On The Buses

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First Posted on 25th February 2004 by Jimmy

The day some scrote robbed and burnt out my car was a day that will live long in my memory.

I woke up one Saturday morning still half cooked to the sound of the phone ringing and a WPC on the other end of the line - "We've found your car burnt out in some fields near Gidlow Cemetery. ". "Yeah right f*** off" said I, assuming a wind up. Well no, I didn't of course but it's what I thought. Een better, I had not got around to getting the bloody thing insured either, it was Christmas, where let's face it, most people's money is tied up elsewhere, mainly the pub in my case.

This car was only ever a signing in a Paul Jones signs for the Scousers way so insuring the bugger wasn't seen to be of top priority. Public transport is shite. Apart from those good folk who live in a busy and thriving metropolis where the level of traffic makes driving into work nigh on impossible, no sane person uses public transport. An uneasy mix of the young and old, the mental and the strange, buses in particular seem to attract the bottom 10% of the country's social classes. Yeah it's cheap and effective but then so are Campri ski jackets, let's face it in both instances you'd still dive under the seat in the event of someone remotely recognising you.

Wednesday nights were a complete nightmare as all the spotty 15 year olds head into town for the legendary Wednesday night under 18's shagfest at Maximes. I don't consider myself to be an old mon, I like to think I'm quite in touch with youth but these lot are the epitomy of vulgarity. Several times I have had to square up to the gang of little shits as they have either been chucking stuff at the girl behind me or calling her names that would make a navvy blush. They also do a nice line in spitting at each other and tales of graphic sexual encounters, undoubtedly fictitious, but quite amusing all the same listening to these little scamps telling the entire bus that Caprice in Year 11 has a smelly fanny which they've had three fingers up. It is also traditional for the scrote wannabe to show their appreciation to the harassed driver by lobbing a brick at the bus after they have got off.

Also amusing is the middle aged alco who invariably doesn't have far to walk to the bus stop (because he slept there) and is waiting there wide eyed at 7am cheerily swigging away on a bottle of cider. He will insist on sitting next to you even though there are 54 spare seats and if you are very fortunate he may even offer you a glug of his happy juice. He smells like a farmyard and farts at will. It does have some things going for it though - there is occasionally a smattering of fit birds knocking about. Trying to strike up a conversation is a cardinal sin of course, but you can help your hell like journey pass by quicker by having a good gawp at their tits, in fact serious fantasies can develop in next to no time on the most average looking of women, although nothing in comparison to the Maximes posse above of course. I even manage to lure one dusky beauty from Westhoughton for a drink once, and she poured out her heart to me about the bloke she was living with was working her all hours (oh stoppit, dirty) and there was a film she'd really like to see.

But I've never been the opportunistic type and a few weeks later as my new motor arrived I thought about pulling over when I drove past her while she froze at the bus stop. It was then concluded that people who travel on the bus have serious problems and I'd be better off finding a bird who can drive so that I can be the one to get pissed.

To conclude: buses are for loonies and Joe Hawkins.


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