“Two two-day adult rovers please”, I said placing thirty quid down on the tray. “That’ll be twenty quid” he said, printing out two one-day adult rovers. “No, I said, we need two two-day adult rovers. Look – here’s thirty quid.” The bus driver rolled his eyes and sighed at me as though I was some kind of twit.

I hate bus drivers.

Tell a lie, I don’t hate them, I just dislike them. Bus drivers come in two camps. In one camp there’s the jolly, helpful, right-out-of-children’s‘-TV type of bus driver. These guys go out of their way to make you feel on top of the world. Then there is the grumpy, sighing, eye-rolling, make-you-feel-like-a-twit type of bus driver. These guys are on a mission to make you have a bad day. They ought to get paid less.

Ha, I’m kidding, honest. And to be fair on him, it looked as though he was having a terrible day. The bus was completely full of OAPs. So much so that while the heavily pregnant missus was given a seat, I had to stand for the entire forty minute journey.

None of us were happy. Our bus was twenty minutes late, and after forking out fifteen quid each for our “adult rovers” we were expecting a) punctuality and b) a seat.

These days I spent most of my time grumbling at public transport. I would probably be much happier if I lowered my expectations, but NO, I tell myself, it’s a matter of principal. I overheard my wife complaining to the old dear next to her. She explained what had happened on the Isle of Wight this summer.

The touring companies had decided to dump their coachloads of OAPs in the larger towns and force them to get round the Isle themselves. The result was that suddenly a bus was picking up 20+ OAPs a time, all needing to buy their “adult rovers”. The bus services have been struggling to cope with the sudden increase in numbers. The touring companies had given them no warning.

I heard one lady mutter something about “no one is to blame”. What nonsense. I hate it when people say that. There’s always someone to blame, in this case it is the touring companies.

The bus was too full to take on any more passengers. It hurtled past several crowded bus stops without even slowing down. As we sped away from the angry crowds I looked back and chuckled to myself. An angry old man in a red scarf was shaking his fist at us. At least I was on the bus.

This cheered me up and I settled down to enjoy the journey. Public transport isn’t so bad after all.

1) Keep your finances in such disorder that you have no idea what the balance is in any of your accounts. This means that at the cash point you will want to check the balance for every card you have. If you are shocked, which you probably will be as the balance will be less than you expected, then you can take even longer as you question how and why.

2) Have no idea how much cash you are going to withdraw. This is simple. If you allow your cognitive processes to stop at “I need some cash”, then when it is your turn you can pause and ponder as you try to decide how much to take out. Note, this works particularly well when coupled with the previous point. To achieve maximum effect, do not even think about how much you want to withdraw when you are in the queue.

3) Do not get your cards out ready before it is your turn. If you do this particularly well, you will have to rummage around for minutes to find your wallet or purse.

4) When it is your turn remember that there is no rush. You had to wait, and the people queuing up behind you can wait too. Aim for inefficiency. Check your balance, be shocked, check another account’s balance, be shocked again, then have a think about how much you want to take out. Again, don’t rush. Now is the time to think about what you are going to be doing that day and how much cash you need. Add it all up in your head. Advice slip? Have a think, don’t be forced into any quick decisions. Receipt? Have another think, do you or do you not want a receipt? Take as much time as you like.

5) Accidentally press Cancel so that your card is injected. Then you will have to wait a few seconds before you can insert your card, re-enter your PIN etc. Do this several times.

There they stood. Tall, dark and handsome. Well, not quite. Short, weedy, and scowling like monkeys would be a better description. The two chavs made their way up the platform, swaggering like drunken cowboys.

I placed them in their late teens, possibly early twenties (dehydration due to constant spitting, and smoking to boot, had probably aged them somewhat). One of them had his hands on a pack of those bangers. You know, the little twists of paper with gunpowder in. With astounding maturity (believe me, I was astounded), they spat and banged their way up the platform.

They got to the far end of the platform and then they saw the owl. Most of our stations have a fake owl to scare birds away from the power units. The chavs started to taunt the owl. “Oi, owly, oi oi oi”. They threw a few bangers but it was too far away. It started to get a bit post-watershed, “Oi you ******* owl, bang bang bang…”.

The brilliance of this is that they weren’t messing around. They genuinely thought it was real. The rest of us just watched and chuckled as they made fools of themselves. You can imagine them now, outside MacDonald’s somewhere, “‘member that ******* owl, it wouldn’t ******* turn its head…” and “aww…the stupid bird…”.

As their train arrived, another group of chavs turned up on our platform. The original two started swaggering back down their platform to the train. The new group started to taunt them. By this point our train had pulled in. The two groups were yelling at each other through (and over) two trains now. “Oi, what yer lookin‘ at?” they cried. “Come on then”.

