the keypad.
The bus was little more than fifty yards from the bus stop but still travelling at about 25 miles per hour.
As knob-he ... sorry, the 'gentleman' ... was half way down the aisle, the driver applied the brakes!
Hi didn't push the brake peddle through the floor to bring the bus to a grinding halt. No!
He applied firm pressure, bringing the bus smoothly, but quickly, to a halt.
Knob-h ... the gentleman ... still focusing on his mobile phone began to accelerate towards the front of the bus.
His left arm flailed uselessly at the hand-holds on the backs of seats and the support post, missing everyone as his speed increased to a level Usain Bolt would have been proud of.
The bus stopped.
So did knob-head!
A fly hitting the windscreen of your car splashes; it turns itself inside out in a fraction of a second.
Knob-head 'splashed' against the inside of the windscreen ... he didn't turn himself inside out or leave a bloody smear on the glass but he did say ...
"Oooooof!" as he rebounded onto his arse.
"You ok?" asked the driver?
"Oooooof!" said knob-head as he picked himself up and, red faced, left the bus.
"There you have it, ladies and gentlemen!" shouted the driver to the sniggering passengers.
"Mobile phones can be very, very dangerous!"
Friday, 19 October 2012
Celeb's on a Bus
Over the past week or so I have taken several buses to various places.
I have experienced foul-mouthed tirades, suffered smells that not even a dog could create and found things that one should never find on a means of public transport (to-wit, one used condom).
My fascination with bus travel began after I read some articles on Peggy's blog.
I discovered that people watching on a bus can produce an almost unlimited supply of blog material which I now endeavour to utilise at every available opportunity.
So let us start from the beginning. Try and keep up, because I don't have long. You ready?
Let's go!
Firstly, there was the tirade I spoke of.
It occurred only moments after Andy Griffith (Matlock) boarded the bus.
Now, when I say 'Andy Griffith boarded the bus', you do realise that I mean a look-alike, don't you?
I do not see dead people!
Anyway, he got on and the first thing he did was to open a window, before taking a seat next to Roy Orbison (ditto the look-alike bit). It was a cold day and the rush of cold air through the bus caused a bit of a stir.
It took a little over a minute before the recumbent figure in pink jerked awake, stomped down the bus and slammed the window shut.
The figure in pink was female. Her lower lip was pierced and ringed. Her hair dark and matted and seemed to be partially dread-locked.
She mumbled.
"Mmnff bukkin mmmmnff window! Bastard!"
Andy, being Andy, got up and opened it again.
From the lady (and I use the term loosely) in pink came "Ya fuggin ar'so! Fink ya fuggin own da fuggin bus, ya twad! Jeez! Mmnnfff nmmmft pffft, unt!"
The mumbling, interspersed with a liberal sprinkling of colourful language, continued until the next stop, whereupon the driver got out of his seat and approached the lady (still very,very loose) in pink.
He warned her that he wouldn't tolerate her abusing the other passengers and she should behave herself,at which point Andy Griffith piped up "Kick the {insert word sound like Duck}ing {insert word sounds like Hunt} off the (Duck word again) bus!"
I should point out at this point that Roy Orbison sat quietly and took no part in the exchange.
To cut a long story short, Andy and the lady (loose, remember) in pink were ejected and we proceeded on our journey.
Sadly no other celebrity look-alike's boarded the bus, but I do believe we drove past the Fish & Chip shop where Elvis works!
As for the smells and mislaid item's ... let's just say they were memorable for all the wrong reasons!
R.I.P.And and Roy!
I have experienced foul-mouthed tirades, suffered smells that not even a dog could create and found things that one should never find on a means of public transport (to-wit, one used condom).
My fascination with bus travel began after I read some articles on Peggy's blog.
I discovered that people watching on a bus can produce an almost unlimited supply of blog material which I now endeavour to utilise at every available opportunity.
So let us start from the beginning. Try and keep up, because I don't have long. You ready?
Let's go!
Firstly, there was the tirade I spoke of.
It occurred only moments after Andy Griffith (Matlock) boarded the bus.
Now, when I say 'Andy Griffith boarded the bus', you do realise that I mean a look-alike, don't you?
I do not see dead people!
Anyway, he got on and the first thing he did was to open a window, before taking a seat next to Roy Orbison (ditto the look-alike bit). It was a cold day and the rush of cold air through the bus caused a bit of a stir.
It took a little over a minute before the recumbent figure in pink jerked awake, stomped down the bus and slammed the window shut.
The figure in pink was female. Her lower lip was pierced and ringed. Her hair dark and matted and seemed to be partially dread-locked.
She mumbled.
"Mmnff bukkin mmmmnff window! Bastard!"
Andy, being Andy, got up and opened it again.
From the lady (and I use the term loosely) in pink came "Ya fuggin ar'so! Fink ya fuggin own da fuggin bus, ya twad! Jeez! Mmnnfff nmmmft pffft, unt!"
The mumbling, interspersed with a liberal sprinkling of colourful language, continued until the next stop, whereupon the driver got out of his seat and approached the lady (still very,very loose) in pink.
He warned her that he wouldn't tolerate her abusing the other passengers and she should behave herself,at which point Andy Griffith piped up "Kick the {insert word sound like Duck}ing {insert word sounds like Hunt} off the (Duck word again) bus!"
I should point out at this point that Roy Orbison sat quietly and took no part in the exchange.
To cut a long story short, Andy and the lady (loose, remember) in pink were ejected and we proceeded on our journey.
Sadly no other celebrity look-alike's boarded the bus, but I do believe we drove past the Fish & Chip shop where Elvis works!
As for the smells and mislaid item's ... let's just say they were memorable for all the wrong reasons!
R.I.P.And and Roy!
Friday, 28 September 2012
The Waiting Room
The bus journey I took yesterday sparked some rather strange thoughts.
My 'companion' fell asleep on route so I was free to let my imagination run,as it so often does, riot.
My attention was first drawn to The Bucket Man. He was in his fifties, I would guess, and carried a red plastic bucket with a white lid.
I couldn't help but imagine that bucket being used, in the absence of toilets on board, for 'personal' use. I also imagined a queue of desperate, jogging-on-the-spot passengers forming behind him.
But my thoughts were hi-jacked when we encountered a broken down bus at the side of the road. The engine cowling had been raised and the driver stood shaking his head as he awaited recovery.
In my mind I saw the driver, a saddle thrown over his shoulder, saying his goodbye's to faithful friend before drawing his colt 45 and putting a bullet into the bus's radiator to end it's pain and suffering.
But then I saw an article (over the shoulder of the man in front of me) in the local paper.
This is the result of what I saw...
The Waiting Room was white walled without any apparent doors to facilitate entrance or exit.
