Considerably disorientated. I’m now in a new job and living in a new home in a strange northern town where it rains like the days before The Great Flood. Absent from the blogosphere for a two weeks (building an ark in my garden). I’ve been missed, right? My soul screams for validation, my self-worth has dropped lower than a rudeboy’s crotch. Actually that’s a lie, the break was rather nice. But Mr Condescending has been pestering me daily, can’t live without my posts apparently. I told him to stop badgering me but he persisted. To make matters worse Rubbish rang me up last night and screamed down the phone, said he’d turdbomb my doorstep if I didn’t get my act together. Kids huh?! Told him I’d retaliate by putting laxative in his cider, but I really can’t be bothered to go to Wales so…

The old man sat on the top desk of the bus. He was staring straight ahead, a pair of thick-lensed black-rimmed glasses clung to his face. For the record I don’t condone the stealing of old men’s glasses. Seriously, why go through all that effort when they are unlikely to fetch you anything on eBay? Besides, old men cause enough trouble in the world when they can see clearly. The last thing any of us need is millions of pensioners stumbling around without their glasses. The world would descend rapidly into bedlam. Pensioners would be seen dragging squirrels about on leads, stuffing cats into letterboxes and waiting outside the pub on Thursday mornings while moaning that the “post office” isn’t open. Come to think about it, stuffing some cats into Rubbish‘s letter box would be pretty damn funny. Or putting a squirrel in his cider.

Take the following situation. In our new street rubbish collection takes place on a Friday. During the week our bins stay in the garden to the rear of the house. The garden is surrounded by a high two-metre fence and accessible either from our back door or from the garden gate, which is also two-metres high and double-locked from the inside. One of the locks is half-way down the gate, i.e. only reachable if you are one of those astronomically tall men from China that occasionally make the news and use their long arms to reach down the throats of dolphins. Last Friday morning my wife asked me to take the bins out. I went into the garden and to my surprise the bins were not there. I went round to the front and there they were, sitting smugly on the pavement, chatting amongst themselves no doubt. The only plausible explanation is that at the crack of dawn an elderly neighbour had broken in and dragged them out front.

Now there are two possibilities here. Either this (uncharacteristically athletic) pensioner vaulted the two-metre fence or they managed to unlock the garden gate using a fishhook on a piece of string. Can you imagine the mayhem if this pensioner was without their glasses? I’d probably be woken at 5am as I am dragged outside with a fishhook through my nose. (This Friday I’m going to get up crazily early and find out how they get in). But anyway…

Danny pressed the buzzer, got up from his seat and started to walk up the aisle. It was cold and wet outside, the bus was packed. He moved slowly, his steps small and determined, carefully keeping his balance as the bus lurched about in a deliberate attempt to send him into the lap of an unsuspecting granny. With each step he grasped the handrails on back of the seats each side of him, he would not be defeated and no grannies would be squashed. Nothing could have prepared him for what happened next.

The middle finger of his right hand hooked under the bridge of an old man’s glasses. In a single movement he gracefully lifted the glasses off the old man’s face and launched them into the air. They sailed over the next five seats, all of which were occupied, their path a beautiful parabolic spectacle (haha, two weeks absent and my wit is still as sharp as a blunt razor). They cleared the passengers and clattered down the stairwell. The speed and trajectory – unimaginably perfect in every way – would have made the Roman army’s lead trebuchet operative sick with jealousy.

The old man whipped his hands up to his eyes. “Someone’s stolen my glasses,” he howled. One moment he had been quietly looking forward to Coronation Street, the next moment his glasses had been whipped from his face.

Funniest moment of his life, Danny tells me. I may have to try this next time I’m on a bus. With a bit of luck I could make a few quid on eBay.

Flippant, inexplicable and determinedly puerile. Unprovoked he swung round, cocked his head back and grinned. An evil, leery grin. To be fair it wasn’t really a grin, more of a grimace or a snarl, almost like that of a cartoon villain. I knew exactly what he was about to do and I couldn’t believe it. Only seconds before I was on the bus…

…all alone on the upper deck. Outside it was raining heavily, the bus was damp and bitterly cold. Did I say damp? I mean it was wet, very wet. Puddles formed and vanished with the motion of the bus. Drips on my head, drips on my book. I could barely make out the world outside. The windows were misty with droplets running down. Buildings loomed with dark, eerie windows. Eerie, the whole thing was eerie. It was a bit like a scene from a zombie movie but with a noticeable absence of any zombies.

