The Psychedelic Bendy Bus
It had been a shit night. Not least for the fact that it had ended with me stood at a bus stop in the middle of the night, freezing cold. And I'd been waiting for about an hour.

I'd been out, spent a load of money that shouldn't have been spent, felt thoroughly depressed about being newly single for the first time in years, and was just generally in the wrong frame of mind to have been drinking. I'd been to busy bars and it seemed like the world was against me: every fucker in the place was out to spill my drink, get in my way or barge me away from the bar. I was pissed off, and just wanted to get home, The night bus which was supposed to be running every 15 minutes hadn't made an appearance in 60.

It had gotten to the point where it was so late it was now early. Walking home seemed to be the only option, and I had a four-mile stomp to compound my misery.

And just as I turned to trudge away, a bus pulled alongside me. Finally.

It was fairly empty, and I took the unusual decision of sitting near a group at the back of the bus. I normally like to keep myself to myself, but if I fell asleep, I wanted to have half a chance of someone noticing and waking me up before the bus reached the end of the Earth. It was one of Ken Livingstone's mobile traffic jams, a bendy bus, and so the seat I had sat in was a good 15 metres from the attention of the driver.

Watching the cess-pit of Shoreditch slip by, I barely noticed that someone had sat next to me, as I was consumed with bitter thoughts about how much I fucking hated this anonymous city, the girl that had left me and the best friend that had taken her. Until I noticed a burning smell.

And quite a familiar burning smell at that. Turning away from the window, I saw that the guy sat next to me was puffing on a huge joint. He winked at me, and passed it over. The gesture of kindness, combined with absurdness of getting stoned with a stranger on a night bus really struck a chord with me. I instantly felt a little happier.

Not wanting to be too greedy, I took a few tokes and tried to hand it back. He gave me a bemused smile, and nodded backwards. "He said it's got to go that way..." my new friend grinned.

"Who said?" I asked, a bit confused.

"The geezer that handed it to me."

As it turned out, I was sat in the middle of about 10 complete strangers, who had all decided to have a chat and pass spliffs round for their journey home. It was a total mix of ages, ethnicities, and backgrounds, from the Chinese girls that had barely been in the country for 5 minutes to the middle-aged nightworker on his way home from a shift, all smoking weed on the bus like it was the most normal thing in the world to be doing.

We talked and laughed for a good half hour - I still can't work out why the driver either didn't notice or didn't care that the back of his bus resembled a Kate Bush video, as by the end of the journey it was so smokey I could barely find the way to get off.

As the doors opened at my stop with a whoosh, I walked out feeling like a contestant on Stars In Their Eyes, emerging from a green fog with a stupid grin on my face.

The bus disappeared from sight, and I never saw those people again. I sometimes think back about how completely surreal the whole experience was - did I imagine it? Was it some sort of supernatural funk bus, forever cruising the late night streets, on a mission from God to lift the spirits of unfortunate souls in their hour of need?

Probably not. But it was the best bus journey I've ever had, and it came just when I needed it, in more ways than one.


Length? 60ft, with a kink in the middle.
(Sloppy Giuseppe, Thu 25 Jun 2009, 15:48, 12 replies)

waiting for a bus
is a bit like starring in a bukkake video. You wait for ages...
(apeloverage committed the vile act of onanism on, Thu 25 Jun 2009, 15:45, 4 replies)

Margaret Thatcher once said;
“A man who, beyond the age of 26, finds himself on a bus can count himself as a failure.”

I’m sure that we all wish her a quick recovery from her recent accident.
( Colonel Dracula Two manky hookers and a racist dwarf, Thu 25 Jun 2009, 15:45, 9 replies)

Circus of DEATH
"This is a passenger announcement," said the tinny voice on the public address system. "Due to engineering works, train services have been disrupted. A replacement bus service will call at all major stations to Bournemouth leaving from the station concourse."

I take my bag and hump it out of the front of the station where the smart double-decker coach is awaiting us. Immediately I sense there was something wrong. The driver's unfeasibly large sideburns, his bootlace tie and his far too cheerful demeanour. The coach looked like a mid-1970s nightclub. The other passengers look shocked, afraid, trapped, with rictus grins on their faces like they've been drugged.

In a blind moment of panic I realised what was wrong. It was the music. The coach resembled a 70's nightclub, because it was a 70s nightclub, and the driver its oh-so-cheeky compere. He loved his music and he was going to inflict it on all of us. And worst of all, it was the Black Lace Party Album. The doors silently slid shut behind me. Welcome to Royston Vasey.

Agadoo-do-do
Push pineapple shake a tree

The driver turned to me and asked where I'm going. I reply Bournemouth, a mere seventy miles and an entire lifetime away. This was the Circus of Death, and he was the clown, the tormentor-in-chief. He were at his mercy

As we pulled from the station forecourt, the Clown turned the volume up even higher so we could be entertained even above the noise of the engine. Already some of my fellow victims looked shellshocked. Several were actually phoning friends, relations, the army, anybody for help. But it was no good. We were trapped.