Over thirty people, including Hitler (sitting next to Genghis Kahn and Julius Caesar), Mother Theresa, Gandhi and Andy Williams sat on chairs lining the walls.
They chatted amongst themselves until, as if by magic, a man dress in a white robe seemed to walk through the wall.
"Hello" he said. "My name is Desmond. I'm here to facilitate your transfer to your next plane of existence,be it Heaven or Hell."
Mother Theresa raised her hand.
"Yes?" Said Desmond."You have a question?"
"Isn't the Arch Angel Gabriel supposed to meet?" she asked.
"Well, normally, yes. But I'm afraid he's had to pop out and do a spot of smiting, so I'm standing in for him" answered Desmond.
"Smiting?" she said. "He's fighting the Devil?"
"Not exactly" said Desmond. "I believe it has something to to do with the Lady Gaga tickets he was sold and their, erm,legality. He's a big fan!"
He shuffled his feet for a moment then said "Shall we, erm, crack on, as it were?"
An iPad appeared in his hand.
"Don't you just love technology?" he said.
"So! Hitler ..." said Desmond as he scrolled down the iPad list. "Oh dear! It doesn't look as if there is anything you have never done! Bad, bad, bad!"
"I've never worn a women's underwear!" blurted Hitler.
"Erm, 14th of February 1932, I believe. Oh dear! You ... you ... What on earth did you think you were doing with that carrot? Definitely Hell for you!"
"Hell? What have I ever done ..." protested Hitler as he faded away to nothing and departed for Hades.
"Next ..."
Desmond called out name after name, declared them good or bad, saint's or sinner's, and despatched them to their destination.
"And now we come to ... Oh dear! Tooth Fairy?"
"'ry"
"Speak up!" ordered Desmond.
"'orry!"
"Oh my word.What have you done?"
"'m innocent!"
"Innocent? You stopped collecting children's teeth"
"'orry!"
"Instead you concentrated on removing the gold teeth of the American Rapper community! Where are those teeth, may I ask?"
"I ain't saying nuth'n!"
"Well you leave me no choice, Tooth Fairy! I hereby sentence you to 1 year rehabilitation and re-training. Hurry along to the Training wing! Mr. Disney will be waiting for you!"
The Tooth Fairy faded.
"And that just leaves you, Mr. Williams. Oh,I see you were a singer and entertainer. Oh well, no problem there then. Yes! Yes! An exemplary life. You seem to have handled yourself at all times as a gentleman and all round nice guy."
"Why, thank you!" said Andy Williams. "That's very kind of you to say so."
"Yes" continued Desmond. "It seems to be a foregone conclusion that you are destined for Heav... Oh my word! Oh dear!"
"What? What is it? What have you found?" said Andy as he began to sweat.
"Well, erm, this puts .... erm, oh dear! I thought Ed Sullivan was to blame for that! But it was YOU!!!"
"What? Am I going to Hell? What?" screamed Andy.
"Two words, Mr.Williams ...
THE ...
OSMOND'S!!!!"
"Oh shit!" exclaimed Andy as he faded. "I'd forgotten about them!!!
I grew up watching the Andy Williams Show and much preferred his kind of entertainment over that of other singers and entertainers more appropriate to my generation. He was a much admired man and talented man who will be sorely missed.
I hope no one deems this post disrespectful! That is not how it was intended!
My 'companion' fell asleep on route so I was free to let my imagination run,as it so often does, riot.
My attention was first drawn to The Bucket Man. He was in his fifties, I would guess, and carried a red plastic bucket with a white lid.
I couldn't help but imagine that bucket being used, in the absence of toilets on board, for 'personal' use. I also imagined a queue of desperate, jogging-on-the-spot passengers forming behind him.
But my thoughts were hi-jacked when we encountered a broken down bus at the side of the road. The engine cowling had been raised and the driver stood shaking his head as he awaited recovery.
In my mind I saw the driver, a saddle thrown over his shoulder, saying his goodbye's to faithful friend before drawing his colt 45 and putting a bullet into the bus's radiator to end it's pain and suffering.
But then I saw an article (over the shoulder of the man in front of me) in the local paper.
This is the result of what I saw...
The Waiting Room was white walled without any apparent doors to facilitate entrance or exit.
Over thirty people, including Hitler (sitting next to Genghis Kahn and Julius Caesar), Mother Theresa, Gandhi and Andy Williams sat on chairs lining the walls.
They chatted amongst themselves until, as if by magic, a man dress in a white robe seemed to walk through the wall.
"Hello" he said. "My name is Desmond. I'm here to facilitate your transfer to your next plane of existence,be it Heaven or Hell."
Mother Theresa raised her hand.
"Yes?" Said Desmond."You have a question?"
"Isn't the Arch Angel Gabriel supposed to meet?" she asked.
"Well, normally, yes. But I'm afraid he's had to pop out and do a spot of smiting, so I'm standing in for him" answered Desmond.
"Smiting?" she said. "He's fighting the Devil?"
"Not exactly" said Desmond. "I believe it has something to to do with the Lady Gaga tickets he was sold and their, erm,legality. He's a big fan!"
He shuffled his feet for a moment then said "Shall we, erm, crack on, as it were?"
An iPad appeared in his hand.
"Don't you just love technology?" he said.
"So! Hitler ..." said Desmond as he scrolled down the iPad list. "Oh dear! It doesn't look as if there is anything you have never done! Bad, bad, bad!"
"I've never worn a women's underwear!" blurted Hitler.
"Erm, 14th of February 1932, I believe. Oh dear! You ... you ... What on earth did you think you were doing with that carrot? Definitely Hell for you!"
"Hell? What have I ever done ..." protested Hitler as he faded away to nothing and departed for Hades.
"Next ..."
Desmond called out name after name, declared them good or bad, saint's or sinner's, and despatched them to their destination.
"And now we come to ... Oh dear! Tooth Fairy?"
"'ry"
"Speak up!" ordered Desmond.
"'orry!"
"Oh my word.What have you done?"
"'m innocent!"
"Innocent? You stopped collecting children's teeth"
"'orry!"
"Instead you concentrated on removing the gold teeth of the American Rapper community! Where are those teeth, may I ask?"
"I ain't saying nuth'n!"
"Well you leave me no choice, Tooth Fairy! I hereby sentence you to 1 year rehabilitation and re-training. Hurry along to the Training wing! Mr. Disney will be waiting for you!"
The Tooth Fairy faded.
"And that just leaves you, Mr. Williams. Oh,I see you were a singer and entertainer. Oh well, no problem there then. Yes! Yes! An exemplary life. You seem to have handled yourself at all times as a gentleman and all round nice guy."
