Three of the best
Wow, I’ve got a few of these, having used buses almost every day for the last twenty years – probably a good 10000 journeys. The vast majority of these are either soul-destroyingly boring, or filled with a host of minor irritants which make for crap stories. There are three journeys that always stick in my mind though, recounted below.

Pull up a chair, crack open a tinny, and enjoy. Or if you’re in a hurry, skip to episode 3 as it’s the best of the bunch.



Episode 1 – Tramp fight.

The venue was the 167 Manchester to Norden service. It’s a Saturday afternoon, but for some reason, instead of a proper full size bus, they’ve put on one of those tiny ones that usually only do local routes – known round our way as a biddy bus. It’s almost full, but there’s a couple of seats left.

Two blokes get on near Victoria station; one looks like a cartoon tramp right out of the Beano, probably in his 50s, long white beard, big coat, dot-like alcoholic eyes and ruddy alcoholic complexion, clearly pissed and had been for many years. I’m surprised he didn’t have a crumpled top hat and a knotted hanky on a stick. His companion though, was one scary looking motherfucker – younger, possibly in his 30s, but covered, and I mean every visible inch, in scars, including ones on the backs of his hands that looked like gunshot scars. He also had a lovely collection of loyalist paramilitary tattoos, in the traditional razor blade and biro ink style, and the accompanying thick Belfast accent.

So the two deadbeats end up arguing about something or other, I just try to ignore them and hope I don’t get stabbed. What followed was the single most pathetic fight I’ve ever seen – my baby niece would fight harder than these two utter pussies, rolling around on the floor of the tiny bus, right at my feet. Tramp guy is on the deck, on his back, with UVF guy on top of him – Orange boy has, rather remarkably, some money in his shirt pocket, a tenner if I recall, which trampy tries to lift out of his pocket. This enrages our protestant friend so much, that he threatens to blow up the bus - driver calls the police and crazy Paisley fucks off into the back streets of Cheetham Hill.
The police arrive, and attempt to take a statement from the old boy, as he was the victim of an assault, even if it was a spectacularly feeble one which resulted in no injuries at all. They’re asking for the name of the Norn Irish guy, trampy just keeps repeating that he doesn’t know it, before conspiratorially glancing side to side, lowering his head and voice, and whispering to them in a way that suggested the imparting of some arcane knowledge… “I think he’s a heroin addict”.
No shit.


Episode 2 – Lazy Bastard.

Bog standard, boring journey home from work. Bloke gets on about ten stops before I get off – he looks like a painter/decorator; he’s covered in paint splashes, and is carrying a box full of brushes and other decorating gear. I really didn’t think much of it at the time, all seemed normal, even by Salford’s standards.

A couple of stops later, another guy gets on, stays on until the very next stop, then gets off. This, for fuck only knows what reason, enrages the decorator guy no end. Despite having been still and silent so far, he now feels the need to run up and down the bus shouting “LAZY BASTARD, FUCKING LAZY BASTARD, DID YOU SEE THAT? FUCKING LAZY BASTARD” at the top of his lungs, looking at the other passengers for confirmation of the lunacy before him; a man riding a bus for 200 yards is just too much for this bloke to cope with. Mothers are shepherding their children towards them, hiding them behind their legs, grannies are hiding their pension books, and everyone else is trying their damndest to become invisible out of sheer whatthefuckery.


Episode 3 – Waiting for Reg.

This one’s going out to the Kersal Massive, as it’s all about a daysaver.

I stayed over at a mate’s one Saturday night, then got the M10 into town to catch the 167 back home on the Sunday morning. I had precisely enough for a daysaver to get home with, £3 at the time I think – no other resources whatsoever, no cash in the bank, not even any cigs.

M10 arrives, I buy my ticket, and sit down to smoke a reefoh in the cornoh (not really, no reefer left by this point on a Sunday morning). Being bored witless, I glance down at my ticket quite by chance, to see that it hasn’t printed out correctly, and the date is completely illegible. This worries me, as the jobsworthyness of bus drivers is legendary, and I don’t reckon any driver would let me on with this ticket. So I walk up to the driver, and in my usual polite manner, tell him the score, and ask for a replacement ticket. The following discourse ensues:

Numpty: “I can’t, my takings will be £3 down if I give you another ticket.”
Me: “I sympathise mate, but we can file that under your problem, not mine.”
Numpty: “I can’t give you another ticket.”
Me: “You haven’t given me a usable ticket, so it’s not ‘another’ ticket, I don’t want two, I just want one that will work.”
Numpty: “Well you’ll have to come to the office with me and wait for my boss, Reg, to authorise it.”
Me, with the air of resignation of a seasoned bus traveller: “OK.”

As it was a Sunday, I had plenty of time until my next bus, so I end up following the driver to this shitty little porta-cabin near Cathedral Gardens, which is now a proper bus station, but at the time of this tale it was just a car park, a porta-cabin, and some piss.

The porta-cabin was a time machine to the early seventies, it was like being in Porridge – page 3 girls on the walls, blokes with ‘On the buses’ uniforms and hangovers smoking roll ups and drinking tea from thermos flasks.

Reg eventually arrives after I’ve smoked a couple of the other drivers roll ups (thanks again mate), and numpty driver explains the situation to him.

Without hesitating for even a second, Reg gives me three quid, turns to numpty, and with vitriol practically spraying from his ears says:

“Why didn’t you give him his money back you fucking idiot?”

Th'end, ta,
Udi.
(Udidin is chuffed to have made the newsletter, Fri 30 May 2008, 15:42, 2 replies)

re: Lazy Bastard
I feel I may have encountered Mr Unnecessary Rage as detailed in your second story.

Waiting on Deansgate for the X43 to Prestwich the other day there was a man in decorator's overalls with a bag, literally SCREAMING at people who had the audacity to park on the double yellows outside the nearby bars to drop off/pick up friends.

Best bit was when a police van pulled up in traffic opposite, giving captain Radge a chance to vent his spleen to the authorities... at which point they wound up the window and drove off smirking.

I honestly thought he was going to burst into flames right then and there.
( B00gle-H00ps Looks like a horse, in a man costume..., Fri 30 May 2008, 16:01, closed)

Yeah
that sounds like him, he was in Eccles when I saw him though.
(Udidin is chuffed to have made the newsletter, Fri 30 May 2008, 16:15, closed)