Chris Gibbs
14th March 2008, 01:18 PM
Hello Chaps (and chapesses, wouldn't want be sexist, sexy yes, sexist no)
While I’ve not been able to drive I’ve been introduced to a totally new experience – bus travel.
In case you’re not familiar with the concept, I’ll explain it.
No doubt you’ve noticed these things when you’re out and about, just check the front of any traffic jam. Basically they are a huge brightly coloured car with many, many seats on them. The chauffeur sits in a little plastic box at the front, presumably they have to separate him from the general public because he is so surly and unpleasant. Everyone on the bus has to tip him when they get on, large amounts of money too, but this doesn’t seem to make him any happier.
The big car picks up hitch hikers that stand by the side of the road, again in a little plastic box or sometimes a little box surrounded by broken glass (this is connected with some sort of ancient ritual I believe). The boxes are decorated by the hitch hikers, sometimes with car spray but mostly with marker pens, Reading their etchings is a good way to improve your vocabulary of swear words, and they always use their corporate logo, a big picture of a penis – classy. The boxes are about ten minutes walk from where you live. Always.
As you stand in the box, watching the freezing rain bounce off the head of the bald bloke in front, the first clue you get that one of the carriages is approaching is that it’s twenty minutes after it’s supposed to come. They have a thing called a “timetable” but you might as well use a calendar. As the sleek machine arrives you will notice that the bus company have hit upon a great cost cutting idea, by using pre 1974 vehicles they get free tax. Depending on the direction of the wind you might get to taste the huge clouds of diesel fume emanating from the engine. Then the doors open with a swish. Well one opens, the other judders and stays where it is until the lead hitch hiker gives it a push.
Once you’re in the vehicle you can take in the surroundings. Some of the seats are reserved for the disabled or those who are too lazy to fold pushchairs, some of them are also reserved for people who inspect the inside of the seats by cutting them open with a knife.
Walking up the contraption the first thing you notice is an important safety feature, the floor is sticky. I presume this is to help you walk when the bus is in motion, which is good, although personally I would have used some sort of adhesive like they have on post-it notes, rather that urine, chewing gum and dried blood.
As you sit down, after checking that the seat that the seat isn’t in the same condition as the floor, you look at the other inmates, sorry, passengers.
You won’t believe this but, they let ANYONE get on. Really, so long as you have the tip for the driver or a card saying you are old or have paid the bus company gratuities up front, ANYONE can ride. As you can imagine this makes the clientèle quite varied.
There are normal people, I want to make that clear, at least outwardly, but then when Sky news interview the neighbours of a mass murderer they always say “he was just a normal bloke” don’t they? They look reasonably normal in any case.
There’s a man shouting on his mobile phone so loudly that he could save his inclusive minutes by simply opening a window – they’d hear him. Sitting on the bench seat is a twelve year old and her three kids. She screams at them in turn before roughly chucking them on to their perch, “Charrdonay Maddona, leave Britney Sabrina alone, why can’t you sit quietly Like Adventura Stefani??”
A frail old lady stands and picks up her stick and presses the bell to let the surly man know that she wants to get off at the next pile of broken glass. He helps her as best he can by roaring up to the stop and then braking so fiercely that she runs down the bus like Linford Christie and bounces off the front windscreen.
“Thank You” she says as she hobbles off, the driver gives her a cheery “Uh”.
Who else?
Well there’s a man who smells of wee with a shivering dog on a piece of string and a filthy handkerchief and a bloke in leathers holding a helmet. I sort of wonder if he’s on his way to pick up a bike or if he’s fallen off one, maybe it’s just a fetish. There’s 35 school kids all swearing like troopers and smacking each other, the boys are no better either.
The atmos was quite frankly rank, so I opened a window. The woman behind me closed it. So I opened it again and she closed it. I considered my options and opened it again.
“What’s your game?” she says.
“Draughts” I replied “And it’s your turn”.
Basically a bus is a form of motorised medieval torture, but, as ever, I have the answer!
Make them smaller, say between 2 and 7 seats and drive them yourself, so that the misery can get a job he likes. Only allow people who aren’t likely to soil the seats to travel and give them a windy window each. Some way of controlling the temperature would be nice as would your favourite music. Plan the routes so that they go from your house to where you want to go, at the actual time you want to leave.