"Why, thank you!" said Andy Williams. "That's very kind of you to say so."
"Yes" continued Desmond. "It seems to be a foregone conclusion that you are destined for Heav... Oh my word! Oh dear!"
"What? What is it? What have you found?" said Andy as he began to sweat.
"Well, erm, this puts .... erm, oh dear! I thought Ed Sullivan was to blame for that! But it was YOU!!!"
"What? Am I going to Hell? What?" screamed Andy.
"Two words, Mr.Williams ...
THE ...
OSMOND'S!!!!"
"Oh shit!" exclaimed Andy as he faded. "I'd forgotten about them!!!
I grew up watching the Andy Williams Show and much preferred his kind of entertainment over that of other singers and entertainers more appropriate to my generation. He was a much admired man and talented man who will be sorely missed.
I hope no one deems this post disrespectful! That is not how it was intended!
Friday, 20 July 2012
I Think I'm Gonna Be .... URRGGGAHHH ... Sick!
I was on a bus again yesterday.
And nothing much happened!
What can I tell ya? It was one of those days!
Oh, there was a smell of feet and cheese, but despite several people saying "What is causing the stink?", no one could locate the source.
It wasn't really a strong smell ... at first ... but it 'travelled', you know what I mean?
Even the driver made a comment about it.
Very few people boarded the bus during our short journey and only three or four got off. But the stink remained.
And I swear to God that it followed us when we got off in Pontypridd!
I began to think it was me. Had my morning shower failed to eliminate BO that I was unaware of?
It all became too much, as yet again the smell followed us into another shop. I could feel a nervous breakdown creeping up behind me as I tried to concoct excuse after excuse for the smell.
Then, on the verge of panic and desperation, I rummaged through my pockets (of which I had very few, as it was fairly warm) on the off chance that someone had dumped a stink bomb in my pocket.
Nothing!
It couldn't be my client, could it?, I thought. No! Surely not.
We left the shop at speed as whisper's grew began to mutate into a chorus of "WTF is that smell?".
Outside I quickly frisked my client.
Well, it wasn't me,so it had to be him!
Tissues (wish I'd used gloves), chewy sweets, a piece of paper with his name on it, and ....
OH MY GOD!!!
As I pulled out the small cellophane bundle that I found in his pocket, the smell noticeably increased.
It was squishy ... it was pliable and incredibly smelly.
It was bluey-green!
It looked and smelled as if it had once been Stilton cheese!
I gagged!
It was leaking!
I found a bin and dumped the offending package.
I used nearly a full bottle of the anti-bacterial hand cleanser that I carry with me (you need it in my job).
That was yesterday!
I have since scrubbed my hands several time and showered. I have used soaps with fragrances that normally would only be found in French houses of ill repute. I even coated my hands with aftershave!
And I can still smell that ... that ... I think I'm gonna be sick ....
And nothing much happened!
What can I tell ya? It was one of those days!
Oh, there was a smell of feet and cheese, but despite several people saying "What is causing the stink?", no one could locate the source.
It wasn't really a strong smell ... at first ... but it 'travelled', you know what I mean?
Even the driver made a comment about it.
Very few people boarded the bus during our short journey and only three or four got off. But the stink remained.
And I swear to God that it followed us when we got off in Pontypridd!
I began to think it was me. Had my morning shower failed to eliminate BO that I was unaware of?
It all became too much, as yet again the smell followed us into another shop. I could feel a nervous breakdown creeping up behind me as I tried to concoct excuse after excuse for the smell.
Then, on the verge of panic and desperation, I rummaged through my pockets (of which I had very few, as it was fairly warm) on the off chance that someone had dumped a stink bomb in my pocket.
Nothing!
It couldn't be my client, could it?, I thought. No! Surely not.
We left the shop at speed as whisper's grew began to mutate into a chorus of "WTF is that smell?".
Outside I quickly frisked my client.
Well, it wasn't me,so it had to be him!
Tissues (wish I'd used gloves), chewy sweets, a piece of paper with his name on it, and ....
OH MY GOD!!!
As I pulled out the small cellophane bundle that I found in his pocket, the smell noticeably increased.
It was squishy ... it was pliable and incredibly smelly.
It was bluey-green!
It looked and smelled as if it had once been Stilton cheese!
I gagged!
It was leaking!
I found a bin and dumped the offending package.
I used nearly a full bottle of the anti-bacterial hand cleanser that I carry with me (you need it in my job).
That was yesterday!
I have since scrubbed my hands several time and showered. I have used soaps with fragrances that normally would only be found in French houses of ill repute. I even coated my hands with aftershave!
And I can still smell that ... that ... I think I'm gonna be sick ....
Thursday, 12 July 2012
Quilted-Jacket-Man
So once again, after a nearly three month wait, I found myself back on a bus!
Now, you know what a bus looks like on the inside ... they are all fairly similar; two or three inwards facing seats, the others facing forward on the left and right along the length of the bus with an aisle in the middle ... so I won't bore you with intricate details ... although I think I just did.
What most buses have in common are those poles from ceiling to floor at the aisle-end of alternate seats.
I never, ever, sit on those seats if it can be at all avoided.
It's all because of odours.
Vile, stinky, smelly, cheesy armpit odours!
Y'see, everyone, except the real oldies on the bus, will get up and start walking to the front whilst the bus is still in motion.
This means that the poles are used as support.
This means at any given time during a bus journey, at least one disgusting armpit will hover above your head, sometimes for minutes at a time, until the bus stops and they get off!
Today ... wouldn't ya just know it ... the bus was full to bursting and I ended up in one of the aisle seats with a pole.
Three times (Yes, three!!!) a passenger of dubious personal hygiene stood above me allowing their nausea inducing 'scent' to drift over me.
In my profession I have to deal with some pretty stink situations ... but those armpits!!!!
Although it was now several hours ago, the memory of those smells are still with me and I fear that I may have been scarred for life!
Anyway, all that aside, today we were also treated to a floor show of sorts.
The 'performance' came from an elderly man in an over large quilted jacket. He sat on an inward facing seat directly behind the driver and was what I could only describe as a 'serial gesticulator'. That is to say, that whatever seemed to be going through his mind was 'enacted' with a series of arm/hand gestures and finger twitching.
At first it was merely amusing, but then the bus was delayed when we encountered a dustbin truck that was blocking the street ahead of us.
Quilted-jacket-man jumped to his feet, his arms waving wildly and his mouth silently, but with an aggressive expression on his face, spouting obscenities at the crew of the dustbin truck.
When we eventually managed to pass them, he began tapping his watch, indicating the delay that they had caused, and offered up that age-old British silent comment; the two fingered salute*.
