Captain Fuckflaps
I was on the 345 bus on the way to work, sitting next to a woman speaking loudly in a foreign tongue to her unfortunately ugly child on the seat in front.

My hangover was festering nicely and my fingers had begun to tremble.

Anyway, the bus had just left Clapham Common when this drunk crazy comes upstairs and stands over me where I'm sitting. He starts talking to me about my beard and the hoodie I was wearing and I, being the amiable chap I am, start chatting back.

All the while, his eyes are rolling around inside his head like a fucking pinball machine.

So we have this two minute conversation about the Green Man Festival and Wales and beards and he says I look like Jethro Tull and we have a bit of a laugh together.

His breath, by the way, was like a fetid shit-covered mange-ridden dog that someone had run over, buried and exhumed at a later date.

He then offered me a Smirnoff Ice which I politely refused, citing my dislike for vodka and the fact that it's half past eight in the morning. For some reason, this caused him offence and he not so politely offered to shove the bottle through my face if I didn't take it.

So I took it.

He then starts lecturing me about going to work and how it's a waste of time, getting more and more angry with every word. Suddenly, he remembers he's got some pills on him somewhere and starts searching through his jacket for these mystery pills. Thinking about his reaction to me refusing his drink, I was concerned as to his reaction to me refusing one of his 'magic' pills.

Too hungover to get into an argument with Captain Fuckflaps here, I made my excuses and left.

Got off the bus, put the Smirnoff Ice on the floor and got on the 37 to Clapham Junction. After a short and somewhat uneventful journey, I got off at Clapham Junction and went to wait for a bus to take me to Battersea Bridge.

As I'm standing there, the very 345 that I'd been on earlier pulls up and my crazy friend gets off the bus. I jump on board and he spots me as the bus starts to pull away.

As I look out of the window, incredulous, I see him running down the road after the bus shouting "Where's me fuckin' drink y'fucker! I'll fuckin' killyuh!"

Thankfully, this particular london bus had a 9.4 litre engine (originally designed by Renault) and he was soon a distant, if somewhat unpleasant, memory.
( mrlogic is copying your beard, Fri 26 Jun 2009, 16:19, Reply)