And then the two trains departed. The fake owl didn’t go anywhere.

***

The Owl and the Pussy-cat Chavs went to sea
In a beautiful pea green boat,
They took some honey bangers, and plenty of money cigarettes,
Wrapped up in a five pound note. Tucked behind their ears.
The Owl looked up to the stars above,
And sang to a small guitar,
‘O lovely Pussy Chavs! O Pussy Chavs my love(s),
What a beautiful Pussy Chavs you are,
You are,
You are!
What a beautiful Pussy Chavs you are!’

The group across the room were bohemians. Are bohemians (I presume). Six of them, three men and three women. Let me start with the women.

Two of the women were in their fifties, wearing “shawls and things“, as my great uncle would say. The third was clearly the gran. She was as shawled up as she could possibly be. A sort of bohemian queen I guess.

She was a real character, and the most noticeable thing was her giant opal rings. On her left hand she had four, on her right she had two. These were massive, massive, massive rings. Her great clunking bohemian fists were swung around with venom, clunk clunk clunk. I imagine health and safety would have had a field day. “Sorry madam, but they’re just too dangerous. You could cause an earthquake with those. We’ll have to take ‘em in.”

I’d like to dwell on this, it stressed me out a bit. I don’t understand the concept of six rings, unless it was three on each hand. If I was a multiple-opal-ring-wearing-kinda-chap, which I’m not, I would go for a more consistent and symmetrical approach. You know, either four on each hand, or three on each hand, or none. Not that I can’t cope with asymmetry – I don’t mind a little bit of asymmetry – but four on one hand, two on the other, what the Hellman’s Mayonnaise was she playing at?

It was probably just the whole anti-establishment, unorthodox, bohemian style, with the shawls and things.

And then there were the three gents. One of them was older than the others, mid sixties I’d say. He had an American accent, and was wearing a creased suede suit. Now here’s the thing. It was so creased that it must have been deliberate. It was either bought from some bohemian clothes shop that sold permanently creased gear. Or he had crushed it under his car tire for a year to achieve the same effect. Or more likely, gran had creased it with her great clunking opal fists.

The funniest thing about this group is how well spoken they were. Even the Queen would have been jealous. The next chap thought he was Hugh Grant. I would place this chap in his later fifties, but he thought he looked much younger. With a sort of hypocritical twist, he had blow-dried Hugh Grant curtains. I say hypocritical, because surely that is not a true bohemian thing, hair dryers, salons, Hugh Grant, etc.

I don’t have much respect for Hugh Grant lookalikes. I mean, Hugh Grant is a genius actor, although a bit samey, but why would anyone try and look like him?

His shirt was also terribly and deliberately creased, and partly hidden by one of those sleeveless puffer jackets – I have no idea what those things are called. Body warmers? I don’t have much to say about the third chap. He was a bit younger, a bit smarter, and much quieter.

The bohemians had the table by the door. There was a clear reason for this. There was rarely a moment when they were all sitting down together. Most of the time they were smoking outside. Not cigarettes mind you, just cigars, cheroots, and bohemian rollups.

Note, I’ve nothing against these guys. Their bohemian extravagance simply caught my attention. Wine, cigars, cheroots, opals, Hugh Grant, wine, cigars, clunk clunk clunk, creased suede jackets, creased shirts, it was all too much.

We had to wait a long time for the bill. The bohemians were holding everything up. It was mainly Hugh Grant. Body-warmer on, he was attempting to negotiate the bill. We couldn’t quite make out the point of dispute, but we got the gist. Something to do with a lobster. Hugh Grant felt that the lobster they had eaten wasn’t a whole one.

Finally it got resolved, and out they charged, a thick bohemian cloud of smoke in their wake…

“Until we bleed” was a game played by some friends at university. Whatever you do, DO NOT try this at home.

The game was played every Friday. The activity and setting would vary, the rules were simple: the game continues until someone bleeds.

One fatal evening the game took place on a hill. The group took turns to race a mini-scooter and a go-kart down the slope.

It was all very organised, with cones, high-visibility vests, a camera crew, and a car waiting at the bottom to drive the competitors back to the top of the hill for their next race.

As the evening progressed there had still been no blood. It was growing darker, and the lads were going to have one more race before going home.

The final two competitors – let’s call them Andy and Jimmy – prepared themselves at the top of the hill, while the rest of the lads waited at bottom. As they watched, Andy climbed into the go-kart, and in a moment of madness Jimmy suddenly undressed, right down to his boxers. He leapt onto the mini-scooter and the race began.

Up to this point, the go-kart had won every race. I’m told this was because the mini-scooter drivers had tended to err on the side of caution, and had been dabbing the brake for most of the descent.

