The wheels on the bus

You know occasionally I take the bus to work and as it happens have to take it back home again. And as I am transported around this fair City my fellow travellers never fail to impress.

The morning journey, is probably one that millions of commuters across the world endure, often in silence, because at that time in the morning who wants the hassle. It starts with that last minute rush at home to get out of the door and to the bus stop before the bus. The symptoms are familiar, we all kid ourselves that we can spend and extra few minutes in bed, pushing the envelope (and no this isn’t a metaphor for other under the sheets activity) of time down to the absolute minimum it takes to shit, shower and shave. O how I envy those people who can get up have a leisurely breakfast of something healthy and wholesome, browse through the papers before stress free, amble through the park to work.

Once we have stormed out of the house, shirt tails flapping, we make it to the bus stop. Of course the times for the bus listed are only indicative. Will it turn up is the question of the morning? Of course when it does one has to make sure that one has the right and exact change. Try to proffer a five pound note for a ticket that costs nearly two pounds generates a sharp intake of breath by the driver together with a shaking of the head as he fingers through his change in those little tin things they have.

Although the bus is full these drivers can never ever change anything bigger than a two pound coin. Why is that? Is it because all the thoughtless people already on the bus have got on waving tenners around or is it really because the driver sorts his change as he drives ( I’ve seen them) and he has a secret stash of pound coins and other change sorted into pounds down the side of his chair. This is so that when he finishes his shift he can just dump the money then leave rather than have to spend another half an hour cashing up.

Of one’s fellow passengers, they are the usual mix of office workers in their suits and black outfits, students all ipodded up, and old people probably off to the hospital. En route the driver stops for every one, despite there being a sign saying 8 standing only, he regularly breaks the 16 mark (and the law). It is a relief to get off and breath some fresh air!

The afternoon journey is much more entertaining. It’s like being on a moving Oprah or Sally Jessy Raphael Show. The busses are full of Chavs getting back home after a hard day’s shoplifiting, and their unmarried mums who all seem to have three kids sired by different men and school kids!

The air is blue with foul language as this seems to be the only language the school kids are learning at school. Swear words linked together with ‘like’ and ‘yknow’ and ‘wicked’ which I thought as a word was passé in the 1990’s. The old ladies sit tutting and glancing but know better than to remonstrate with these retards, who god help us are the future of our country, because they know, probably from bitter experience that this would unleash a fury of filth.

The trailer trash mums spend their time, yelling at their kids to sit down and clip them around the backs of their legs and then glaring at everyone daring them to say something about cruelty to kids. These kids then spend the rest of the journey yowling and crying while their mums get more irate as they are suffering cold turkey because the ‘ain’t ad a fag for the last five minute’s’. So the kids get belted and given crisps in equal amounts as their mum’s mood swings from anger to guilt.

I guess once that these young women were foxes and that they turned heads on the dance floor and made some boys go weak at the knees. But somewhere something went wrong. Either their looks didn’t compensate for their lack of intelligence or there is little escape from the sorts of life they were bought up in. I should know this, as a sociologist, but their looks have been drained from them, you can see it in their tired faces, where there once must have been a sexy sparkle, there is now a deep dark pool of resignation. Resigned to a life of kids screaming on the bus.

Hmmm I had planned to make this blog funny and witty, but I seem to have written myself out of that mood. Take a bus journey once in a while to see what I mean.

The baby on the bus says, "Wah, wah, wah!
Wah, wah, wah, wah, wah, wah!"
The baby on the bus says, "Wah, wah, wah!"
All through the town.
(Fisted hands in front of eyesand rub them like baby crying)

The mummy on the bus say, "Shh, shh, shh,
Shh, shh, shh, slap slap slap"
The people on the bus say, "Shh, shh, shh"
All through the town.
(Put pointer finger to mouth to 'shhh')

The mommy on the bus says,
"I love you,I love you, I love you"
The chav on the bus says, "I love you, too"
All through the town.

(Point to self on 'I',right hand over heart on 'love',
and point to other on 'you')
Then puke!