Minutes later there was another delay and Quilted-jacket-man responded by instantly leaping from his seat (where he had bee silently gesticulating) and moved to the front of the bus, his arms flailing as he displayed his displeasure.
This time, however, the object of his silent rage thwarted him, and he was forced to take his seat, head bowed.
This time the delay had been caused by pall bearers loading a coffin into a hearse!
The passengers sniggered.
"Bastards!" said Quilted-jacket-man.
From than on, he was silent, but continued to gesticulate as if his life depended on it.
*the British version of 'The Finger'
Now, you know what a bus looks like on the inside ... they are all fairly similar; two or three inwards facing seats, the others facing forward on the left and right along the length of the bus with an aisle in the middle ... so I won't bore you with intricate details ... although I think I just did.
What most buses have in common are those poles from ceiling to floor at the aisle-end of alternate seats.
I never, ever, sit on those seats if it can be at all avoided.
It's all because of odours.
Vile, stinky, smelly, cheesy armpit odours!
Y'see, everyone, except the real oldies on the bus, will get up and start walking to the front whilst the bus is still in motion.
This means that the poles are used as support.
This means at any given time during a bus journey, at least one disgusting armpit will hover above your head, sometimes for minutes at a time, until the bus stops and they get off!
Today ... wouldn't ya just know it ... the bus was full to bursting and I ended up in one of the aisle seats with a pole.
Three times (Yes, three!!!) a passenger of dubious personal hygiene stood above me allowing their nausea inducing 'scent' to drift over me.
In my profession I have to deal with some pretty stink situations ... but those armpits!!!!
Although it was now several hours ago, the memory of those smells are still with me and I fear that I may have been scarred for life!
Anyway, all that aside, today we were also treated to a floor show of sorts.
The 'performance' came from an elderly man in an over large quilted jacket. He sat on an inward facing seat directly behind the driver and was what I could only describe as a 'serial gesticulator'. That is to say, that whatever seemed to be going through his mind was 'enacted' with a series of arm/hand gestures and finger twitching.
At first it was merely amusing, but then the bus was delayed when we encountered a dustbin truck that was blocking the street ahead of us.
Quilted-jacket-man jumped to his feet, his arms waving wildly and his mouth silently, but with an aggressive expression on his face, spouting obscenities at the crew of the dustbin truck.
When we eventually managed to pass them, he began tapping his watch, indicating the delay that they had caused, and offered up that age-old British silent comment; the two fingered salute*.
Minutes later there was another delay and Quilted-jacket-man responded by instantly leaping from his seat (where he had bee silently gesticulating) and moved to the front of the bus, his arms flailing as he displayed his displeasure.
This time, however, the object of his silent rage thwarted him, and he was forced to take his seat, head bowed.
This time the delay had been caused by pall bearers loading a coffin into a hearse!
The passengers sniggered.
"Bastards!" said Quilted-jacket-man.
From than on, he was silent, but continued to gesticulate as if his life depended on it.
*the British version of 'The Finger'
Thursday, 22 March 2012
Miwitchoo?
It was bus day today!
And guess what! Nothing happened! Nothing! Zilch!
We got on ... it moved ... it stopped ... it started ... stopped ... etc. ... we got off!
I was so unimpressed.
Where were the funny grannies? The old men? The good looking young women? Where was the rich source of blog-fodder that I'd become accustomed to?
In stead of enjoying a chuckle/eavesdrop/ogle, I was forced to sit there just looking out of the window.
I mean, c'mon! What kind of a journey is that? I was so bored that I ended up playing the 'Youwitme?' game with my client.
"Youwitme?"
"Yeah!"
"Miwitchoo?"
"Yeah!"
"Oh nooooooooo!"
We also tried the 'Miyourfren?' game, which has a similar format to 'Youwitme?'. Each game terminates with an "Oh nooooooooo!", which is, for want of a better explanation, my clients catchphrase.
It passed the time (forty minutes) even if it did raise one or two eyebrows and at least one audible "You're mad, you are!" from a spotty-faced, nerdy-type teenager.
The return journey was sadly more of the same, with one exception!
Just two stops before we were due to leave the bus, my thoughts were turned to crampons, ropes, and pink mountains as a tall, slim blonde boarded the bus. Her ample bosom caused male heads to turn and her low cut top, displaying a huge expanse of cleavage, brought forth a mumbling and an occasional tut from some of the female passengers. There was also one "Well, I never!" from a granny near the front of the bus.
The driver, momentarily in love, waited (and watched) until she had negotiated her way by wiggle and
jiggle to a seat. Up until that point the last passenger boarding at every stop had to endure being catapulted to the back of the bus (whether they wanted to be there or not) by the jerking motion of the bus pulling away from the kerb (you've gotta love a bus driver with a sense of humour!).
As she slinked her way passed us to a seat near the rear, we were briefly engulfed in the passing shadow of her bosom.
My client waved to her. She waved back.
I just wished that he'd been able to ask for her number!
He would have probably got it too!
And guess what! Nothing happened! Nothing! Zilch!
We got on ... it moved ... it stopped ... it started ... stopped ... etc. ... we got off!
I was so unimpressed.
Where were the funny grannies? The old men? The good looking young women? Where was the rich source of blog-fodder that I'd become accustomed to?
In stead of enjoying a chuckle/eavesdrop/ogle, I was forced to sit there just looking out of the window.
I mean, c'mon! What kind of a journey is that? I was so bored that I ended up playing the 'Youwitme?' game with my client.
"Youwitme?"
"Yeah!"
"Miwitchoo?"
"Yeah!"
"Oh nooooooooo!"
We also tried the 'Miyourfren?' game, which has a similar format to 'Youwitme?'. Each game terminates with an "Oh nooooooooo!", which is, for want of a better explanation, my clients catchphrase.
It passed the time (forty minutes) even if it did raise one or two eyebrows and at least one audible "You're mad, you are!" from a spotty-faced, nerdy-type teenager.
The return journey was sadly more of the same, with one exception!
Just two stops before we were due to leave the bus, my thoughts were turned to crampons, ropes, and pink mountains as a tall, slim blonde boarded the bus. Her ample bosom caused male heads to turn and her low cut top, displaying a huge expanse of cleavage, brought forth a mumbling and an occasional tut from some of the female passengers. There was also one "Well, I never!" from a granny near the front of the bus.
The driver, momentarily in love, waited (and watched) until she had negotiated her way by wiggle and
jiggle to a seat. Up until that point the last passenger boarding at every stop had to endure being catapulted to the back of the bus (whether they wanted to be there or not) by the jerking motion of the bus pulling away from the kerb (you've gotta love a bus driver with a sense of humour!).