Hooray, hooray, it's a holi-holiday

By the time we reached Basingstoke, we were already huddled together for our own safety. Some of our number had tried to use their iPods to drown out the music. It was no good. Even with Led Zep IV turned up to ten, Black Lace still won. They were turned up to eleven.

We hit the M3, and the group huddled on the floor at the back of the coach cracked. It was "Oops Upside Your Head". They had assumed the infamous rowing boat formation and were lost to the world. Tragic. We could only pray for their poor, lost souls and the sadness of their families, knowing that they had succumbed.

I am the music man
I come from round your way

In Winchester, our frantic attempts to stop more victims joining the Circus of Death were thwarted by a South West Trains official with a clipboard. Forgive the poor, innocent fool, he knew not what he was doing. By then, we had all exchanged addresses and vowed, should we ever get out of this mess alive, to set up a support group.

And so Southampton. As The Birdy Song finally sapped the final vestiges of sanity from our minds, I sprung the emergency door just outside the station and ran for my life, telling myself over and over not to look back lest I be turned to stone like some hero in a Greek myth.

"Don't look back. Never look back. They'll be OK. Don't look. Just run."

Somewhere in the south of England is a bus. The driver is the evil clown of your nightmares, picking up innocent passengers, reaping their souls, leaving nothing but empty husks chanting his evil mantra "Y - M - C - A".

He will not stop.

He cannot be stopped.

I survived to warn the world.

Be afraid.
( Scaryduck LIKES EGG, Thu 25 Jun 2009, 15:40, 10 replies)

evil old man
Was on the bus home from school once with my brother. We would usually sit together if we could but because the bingo let out at the same time the bus was always full of coffin dodgers so we'd usually end up sitting seperately or standing.

On one occasion I ended up sitting beside a friends mum while my brother ended up sat beside some random old man. He was a very dapper looking old chap and I can still remember his awesome hat.

I sat chatting away while my brother stuck his mp3 player on, the journey proceeds at it's usual snails pace and everything is as normal. All of a sudden my brother is up out of his seat like a shot and off the bus. I follow him, slightly concerned to find out why he's gotten off about 8 stops early.

He's fucking raging. I see that his trouser leg is wet and he tells me that the old boy he'd been sat beside had pissed on him. I feel a sudden pity for the old guy as at age you don't always have the best control of your bladder.

Up until the bus pulls away and I see him waving at my brother with a massive grin on his face. The old bastard had done it on purpose! At this point I'm trying hard to stifle my giggles and not really succeeding. I lost it completely when we tried to get the next bus and the driver wouldn't let my brother on as he smelt of piss.

I ended up walking home with him moaning at me for my lack of sympathy the whole way.
(panda_sam, Thu 25 Jun 2009, 15:40, 5 replies)

i was on the bus.
the high pitched girls at the back were adding new mobile phone tones to the dulcet shrieks that were already causing other passengers to look back up the bus at them and tut. i sat calmly hoping they would notice the air of disapproval and settle down, however the little harridans only got louder.

right i thought. i pulled my mini-loudhailer (£30 from maplin) out of my bag turned round and said in my loudest voice, "we all have new toys we want to play with but have some consideration for the other people on the bus".

it was the first and only time i had seen anything shut up back-of-the-bus-teenage-skank type girls. and even then only for about 5 minutes.

loudhailers- everybody should have one.
( tickle I was away, Thu 25 Jun 2009, 15:36, 4 replies)

"in the slot"
bout 15 years ago on the bus on the way to school, about 3 stops after I got on, a woman boarded the bus who was quite plainly cursed with some mental deficiency, she pressed her face up against the perspex seperating her from the driver while cluthcing her change and slurred "one twenty to the centre." the driver curtly replied "in the slot."

at which the woman bent over and pursed her lips into the coin slot and repeated "one twenty to the centre."
(Raol Duke, Thu 25 Jun 2009, 15:27, 2 replies)

I never take the bus
As I have a Honda Accord.

And a 13" cock.
(MJPerry was crude but clickable at, Thu 25 Jun 2009, 15:22, 4 replies)

When bus drivers attack.
"You stupid cunting fuck..." he shouted into the closed door of the bus, "...I'll fucking show you, you'll see, you fucking cunt." He was an angry young man, he wanted everyone, particularly the bus driver, to know this, and his relentless shouting gave testament to the fact.

"Stop this fucking thing so I can kick your fucking face in, you cunting cunt." He was letting himself get a bit muddled as passions ran high and his anger threatened to tumble into outright aggression.

"I said stop the fucking bus, you funting cuck... um, fucking fuck." He snapped, lost the ability to speak and pathetically bashed the side of the bus with a clenched fist.

