Frustrated Pensioner Drinks Stongbow Alone At The TeaBreak (Public Transport in general)

Member Name: Muffin_the_Mule

Product:	Public Transport in general
Date:	29/01/02 (117 review reads)
Rating:

Advantages: Hyperactivity

Disadvantages: Smelling of Wee, overweight old ladies jumblies flapping in the wind, Baywatch style.

When I first started Secondary School, or "big school" as it was unnecessarily re-named somewhat patronisingly by every grown up I encountered between June and September 1990, Not only was it the first time I had to tie my own Tie, instead of having one on a piece of elastic. But it was also the first time I had to catch a "Bus".

I was Eleven years old and had never been on a bus. How Uber-sheltered I was.
My Primary School was a ten minute walk up a hill from my house. Tuesdays was 10p Mix day at the local Newsagents, when the sweet tin would come out and us kiddies could buy tooth decay on a stick.
I loved tooth decay on stick or in gum disease bags. I didn't care, It was Oh so satisfying.
Tuesday nights were spent in the field watching Derek, the child of dubious mental ability, go crazy from his hit of sugar. It was raucous laughter aplenty if he locked on to you and chased you at demented, glucose-enhanced speeds.
After one box of Imps and a Curly-Wurly, Derek could chase like he was in Slippers. Everyone knows how fast you can run in slippers.
Even Peter Kay knows, and he's a comedic giant in more ways than one.

The balmy, and often also barmy, summer evenings of 1990 proved only to usher in the era of the bus journies that would plague me to this very day.

From the accounts of my experiences over the next eleven-and-a-bit years, there was a very good reason why I was either driven, frogmarched or dragged everywhere for my formative first years.
Buses are liars and cheats, driven by people who refuse to live by the gentlemans agreement the people at Greenwich call "time".
"Time" is a taboo word in the Belle Vue Bus Station, Manchester. It's like a paradigm of Area 51, Princess Diana and the NHS all rolled up. The People in charge are/were aware of it's existence, but refused to acknowledge it in their own Inner-circles.

If the bus timetab
le reads 0730 for a saturday departure time, I'd suggest turning up at about Thursday O'clock.
If you get a bus that apparently is running on or near time, the chances are it was so late that it has started running on time again.

Drivers also have their own games or bets with each other before they start their shifts:

Over an Irish coffee and a box of Liqueurs in the staff canteen, they'll agree that today, without fail, and disregarding the traffic conditions, they will only drive at 10 miles per hour, no more, no less.

Tomorrow, they'll wait until the little old lady has OAP-jiggled to within a foot of the door before pulling away.

Next day is "pretend to be a F1 driver, and hit the apex of every corner ever. Even if they're not going to turn down that road.

Lastly, and my particular favourite, Is when it's Salsa day.

Quick, Quick, Quick, Slow, Quick.

Mr Driver makes record time in getting you within touching distance of your goal, by driving at speeds that hurt your gums, only to spend twenty minutes at the bus stop in the middle of nowhere. Just waiting.

In my town, the majority of Services are run by the StageCoach Bus Company.
Correct me if I'm wrong, but aren't stage-coaches a little dated? I want the Zoomy-Flash-Quick Bus service.
I wouldn't Pick
"Dr Crippens Leech and Unnecessary Amputation Therapy"
from the Yellow Pages in times of urgent medical need

Granted, they have updated most of the buses to the new, single deckers, that inexplicably can carry the same volume of people as the old Double Deckers.
There will come a day when you get de-hydrated like a pot noodle when you get on a "capacity infinitum Autobus"

Mancunin buses are truly a unique experience.
My morning journey to work consists of entering a whole new atmosphere.
A new City with it's own quirks and
Rituals.

You have your Business types who sit playing with paperwork whilst eating burnt toast snootily.
You have the Special-Brew Smelly fraternity who sit next to you, just close enough for you to be paranoid that they'll leave their odour impregnated on you and you'll be shunned at the coffee machine.
There's the Bingo-Brigade. Not always of an aged disposition, these people have won something once, and will relay their triumph to all and sundry who so much as experiences a brief encounter of eye-contact.
Walkman man, who has his stereo loud enough for you to hear the tinny tipetty tish tippetty tish of his favoured musical genre, but not loud enough for you to recognise it.
And you've all seen or done Slept-past-my stop-don't-know-where-i-am-dude. I know I have.


Bus journies have come along way since my first 10p Concessionary ride in my new shoes, to my current £7.30 (laminated - Woo!) Weekly ticket to work. First off, I don't sing
"Stop the bus I need a wee-wee" anymore.

Nowadays, it's more
"Stop the City I need to get off"
One day, someone will invent miniature versions of buses, that the public can drive themselves at their own leisure, and they'll only ever fit four or five people at a time in. We shall name them "Cars"

The future at least, looks bright.

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