As she slinked her way passed us to a seat near the rear, we were briefly engulfed in the passing shadow of her bosom.
My client waved to her. She waved back.
I just wished that he'd been able to ask for her number!
He would have probably got it too!
Thursday, 8 March 2012
Love Isn't A Kiss. Love Is Holding On!
It was fifteen minutes late.
The bus! It was fifteen minutes late.
By the time we reached the halfway point - where the new driver boards - we were twenty five minutes late.
Just another day on the bus, you might think, but no! Today we were treated with a novice driver's on his first solo outing. Oh, the ride was smooth, carried out with precision and, dare I say it, a certain style (he sang the My Way as he drove), but he was so slow!
The new driver; the one that got on at the halfway point, (a grizzled, silver-haired man-mountain) did not look impressed as he took control of the bus.
We flew through the narrow streets of Porth, the bus swaying, swerving and skidding like a Formula1 racing car (that'll be an Indy 500 car for OTPD's*), finally reaching our destination (Pontypridd) a mere seven minutes behind schedule.
You should have seen the faces of those folks at bus-stops he didn't bother to stop at.
During the journey ... the first and more relaxing part ... I did manage an observation or two.
Firstly, there was the pimply-faced youth listening to his i-pod.
He wore shorts and, as the driver kept forgetting to close the door, he must have been freezing as the blast of cold air blew straight up to the back of the bus (where we sat) turning it into a mini, mobile Siberia. There was a quiet tinkling, an occasional clang and the sound of tiny, squeaky voices which led me to believe that a miniature stepladder had found it's way into his scrotum and two very cold testicles were attempting to evacuate the scrotum for the warmth of the place from whence they came.
Next there was the huge, dark-haired harridan with hooves that stamped her way up the aisle and sat just in front of us. I say 'hooves' because that's how it seemed. Her calf-length boots were both unzipped and folded down and forward thus covering her feet making them look like hooves. She was a big woman and the word 'buffalo' sprung to mind. She talked to herself. She recited her shopping list aloud, sometimes mentally adding an item with a "Oh, yes! I could do with some of those and maybe a ...".
Anyway, at her stop, as she got up from her seat, she managed to drop one of her plastic bags, of which she had several, into the aisle.
As she bent to retrieve it, I swear to God I heard the millions of atoms that made up the material of her leggings clearly scream "Oh No! Not again!" as they struggled to contain her oversized and gelatinous buttocks. The black material of her leggings was stretched to the extreme, revealing the pink colour of her expansive underwear.
It was not a sight that I would care to witness again! I'm pretty sure I'm going to need therapy for post traumatic stress!
Thirdly, on the second half of our journey, which I almost described as 'hair-raising' (but didn't, seeing as I'm still bald, that would have been untrue. And I always tell the truth!), was memorable due to a young couple who were standing (the bus was full at this time) in the space reserved for wheelchairs. They were all over each other and were seemingly deeply in love.
Then it all went pear shaped!
He was leaning against the window.
She stood facing him, her back to the aisle, and he had his arms around her waist.
They were in the process of sucking each others faces from their heads.
The bus pulled away from a bus-stop and into main stream traffic.
The driver accelerated, only to be thwarted by someone pulling out in front of him and taking his priority.
The driver slams on the brakes.
We all shoot forward.
Our two love-puppies also shoot forward.
The young man lets go of his girl friend's waist and grabs a hand rail.
There is a sound.
"Thwupppp"!
Their lips are pulled apart.
She shoots sideways sown the aisle screaming.
He watches, as we all do.
She, now two rows further forward, grabs a hand rail.
She turns and falls backwards over the lap of a somewhat surprised, but now very happy, old man.
He tries to help her up.
She screamed again and uttered a series of expletives punctuated by "perv" and "dirty old man".
We all laugh.
She stamps back to her boyfriend, demands to know why he let go of her, then she punches him in the shoulder before he can reply.
Everyone on the bus was sniggering. It was hardly surprising when they got off at the next stop.
* OTPD = Over The Pond Dwellers
The bus! It was fifteen minutes late.
By the time we reached the halfway point - where the new driver boards - we were twenty five minutes late.
Just another day on the bus, you might think, but no! Today we were treated with a novice driver's on his first solo outing. Oh, the ride was smooth, carried out with precision and, dare I say it, a certain style (he sang the My Way as he drove), but he was so slow!
The new driver; the one that got on at the halfway point, (a grizzled, silver-haired man-mountain) did not look impressed as he took control of the bus.
We flew through the narrow streets of Porth, the bus swaying, swerving and skidding like a Formula1 racing car (that'll be an Indy 500 car for OTPD's*), finally reaching our destination (Pontypridd) a mere seven minutes behind schedule.
You should have seen the faces of those folks at bus-stops he didn't bother to stop at.
During the journey ... the first and more relaxing part ... I did manage an observation or two.
Firstly, there was the pimply-faced youth listening to his i-pod.
He wore shorts and, as the driver kept forgetting to close the door, he must have been freezing as the blast of cold air blew straight up to the back of the bus (where we sat) turning it into a mini, mobile Siberia. There was a quiet tinkling, an occasional clang and the sound of tiny, squeaky voices which led me to believe that a miniature stepladder had found it's way into his scrotum and two very cold testicles were attempting to evacuate the scrotum for the warmth of the place from whence they came.
Next there was the huge, dark-haired harridan with hooves that stamped her way up the aisle and sat just in front of us. I say 'hooves' because that's how it seemed. Her calf-length boots were both unzipped and folded down and forward thus covering her feet making them look like hooves. She was a big woman and the word 'buffalo' sprung to mind. She talked to herself. She recited her shopping list aloud, sometimes mentally adding an item with a "Oh, yes! I could do with some of those and maybe a ...".
Anyway, at her stop, as she got up from her seat, she managed to drop one of her plastic bags, of which she had several, into the aisle.
As she bent to retrieve it, I swear to God I heard the millions of atoms that made up the material of her leggings clearly scream "Oh No! Not again!" as they struggled to contain her oversized and gelatinous buttocks. The black material of her leggings was stretched to the extreme, revealing the pink colour of her expansive underwear.
It was not a sight that I would care to witness again! I'm pretty sure I'm going to need therapy for post traumatic stress!
Thirdly, on the second half of our journey, which I almost described as 'hair-raising' (but didn't, seeing as I'm still bald, that would have been untrue. And I always tell the truth!), was memorable due to a young couple who were standing (the bus was full at this time) in the space reserved for wheelchairs. They were all over each other and were seemingly deeply in love.
Then it all went pear shaped!
He was leaning against the window.
She stood facing him, her back to the aisle, and he had his arms around her waist.
They were in the process of sucking each others faces from their heads.