I’m thinking of patenting the idea – I’m going to call it a “car”
Cheers
Chris :)
While I’ve not been able to drive I’ve been introduced to a totally new experience – bus travel.
In case you’re not familiar with the concept, I’ll explain it.
No doubt you’ve noticed these things when you’re out and about, just check the front of any traffic jam. Basically they are a huge brightly coloured car with many, many seats on them. The chauffeur sits in a little plastic box at the front, presumably they have to separate him from the general public because he is so surly and unpleasant. Everyone on the bus has to tip him when they get on, large amounts of money too, but this doesn’t seem to make him any happier.
The big car picks up hitch hikers that stand by the side of the road, again in a little plastic box or sometimes a little box surrounded by broken glass (this is connected with some sort of ancient ritual I believe). The boxes are decorated by the hitch hikers, sometimes with car spray but mostly with marker pens, Reading their etchings is a good way to improve your vocabulary of swear words, and they always use their corporate logo, a big picture of a penis – classy. The boxes are about ten minutes walk from where you live. Always.
As you stand in the box, watching the freezing rain bounce off the head of the bald bloke in front, the first clue you get that one of the carriages is approaching is that it’s twenty minutes after it’s supposed to come. They have a thing called a “timetable” but you might as well use a calendar. As the sleek machine arrives you will notice that the bus company have hit upon a great cost cutting idea, by using pre 1974 vehicles they get free tax. Depending on the direction of the wind you might get to taste the huge clouds of diesel fume emanating from the engine. Then the doors open with a swish. Well one opens, the other judders and stays where it is until the lead hitch hiker gives it a push.
Once you’re in the vehicle you can take in the surroundings. Some of the seats are reserved for the disabled or those who are too lazy to fold pushchairs, some of them are also reserved for people who inspect the inside of the seats by cutting them open with a knife.
Walking up the contraption the first thing you notice is an important safety feature, the floor is sticky. I presume this is to help you walk when the bus is in motion, which is good, although personally I would have used some sort of adhesive like they have on post-it notes, rather that urine, chewing gum and dried blood.
As you sit down, after checking that the seat that the seat isn’t in the same condition as the floor, you look at the other inmates, sorry, passengers.
You won’t believe this but, they let ANYONE get on. Really, so long as you have the tip for the driver or a card saying you are old or have paid the bus company gratuities up front, ANYONE can ride. As you can imagine this makes the clientèle quite varied.
There are normal people, I want to make that clear, at least outwardly, but then when Sky news interview the neighbours of a mass murderer they always say “he was just a normal bloke” don’t they? They look reasonably normal in any case.
There’s a man shouting on his mobile phone so loudly that he could save his inclusive minutes by simply opening a window – they’d hear him. Sitting on the bench seat is a twelve year old and her three kids. She screams at them in turn before roughly chucking them on to their perch, “Charrdonay Maddona, leave Britney Sabrina alone, why can’t you sit quietly Like Adventura Stefani??”
A frail old lady stands and picks up her stick and presses the bell to let the surly man know that she wants to get off at the next pile of broken glass. He helps her as best he can by roaring up to the stop and then braking so fiercely that she runs down the bus like Linford Christie and bounces off the front windscreen.
“Thank You” she says as she hobbles off, the driver gives her a cheery “Uh”.
Who else?
Well there’s a man who smells of wee with a shivering dog on a piece of string and a filthy handkerchief and a bloke in leathers holding a helmet. I sort of wonder if he’s on his way to pick up a bike or if he’s fallen off one, maybe it’s just a fetish. There’s 35 school kids all swearing like troopers and smacking each other, the boys are no better either.
The atmos was quite frankly rank, so I opened a window. The woman behind me closed it. So I opened it again and she closed it. I considered my options and opened it again.
“What’s your game?” she says.
“Draughts” I replied “And it’s your turn”.
Basically a bus is a form of motorised medieval torture, but, as ever, I have the answer!
Make them smaller, say between 2 and 7 seats and drive them yourself, so that the misery can get a job he likes. Only allow people who aren’t likely to soil the seats to travel and give them a windy window each. Some way of controlling the temperature would be nice as would your favourite music. Plan the routes so that they go from your house to where you want to go, at the actual time you want to leave.
I’m thinking of patenting the idea – I’m going to call it a “car”
Cheers
Chris :)