As this final race begin, it started as all the others had, with the go-kart pulling quickly away into the lead. But as they watched, the stark white figure of Jimmy caught up and overtook the go-kart. This time Jimmy was not dabbing the brake.

It was pretty tense. Everyone knew what was going to happen. Inevitable really. Just turn the key words over in your head. Mini-scooter, high speed, semi-naked scooter driver, gravel.

The scooter began to shake. You know, the kind of frantic shaking and bobbling of something that is going to fast and is just about in control, but only just. Jimmy appeared to be having difficulty steering the thing. It was swinging to the left, to the right, hitting a bounce, back to the left.

The lads all remember the next bit. It happened in slow motion. Jimmy losing control and tumbling to the ground, sliding and rolling across the tarmac.

For a moment he lay there still. And then, stumbling to his feet, he staggered a few defiant steps and raised his arms victoriously. The lads at the bottom cheered.

They all went with him to the hospital. Jimmy was OK. A bit bruised and cut up, but OK nonetheless. When the doctor asked what had happened the camera crew were able show him the video.

The next time they played “until we bleed” Jimmy decided to stay at home. He wanted “a quiet one”, he said.

Now this is the definition of cutting it fine. There’s a new bod on the commute. I see him each morning on my way to the station.

Let me set the scene. Every morning I arrive at the station around 7, ten minutes before my train. Without fail, as I approach the station, this bod speeds past me, sweating like a badger.

The station barriers swing down as the 7:01 to London Victoria approaches. With incredible daredevilry, he nips into a newsagent, and emerges a few seconds later with a paper. He then sprints towards the barriers.

The 7:01 trundles over the crossing into the station while our hero waits impatiently at the barrier. The barrier starts to lift and he scurries under, and then ducks and weaves through the oncoming pedestrians.

He charges up onto the platform and into the 7:01, seconds before it pulls away. What a man. Over the last few weeks I’ve seen him miss the train twice. On both occasions I allowed myself a tiny smile. Not that I take pleasure in him missing the train, honest, but if he will continue to cut it that fine…

Over dinner the rest of the group asked whether we had experienced the nekkid room. We hadn’t. The nekkid room was one of those Swiss steam rooms that require you to be completely stark nekkid. You can’t even wrap yourself in a towel.

They even had a sign up displaying a man in a towel with a big red X. And just to make sure, another sign said “No Towels”.

The real reason we hadn’t yet visited the steam room was me. Scared stiff. Probably due to the uncertainty, the fear of the unfamiliar, and a complete ignorance of nekkid room etiquette.

Take eye contact for example. Is it expected, permitted, or forbidden? Not that I wanted to make eye contact in the nekkid room, I’ll have you know, but it would still be helpful to know. And what if there are others in there when you enter? Should you keep your mouth shut, enter with your eyes down, and then stoically stare at the wall pretending you are completely on your own?

Or should you grunt a hello and knock out some pleasantries about the weather? The last thing you want is an awkward conversation with a nekkid stranger. Well, no, I guess the last thing you want is sudden and chronic diarrhoea, but I’ll leave that one alone.

It could just be me, but I also worry that the extra nervousness brought on by being nekkid could lead to embarrassing blunders. Imagine it, you enter a pre-populated nekkid room and then slip over. Or you enter, but there’s no seating space round the edge. Do you stand awkwardly in your nekkidness in the centre of the room and ask people to squeeze up (um…nice…), or do you turn round and leave?

Anyway, I embraced my fear and the next day we paid the nekkid room a visit. There was a couple already in there, nekkid as babies. The bloke grunted a hello, made a couple of observations about the weather, and then quietened down.

Phew, the eye contact and greeting questions were answered for me. I stared stoically at the wall…

The next day while having a swim we saw a couple head to the steam room (the outer door was poolside). A few minutes later we saw the entire American ski team head in to join them.

Now that must have been awkward. I don’t imagine nekkid room etiquette knows quite what to do with that.

I have always disliked toothpaste, but I’ve never really thought why. Here are a few reasons. I’m sure you could contribute some more. Or am I on my own here?

1) Worst of all, the tickly toothpaste cough.

This happens so rarely that some of you may never have encountered it. It tends to occur at night when you are trying to go to sleep.

You’ve brushed your teeth as normal, and everything is going swimmingly until you feel an excruciating tickle at the back of your throat.

You can’t get to sleep because every few minutes you’re interrupted by the tickle that forces you to cough. Every time you swallow it brings on the tickle.

This leads to a terrible cycle of death.

Cough, swallow, tickle, cough, swallow tickle…

I would speculate that it is more likely to occur if you have a sore throat, but I have plagued by the tickly toothpaste cough when I have been absolutely fine.