The bus pulled away from a bus-stop and into main stream traffic.
The driver accelerated, only to be thwarted by someone pulling out in front of him and taking his priority.
The driver slams on the brakes.
We all shoot forward.
Our two love-puppies also shoot forward.
The young man lets go of his girl friend's waist and grabs a hand rail.
There is a sound.
"Thwupppp"!
Their lips are pulled apart.
She shoots sideways sown the aisle screaming.
He watches, as we all do.
She, now two rows further forward, grabs a hand rail.
She turns and falls backwards over the lap of a somewhat surprised, but now very happy, old man.
He tries to help her up.
She screamed again and uttered a series of expletives punctuated by "perv" and "dirty old man".
We all laugh.
She stamps back to her boyfriend, demands to know why he let go of her, then she punches him in the shoulder before he can reply.
Everyone on the bus was sniggering. It was hardly surprising when they got off at the next stop.
* OTPD = Over The Pond Dwellers
Thursday, 23 February 2012
10 Observations Made On The #130 Bus to Pontypridd*
- Unsupervised children lick windows.
- More than one fat person waddling up the aisle make the bus rock sufficiently to cause seasickness.
- The loudest person on the bus always sits next to me.
- There is always chewing-gum stuck to the seat I sit on.
- There is always one person on the bus that needs the toilet and lets everyone know what'll happen if they don't go soon.
- When two buses park opposite each other, someone always starts a silent conversation with a passenger they know on the other bus (mostly only women do this as 'womanly secrets' are quite often passed back and forth using the 'lip reading' method of conversation to avoid husbands from hearing anything).
- Bus drivers stop at least 3 metres past the point at which passengers are supposed to mount the bus.
- Bus drivers will quite often stop at the wrong side of the bus stop, thus causing the waiting passengers-to-be to troop to the other end, only to have the bus driver correct his error and move to the proper boarding point and, seeing no one waiting, he will promptly drive off before they can troop back.
- The weirdest passengers ALL know each other and hold conversations that are shouted, not spoken.
- If you don't shift your arse down that aisle when you reach your stop, don't expect the driver to react to your frantic cries for him to wait a moment.
* These observations were made over a number of weeks. I would hate to be responsible putting anyone off travelling
on one of our wonderful buses.
on one of our wonderful buses.
Friday, 17 February 2012
Another Bus
There must be a TWS* on every bus route.
There certainly was today. And the bus was gibbous** with passengers!
TWS's, for those unaware of their purpose, are intended to fulfil one function only; they facilitate KBOS*.
As a by-product however, they manage to generate a certain amount of PR*, which results in POP* and, if not countered effectively, eventually BRAWL*!
Too much POP = BRAWL!!!
Today we narrowly missed BRAWL (due to the passenger involved being over 80 years old) and achieved a minor BOAA* instead, which held us up for approximately five minutes.
At the WTS, the granny (let's call her Edna!) shouted to the driver "I'm getting off at the next stop! Could you please get a move on or I'll pee all over the seat".
The bus driver, without looking, shouted back "Regulations! Sorry!"
Edna at this point stood up and began a shuffling, stamping dance whilst holding her hand to her nether regions. "This is ridiculous! I'm getting off now!"
She stamped to the front of the bus and got off.
The rest of us looked on (out of the window) as Edna high-tailed it onto a patch of waste land behind the bus shelter and, still clearly visible to all of us, dropped her bag, hiked up her coat and skirt and, without regard to all and sundry, took a leak!
This prompted a number of chuckles as Edna took her unscheduled relief and more than a few verbal reprimands and derogatory comments aimed at the driver who, wrapped in his impenetrable armour otherwise known as 'regulations', ignored us entirely.
He did however allow Edna, now simultaneously blushing and seething with anger, to re-board the bus.
It was just another day on the buses.
How was your day?
* TWS = Time Wasting Stop
KBOS = Keep Bus On Schedule
PR = Passenger Resentment
POP = Pissed Off Passengers
BRAWL = Brawl
BOAA = Bit Of An Argument
** I'm so pleased I found space for this word without mentioning the moon!
There certainly was today. And the bus was gibbous** with passengers!
TWS's, for those unaware of their purpose, are intended to fulfil one function only; they facilitate KBOS*.
As a by-product however, they manage to generate a certain amount of PR*, which results in POP* and, if not countered effectively, eventually BRAWL*!
Too much POP = BRAWL!!!
Today we narrowly missed BRAWL (due to the passenger involved being over 80 years old) and achieved a minor BOAA* instead, which held us up for approximately five minutes.
At the WTS, the granny (let's call her Edna!) shouted to the driver "I'm getting off at the next stop! Could you please get a move on or I'll pee all over the seat".
The bus driver, without looking, shouted back "Regulations! Sorry!"
Edna at this point stood up and began a shuffling, stamping dance whilst holding her hand to her nether regions. "This is ridiculous! I'm getting off now!"
She stamped to the front of the bus and got off.
The rest of us looked on (out of the window) as Edna high-tailed it onto a patch of waste land behind the bus shelter and, still clearly visible to all of us, dropped her bag, hiked up her coat and skirt and, without regard to all and sundry, took a leak!
This prompted a number of chuckles as Edna took her unscheduled relief and more than a few verbal reprimands and derogatory comments aimed at the driver who, wrapped in his impenetrable armour otherwise known as 'regulations', ignored us entirely.
He did however allow Edna, now simultaneously blushing and seething with anger, to re-board the bus.
It was just another day on the buses.
How was your day?
* TWS = Time Wasting Stop
KBOS = Keep Bus On Schedule
PR = Passenger Resentment
POP = Pissed Off Passengers
BRAWL = Brawl
BOAA = Bit Of An Argument
** I'm so pleased I found space for this word without mentioning the moon!
Thursday, 22 December 2011
Another Day, Another Bus!
Today I would like to sing the praises of the bus drivers of South Wales, as dedicated and daring a bunch (insert the correct group noun for bus drivers if you know it) of rapscallions you could ever have the pleasure of crossing paths with.
Let me take you through today's journey.
The bus arrived at five past ten this morning. A full five minutes early! We boarded, flashing our bus passes as we did so, then proceeded to sit on the bus for ten minutes whilst the driver ate a sandwich and poured tea from a flask. At a quarter past ten he drove on. Now we were running a full five minutes late!
Almost immediately the bus was directed towards the narrow streets of Tonypandy where he jinked and jived that bus this way and that to a chorus of Whoa's and Phew's from the passengers.
To his credit, and he would no doubt argue it was due to his great skill, no wing mirror's were clipped and no pedestrians were squished on our way to the main bus stop of the town.