Had I seen him before? Nope. Did he look dodgy? A bit. Was I doing anything other than minding my own business? Not at all. Yet here we were in torrential rain, facing each other like a couple of cowboys. I wasn’t scared or even feeling uneasy. I just walked towards him while looking him in the eye. Such a surreal moment in comparison to the lonely and peaceful setting just moments ago…

…where I pumped out the tunes through my mammoth headphones, I had the whole top deck to myself and it was lovely. Sure it was wet, cold, miserable, damn miserable, miserable as the little sodden leaf that clung to the window beside me, but the solitude was strangely refreshing. Lights outside flickered through the droplets on the window. Brake lights, traffic lights, street lights, police lights. Watching them made me dream, thoughts that no one could understand. Hooded and tightly wrapped in my coat I felt comforted. Nothing compares to the comfort of a good coat. (Apart from perhaps a good clean poo).

I stepped off the bus and headed home. I love listening to music while walking in the rain. In the distance I could make out the shape of a man. He walked slowly so I gained on him quickly. He was lugging a huge shoulder bag, wearing a baseball cap and one of those bomber jackets that were slightly cool fifteen years ago. I was five metres behind him when he swung round.

It was the bizarrest thing that has ever happened to me. He was standing the other side of a massive puddle. That’s when he grinned, snarled, grimaced or whatever. I knew exactly what he was going to do. The bastard. He, a total stranger, was going to drench me from a puddle using the schoolboy method, i.e. cause an airborne tsunami with a slow, swinging kick through the puddle.

He pulled his leg back slowly as if he was teasing. I picked up the pace and charged morosely at him. I was too wet to care and besides, any retaliation would require puddle-side positioning. He got the timing all wrong and soaked himself. The idiot. As I closed in on the puddle he scampered away into the night.

It’s like I’ve always said. You can never trust anyone in a bomber jacket.

***

P.S. Libby if you stop by again – you missed an absolute riot at Kings Cross on Friday and I even had to confront a total prat on the way home…

The bus was about to leave. Just as the doors shut there was a sudden knock on the glass. The bus driver sighed and opened the doors. An old man stepped slowly onto the bus. Sandals with socks, long straggly beard, blue mackintosh, more plastic bags than a bag lady on an exceptionally productive day. And when I say “slowly”, imagine an ageing snail travelling against the wind.

He gently relieved himself of his plastic bags, carefully arranging them along the aisle. He rummaged through them, we sighed collectively, a bitter and despairing sigh. Even the chubby kid looked up angrily from his maths homework. The bus route had already been wrecked by the spectacular incompetence of a leading gas supplier. At every stop dizzy college girls delay us as they fumble for the change that they failed to get ready WHILE THEY WERE WAITING. Imbecilic drivers do their best to ruin our day. I don’t let these things get to me. And now this? I’d have more fun being pooped on by a flock of deranged pigeons. Guess I picked the wrong day to give up sarcasm.

Stooping, drooping, his shaking hands fumbling, he searched for something as we looked on in horror. The bus was now five minutes late and it had not even started the journey. For several minutes he rummaged, (chubby kid went back to his maths) eventually pulling out a leather-bound book. He slowly unwound the binding cord. Round and round, round and round, a bit like the wheels on the bus, apart from the fact we WERE STILL STATIONARY. Good job I’ve been working on managing my anger. My patience is legendary. He flicked slowly through the book, finally removing his bus pass.

“Sorry love,” said the bus driver, “you can’t use that pass before 9.”

What followed was the most painful exit I have ever seen. Rummaging, fumbling, dithering, mumbling. He slowly gathered his bags, chatting to the bus driver all the while. He chatted about this, about that, discussed that one and the other one. “About what?” you ask. I have no idea. The bus driver begged him to get off. We were running late, she pointed out. He commented on the weather, mumbled about the other one again, and something else, and this and that. The infernal wagging of his beard infuriated all of us (apart from the chubby kid apparently).

After much coaxing he stepped off the bus, bags and all. We emitted a collective sigh of relief, there was still a possibility of not being too late. Of course if the gas supplier and college girls had their way we would still grow old on the bus. He turned and stepped back inside. We shuddered collectively, anticipating a vicious loop of death whereby we all died trapped in the bus as this old codger shuffled on and off for eternity (watched by a deranged flock of pigeons no doubt).

“Cheerio,” he said merrily, gave the bus driver a wave and shuffled away.

Rick and Libby climbed the stairs noisily, dumped their shopping in the aisle and sat at the front of the bus. They seemed oblivious to the world around them and in particular, the young man a few seats back, scribbling frantically in his notebook. Libby took the front seat, rummaged in her bag for a few seconds, pulled out a ball of wool and started knitting. Rick sat behind her.

“Ugh, Libs your neck just clicked,” he said, and then began to massage her neck.