2) The congealed gunk.

This sticky, white, smeary mess ends up on the toothbrush holder, on the sink, in the toothpaste cup (or wherever you stash the toothpaste tube).

3) The stains on the clothes.

These invariably get discovered later in the day, like when you’re walking to work and find an embarrassing white smear of toothpaste on your trousers, or down the front of your navy blue shirt.

Note, toothpaste somehow never gets on white shirts, it can’t be bothered with that.

4) The toothpaste at the foot of the tube.

For some reason we continue day after day with a tube that is basically finished, desperately trying to get the toothpaste out of the foot of the tube.

I’m not sure if this is an environmental thing, not wanting to waste it etc, or just a “I’ll buy a new tube tomorrow” kinda thing.

5) The cupboard full of tubes.

With the toothpaste situation it is usually one extreme or another. Either we’re doing our best to squeeze toothpaste out of an empty tube, or we have somehow ended up with a cupboard full of tubes.

The latter occurs because we can never find a new tube when required, so buy a new one, or typically we buy a few on some sort of deal. The spares get put in a drawer or cupboard, but can’t be found when needed, and so it goes on.

Then one day you come back from the shop with a new tube and find that you have a stash in the bathroom already. The cluster of toothpaste tubes laughs at you for having struggled with an empty tube for the last two weeks.

If a bad night’s sleep wasn’t bad enough, I then slept through my alarm because I was so tired. During one of those busy times at work when you just don’t oversleep.

All this made was made worse by the fact that I run the morning show, and therefore my wife was late for work too.

And if that hadn’t made me grumpy enough, I didn’t have time to eat breakfast or make lunch. I had to sprint for the station to ensure that I only got to work 90 minutes later than usual, which meant I spent the entire journey sweating like a badger.

The last thing I needed was one of those “laptop boys” sitting in front of me on the train. He gets on, and whips out the biggest “laptop” I have ever seen. A Mac of course. That’s not a laptop. It’s a tabletop. Or even a mountaintop. I don’t know if its a Macbook (don’t really know my Macs I’m afraid), but it shouldn’t be because its too damn big. No book is that size.

I’ve nothing against Macs. Honest. I like the hardware, but they’re too expensive. And OS X makes me feel like I’m being dragged through a playpen backwards, wearing a joker’s costume and a hat covered in bells, whistles and bouncing beach balls, chased by yappy dogs and…ok I’ll stop.

Ok, bit harsh on the OS, it probably allows you to customise the maddening stuff away, and I like the built in shell.

But then, I’m a Gnome man through and through, avoiding KDE, Windows and beach balls like the plague.

But this one was just too big. As he opened it I actually saw a shadow travel over my magazine. If I brought in a CRT and an oldskool tower case they would take up less space. Maybe I should – just to make a point.

If anyone objects I’ll just say “What? It’s just my laptop.”

On my walk to the station I often see the “smartest” paperboy in town. Hmm, yeah, smart, that’s right.

This lad does his morning round on his scrappy little scooter. To be honest, I could be out of touch with the morning round going rates these days, but I don’t imagine he gets more than 20 quid a week.

So. 20 quid minus, say, 10 quid on fuel, leaves him a tenner a week. By my troth, given the fact that he would do it just as quick on a push bike, which would also keep him fit, this guy is a bit of a wally.

Wally? Don’t be harsh. Misguided, that’s all. My hero would be furious.

I miss my hero. I used to see him every morning as I walked to Brighton station. Everyday we would pass each other around 7am.

To start with I ignored him. I’m that kinda guy. Keep myself to myself, especially at 7am. Over time I noticed that this gentleman (my hero) had some kind of “special” status with the other bods that were around at that time.

The postmen, the street cleaners, the paperboys, the milkmen, the commuters, the cats, the dogs…everyone, they all worshiped this guy, and he responded to them all.

I would guess he was 60ish. With the people he met he was daily greeting them, asking after their health, continuing running jokes, and all this on the move – a quick “what a lovely day”, or “and you’re dad is back on his feet again now?” or “that was a good game of football last night, wasn’t it?” and so on.

Feeling missed out, one morning I sent a nod and a “mornin’” in his direction, and I was in. From then on it was a “mornin’” or “nice day for a stroll eh?!” or “glad I brought my brolly!” or “Spurs were unlucky last night”. I was included.

I assumed he was on his way back from a night shift of some sort, or on his way past me to the hospital for a day shift. Then I realised he worked at a newsagent, sorting out the papers for the rounds each morning. And all with a cheery attitude and a heart to know everyone he saw each day.

But I tell you what, he would have not have been impressed with this kid, the smartest *cough cough* paperboy in town.