There were numerous stops along the route but the one that sticks in my mind was in the town of Porth, where we parked up in the bus depot and our driver left us. For approximately ten minutes we sat there with nothing to do but idly peruse the occupants of the bus next to us and was in a similar, driver-less predicament.
I tried hard not to let my eyes linger too long on the red hot blonde beauty on the other bus but, to my shame,I did check her out several times. Two seats in front of this beauty I saw a child of perhaps 5 or six doing his best to keep the bus he was on tidy and clean by slowly licking the inside of the window. He stopped occasionally to poke his tongue out at me.
When our new driver arrived he immediately, and much to our annoyance, refrained from boarding and joined a group of his colleagues to express hearty and manly greetings and exchange pleasantries of, I presume, bus driver-ly nature.
When he finally did take his place behind the wheel and started the engine we were, by my watch, running fifteen minutes late and passenger tempers were beginning to fray.
This is when a bus drivers wicked sense of humour comes into play. You see, in order to get himself, his bus and indeed us, back on schedule we were treated to not one, but two, demonstrations of bus driver mean bastard-ness of the highest order.
This is what happened:
Later, just before we reached our destination (Pontypridd), there was another incident which raised eyebrows and infuriated would-be passengers. At a bus stop stood six or seven people, several of whom stuck out their arms to alert our driver to their presence.
Did he stop at the right place?
No!
He drove at least twenty metres passed the stop and parked beside three men in florescent jackets. The men were obviously fellow bus drivers, and colleagues of our driver, exercising their right to free bus travel.
Once again a stream of would-be passengers jogged, waddled and hobbled towards the doors of the bus but our bus driver, who seemed totally devoid of any kind of Christmas spirit, had other ideas and pulled back onto the road.
We got off the bus at the next stop, but I couldn't help wondering if our driver would continue on his one man mission to selflessly piss-off any and all passengers during the rest of his trip to his final destination of Caerphilly.
Let me take you through today's journey.
The bus arrived at five past ten this morning. A full five minutes early! We boarded, flashing our bus passes as we did so, then proceeded to sit on the bus for ten minutes whilst the driver ate a sandwich and poured tea from a flask. At a quarter past ten he drove on. Now we were running a full five minutes late!
Almost immediately the bus was directed towards the narrow streets of Tonypandy where he jinked and jived that bus this way and that to a chorus of Whoa's and Phew's from the passengers.
To his credit, and he would no doubt argue it was due to his great skill, no wing mirror's were clipped and no pedestrians were squished on our way to the main bus stop of the town.
Now the towns of the welsh valleys date back to a time when a persons only means of transport were his/her feet or pony and trap. They were never planned and built without thought for modern forms of mass transport and therefore you will quite often find the front doors of the terraced houses are very near to the road. As almost every family now has a car the parking in those towns is strictly limited and, in quite a few places, illegal so, as you can imagine, driving a bus through them is not an easy affair.
There were numerous stops along the route but the one that sticks in my mind was in the town of Porth, where we parked up in the bus depot and our driver left us. For approximately ten minutes we sat there with nothing to do but idly peruse the occupants of the bus next to us and was in a similar, driver-less predicament.
I tried hard not to let my eyes linger too long on the red hot blonde beauty on the other bus but, to my shame,I did check her out several times. Two seats in front of this beauty I saw a child of perhaps 5 or six doing his best to keep the bus he was on tidy and clean by slowly licking the inside of the window. He stopped occasionally to poke his tongue out at me.
When our new driver arrived he immediately, and much to our annoyance, refrained from boarding and joined a group of his colleagues to express hearty and manly greetings and exchange pleasantries of, I presume, bus driver-ly nature.
When he finally did take his place behind the wheel and started the engine we were, by my watch, running fifteen minutes late and passenger tempers were beginning to fray.
This is when a bus drivers wicked sense of humour comes into play. You see, in order to get himself, his bus and indeed us, back on schedule we were treated to not one, but two, demonstrations of bus driver mean bastard-ness of the highest order.
This is what happened:
- He deliberately pulled up at a stop at the wrong end of the bus shelter
- Realising this, the passengers troop to the back of the shelter in order to board
- On seeing that the would-be passengers were almost at the door of the bus, the driver pulled forward to the correct boarding point.
- The would-be passengers turn, complaining, and troop back to the front of the shelter.
- The bus driver, seeing no one at the correct boarding point pulls out and back into traffic, leaving a gaggle of irate would-be's waving there arms and throwing umbrella's after the bus.
Later, just before we reached our destination (Pontypridd), there was another incident which raised eyebrows and infuriated would-be passengers. At a bus stop stood six or seven people, several of whom stuck out their arms to alert our driver to their presence.
Did he stop at the right place?
No!
He drove at least twenty metres passed the stop and parked beside three men in florescent jackets. The men were obviously fellow bus drivers, and colleagues of our driver, exercising their right to free bus travel.
Once again a stream of would-be passengers jogged, waddled and hobbled towards the doors of the bus but our bus driver, who seemed totally devoid of any kind of Christmas spirit, had other ideas and pulled back onto the road.
We got off the bus at the next stop, but I couldn't help wondering if our driver would continue on his one man mission to selflessly piss-off any and all passengers during the rest of his trip to his final destination of Caerphilly.
Friday, 9 December 2011
The Bus Ride
Ok. Where to start?
With the driver I suppose ... no, wait! Let's talk about the weather first.
I was windy, cold and it was raining. I was at times very nearly blown off my feet and I was very cold. So cold, in fact, that if I had needed to go for a leek, a search and rescue unit would have had to be called in order to find my todger (hold your thumb and forefinger approximately half and inch apart. That'll tell you how cold I was)!
And it rained! Although just saying 'it rained' makes me feel as if I am doing it an injustice! I mean, I could not see more than 30 or 40 feet through the driving rain and it came down so damned hard that it bounced back up and under my coat soaking my trousers all the way up to my backside. Anyway, it rained!
Right, let's get back to the driver.
He looked thin and haggard and had a Dracula-like V of hair that seemed to creep down his forehead each time he blinked. In my mind I named him Bela (after Bela Lugosi). After several minutes of our journey, I renamed him Pothole Charlie due to the fact that he successfully navigated his was from stop to stop via every pothole on the road! And there were many on that thirty-five minute bus ride.
Passengers of note, and there were a lot of them getting on and off, were Mr. Steroid, Granny Gymnast and Goth Girl XXL.
Let me start with Goth Girl XXL. She wore, as you would expect, those ridiculous boots covered in chrome studs and the clothes in the traditional Goth colour of black. Her coat was an old army greatcoat inexpertly dyed ... black, believe it or not. Goth Girl was HUGE ... it is quite possible that there was another X in there somewhere ... so there was little chance of her ever buttoning her coat up against the cold. Beneath her coat she was clad in black T-shirt and black jeans, both seemed to be straining as if desperate to hold her bulk in some sort of shape other than that of a gelatinous blob.