After spending six years commuting by train to London, for the next two months I’ll be getting the bus. The transition is like crossing the Rubicon of sanity. The train, though not without its fair share of freaks, weirdos and gimp-grandchildren, provides a relatively normal experience in comparison to the mad house known as the bus.

An Indian man sat to their right. He was speaking on the phone very loudly, very fast. Libs shot him an irritated glance. She wore thick-lensed glasses, the lenses so thick her eyes appeared as tiny specks.

Rick was another one of those army fruitcakes, an overweight balding man clad entirely in camouflage gear. Frank Skinner once said that anyone wearing more than two badges is a nutter. Rick had more badges than a festival junkie.

“Leave me alone Rick,” said Libs, “you’re hurting me.” “Yak, yak, yak,” said the Indian man. “I’m not gonna hurt you Libs,” assured Rick, with a touch of genuine disappointment in his voice. He reminded me of a disgruntled gorilla, not that I’ve ever seen one or for that matter would want to see one.

An old man got on the bus, we had to wait for a thousand years as he climbed slowly up the stairs. Two stops later he pressed the button, millennia flew by as the bus waited for him. He climbed down the stairs backwards. Slowly, painfully, his joints creaking (I imagine). The madness of it all, the effort he went through for a couple of minutes on the top deck.

Rick and Libs’ shopping fell down the stairs as the bus turned a sharp corner. I was that close to bursting into wild, hearty laughter. Rick went after it, the moment was pure comedy. He could be heard scrambling about downstairs like a pig let loose in a grocery store. The rustling of plastic bags, the sound of tins rolling with the motion of the bus, the muffled curses as he stumbled about. When he finally returned all seemed forgotten, once again his hands found themselves on Libs’ neck.

“How’s this?” he asked. “Leave me alone, ” she whined, her needles still clicking away.

I was fascinated by this mundane scene. Where were they going? A council estate? A working men’s club? Down the newsagent to buy some lottery tickets? On route to buy a 300 inch plasma TV that they cannot afford? Who knows? I’m not one for stereotyping. They got off the bus and walked straight into a Conservative Club, of all places. If those guys are Tory we’re all in trouble. The Indian chap watched this intently, he looked as surprised as I was. The world is a strange place.

I descended the stairs prepared for carnage, fully expecting to see broccoli scattered about, a dented tin of beans perhaps, or a puddle of milk by the priority seats. Nothing, just a suspicious-looking group of pensioners and a couple of schoolchildren. Rick, to his credit, had cleaned the whole lot up.

We deliberately sat at the end of the back row of seats, as close to the exit as possible. This is because FastCat ferries employ what can only be described as a reckless luggage system.

Any bags that are not “hand luggage” get left in a pile out on the deck close to the gangway. On the first crossing four days ago there was a bit of a scandal with the bags.

Basically, some twits ran off with the wrong bags, which annoys me because it is not that hard to take your own bag. Everyone knows that half the bags are medium-sized black wheelies that look pretty similar, I mean, c’mon, just look at the pile.

Having the luggage in this free-for-all mound by the gangway made us feel quite vulnerable, so we picked these seats to make sure we got there first.

As the ferry pulled in we got out of our seats early and waited by the exit. We were at the front of the queue and feeling pretty pleased with ourselves. An elderly couple started bustling about behind us.

“We have a train to catch at ten past,” the old dear said, “and last time the ferry was late and we missed it.” The statement was as loaded as you can get. They wanted to be at the front.

“So have we”, my wife said.

“But you’re not eighty years old”, the lady replied.

“But you’re not eight months pregnant”, my wife retorted.

Everyone laughed in good humour, although, I think we laughed a bit more genuinely than they did. The doors opened and we safely retrieved our bag.

Then we let them past, after all, they were eighty years old.

Funnily enough, there had been a similar incident the day before. We had got on to a bus that was very full and there were no seats.

We had to stand in the aisle, and the pregnant missus had to lean against the luggage rack. There was a sort of awkward murmuring amongst the masses.

On each bus there are a selection of “disability” or “elderly” seats. (I’m desperately looking for a more politically correct description but it is alluding me.)

When the bus is full, the following get first priority on these seats:

Elderly
Disabled
Pregnant
Injured (e.g. wheelchair, broken leg)

But when there is a stand-off between two of the above, no-one seems to know the pecking order. Maybe there isn’t one.

This was the cause of the awkward murmuring. The bus was mainly full of elderly. A young women gave up her seat for my wife. (I, of course, remained standing, not falling into the priority bracket).

As the bus pulled away my wife could hear two old dears behind her muttering. “I’m glad she gave up her seat” one said to the other, “because I certainly wasn’t going to”. “Me neither”, said the other, shaking her head.