After she purchased her ticket she began to struggle down the narrow aisle to find a seat. Sadly she never made it to a seat as, try as she might, she could not squeeze her bulk through, much to the amusement of my fellow passengers and to her annoyance. For the remainder of her trip she remained standing, grumbling continuously at the poor standards of our buses.
Next there was Mr. Steroid, or Man-Mountain if you prefer, who sat near the front of the bus occupying two seats with his muscle bound body. Despite the weather, he wore nothing but tracksuit bottoms, a sleeveless muscle shirt and a small (too small for his size) denim jacket that was full of 'designer' holes. Above the collar of his jacket a huge triangular muscle rose up, eliminating any prospect of a neck, to the base of his skull giving a good indication of what lay beneath his clothes. Actually, now I think of it, even his ears had muscles!
And last, but not least, there was Granny Gymnast. She was a small, dinky woman. Frail looking and unsteady on her feet as boarded the bus using a zimmer-frame. I clearly heard her speak to the Pothole Charlie as she flashed her bus pass.
"Will you wait until I get seated before you drive off?" she asked.
I couldn't hear Charlie's answer, but judging by Grannies smile, it seemed to be the one she was hoping for, so she proceeded to try and find a seat.
She had hardly managed two tottering steps up the aisle when the bus jerked forward and moved back into traffic.
Grannies zimmer-frame slammed onto the floor at the same time as her feet left it and continued to rise as her head went forwards and down. She was half way into a perfect handstand on her zimmer-frame when, at a speed you wouldn't expect from a chunk of beef of that size, Mr. Steroid was up and diving towards her,
He caught hold of her with one muscular arm around her almost horizontal waist and pulled her to him.
Goth Girl laughed and shouted "Nice one!" as Mr. Steroid righted granny and assisted her to a seat. He then went and remonstrated with the driver.
Granny composed herself and said "Well that's one that'll amuse the grand kids when I tell 'em".
At the next stop I had to get off and was thus destined to miss the rest (if any) of the on-board entertainment.
Had I known that bus journeys could be so much fun, I would have never bought a car!
With the driver I suppose ... no, wait! Let's talk about the weather first.
I was windy, cold and it was raining. I was at times very nearly blown off my feet and I was very cold. So cold, in fact, that if I had needed to go for a leek, a search and rescue unit would have had to be called in order to find my todger (hold your thumb and forefinger approximately half and inch apart. That'll tell you how cold I was)!
And it rained! Although just saying 'it rained' makes me feel as if I am doing it an injustice! I mean, I could not see more than 30 or 40 feet through the driving rain and it came down so damned hard that it bounced back up and under my coat soaking my trousers all the way up to my backside. Anyway, it rained!
Right, let's get back to the driver.
He looked thin and haggard and had a Dracula-like V of hair that seemed to creep down his forehead each time he blinked. In my mind I named him Bela (after Bela Lugosi). After several minutes of our journey, I renamed him Pothole Charlie due to the fact that he successfully navigated his was from stop to stop via every pothole on the road! And there were many on that thirty-five minute bus ride.
Passengers of note, and there were a lot of them getting on and off, were Mr. Steroid, Granny Gymnast and Goth Girl XXL.
Let me start with Goth Girl XXL. She wore, as you would expect, those ridiculous boots covered in chrome studs and the clothes in the traditional Goth colour of black. Her coat was an old army greatcoat inexpertly dyed ... black, believe it or not. Goth Girl was HUGE ... it is quite possible that there was another X in there somewhere ... so there was little chance of her ever buttoning her coat up against the cold. Beneath her coat she was clad in black T-shirt and black jeans, both seemed to be straining as if desperate to hold her bulk in some sort of shape other than that of a gelatinous blob.
After she purchased her ticket she began to struggle down the narrow aisle to find a seat. Sadly she never made it to a seat as, try as she might, she could not squeeze her bulk through, much to the amusement of my fellow passengers and to her annoyance. For the remainder of her trip she remained standing, grumbling continuously at the poor standards of our buses.
Next there was Mr. Steroid, or Man-Mountain if you prefer, who sat near the front of the bus occupying two seats with his muscle bound body. Despite the weather, he wore nothing but tracksuit bottoms, a sleeveless muscle shirt and a small (too small for his size) denim jacket that was full of 'designer' holes. Above the collar of his jacket a huge triangular muscle rose up, eliminating any prospect of a neck, to the base of his skull giving a good indication of what lay beneath his clothes. Actually, now I think of it, even his ears had muscles!
And last, but not least, there was Granny Gymnast. She was a small, dinky woman. Frail looking and unsteady on her feet as boarded the bus using a zimmer-frame. I clearly heard her speak to the Pothole Charlie as she flashed her bus pass.
"Will you wait until I get seated before you drive off?" she asked.
I couldn't hear Charlie's answer, but judging by Grannies smile, it seemed to be the one she was hoping for, so she proceeded to try and find a seat.
She had hardly managed two tottering steps up the aisle when the bus jerked forward and moved back into traffic.
Grannies zimmer-frame slammed onto the floor at the same time as her feet left it and continued to rise as her head went forwards and down. She was half way into a perfect handstand on her zimmer-frame when, at a speed you wouldn't expect from a chunk of beef of that size, Mr. Steroid was up and diving towards her,
He caught hold of her with one muscular arm around her almost horizontal waist and pulled her to him.
Goth Girl laughed and shouted "Nice one!" as Mr. Steroid righted granny and assisted her to a seat. He then went and remonstrated with the driver.
Granny composed herself and said "Well that's one that'll amuse the grand kids when I tell 'em".
At the next stop I had to get off and was thus destined to miss the rest (if any) of the on-board entertainment.
Had I known that bus journeys could be so much fun, I would have never bought a car!
Friday, 18 November 2011
Dog Day Afternoon!
Dog's.
Yes, dog's again. What? Have I not mentioned that I have three dog's?
Oh, come on! I must've done.
Look! I did, a'right!!!
Anyway, whether I have or haven't is irrelevant, because I have ... got three dog's.
Oh bum! Ya see? All that prevaricating (you, not me) has made me forget my subject for today.
It doesn't matter. I'll tell you a joke instead.
An old was taking her dead cat to the pet cemetery.
As she boarded the bus, she whispered to the driver "I have a dead pussy".
The driver pointed to the woman in the seat behind him and said, "Sit with my wife. You two have a lot in common".
The driver pointed to the woman in the seat behind him and said, "Sit with my wife. You two have a lot in common".
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