The bus stopped and his face turned instantly from angry to worried. The door flew open and his legs braced ready to leg it. The driver leapt from his seat and the angry man made like Usain Bolt as he broke the land speed record down a narrow side street.

It was at least five minutes before the driver stopped laughing long enough to drive on.
( Moey, Thu 25 Jun 2009, 15:20, Reply)

A pearoast
I was rather confused by this bus.



Cuboidal, surely? I'd even have accepted square at a push.
( K2k6 has a proper job these days, Thu 25 Jun 2009, 15:17, 5 replies)

The Crazy Lady.
I can't believe I didn't think of this one first. I was sitting on those bile-yellow bus-stop seats, waiting for my bus after a hard day's work. After a little bit of waiting, this young woman sat next to me, and smiled at me, sweetly. She was very attractive, so I returned the gesture. She glanced at me, and opened her mouth slightly, as if to say something, but then stopped. She did this about four times, so needless to say, I was quite perplexed as to what she was doing. Eventually, she turned around, and said "Look, excuse me, but... I hate to ask this, but... do you have any change...? I need to get home, but I haven't got any money".

"Yeah, sure. I've only got 20p, mind. Sorry, it's all I've got". She smiled, and I gave it to her. I actually had about three quid, but I've never been comfortable giving strangers money. Call me mean, but you hear horror stories on the news that start the same way. I felt I did a good thing. It wasn't a massive amount of money, but I felt like it went for a good cause. Anyway, after a short time period, my bus pulled up to the stand, so I stood up, and started to walk over to it. Bad move. As soon as I stood up, the change in my pocket clinked together. "Shit", I thought.

She'd heard it. I just knew she did. Don't ask me how, but I could feel it. There was a silence as I walked up to the bus driver, and I thought I might've been wrong about her hearing me, but no. She runs up to the side of the bus, and shrieks "What, am I not good enough for your money? Huh? Fuck you! Peopl-". I was a little startled by that, but felt kinda comfortable that the bus doors started closing, and her outburst was silenced in the middle. The bus pulled away, and I sat on my seat. I started to relax, and then, horror-upon-horrors, I saw her in the window's reflection...running after the bus.

I feel so thankful to say that she stopped after a few steps, but I was still absolutely petrified. I think I was checking my back for about a week after that one.
(almightyjoey is most likely listening to Electric Wizard on, Thu 25 Jun 2009, 15:05, 2 replies)

Elephant to Peckham.
Countless are the times I've taken my life into my own hands this route, meandering as it does along the knife-filled roads of Southwark and ejaculating rudely into Lewisham's equally stabby streets.

Countless are the incidents that I've avoided, more by luck than judgement, but that I've read about in the local rag: The South London Deaths Press. But there is one such incident that I'll bore you with now; should you be arsed to pay any attention.

It was a night like many other and I'd found course to brave the bus journey from Elephant to home; due largely to the fact I'd missed the last train from London Bridge and didn't fancy forking out for a cabby to try and take me on a tour of London when a quick hop down the Old Kent Road was all I required.

I stumbled along Walworth Road with as much menace as my kindly, wimpish appearance would muster and hoped I wouldn't appear sufficiently victim-like to be nominated for a good old fashioned shoeing. Forsaking the opportunity to linger too long outside the Haygate Estate I dragged myself as far as East Street, hid myself in the all too open bus stop and waited for the relative salvation of the 171.

We weren't far from Burgess Park when it began:

"Chu don't wanna fuckin' mess wiv me, mang..." it was like Tony Montana himself had taken up residence on the back seat of the bus.

"I fuckin' mean it, mang... I'll fuckin' fuck chu both up, chu know!"

I neglected the opportunity to have a look and instead hoped that whoever it was would agree with Mr. Montana and not fuck with him, mang. Alas, it wasn't to be. All of a sudden it was as though Stomp were duetting with a troop of Tyrolean thigh slappers as they let fly with a bout of syncopated rubbish.

A flurry of excitement rose from the rear of the bus and for a matter of minutes this relentless rumbling rang out, while occasional requests to stop the bus punctuated the protracted violence. Then it stopped as suddenly as it began, and two black kids strolled out of the middle of the malaise without a hair out of place or a scratch on either face, leaving a swathe of bruised faces and bloodied noses in their wake.

We were all unceremoniously turfed off at Camberwell Green and immediately piled into a waiting replacement, filling the downstairs with excited chatter as each participant regaled the others with dubious accounts of their involvement in the kerfuffle.

According to the wannabe Bruce Lees, the two young kids I'd seen stroll, utterly unscathed from the scrap should have been killed to bits countless times by the skilful and deadly beatings that had been meted out. My eyes told me a very different story, as before me stood an array of broken faces, coated in dried blood and the beginnings of soon to be prominent purple swellings.

Either they were all magnificent liars, who had been served a ferocious beating at the hands of two young, but efficient pugilists, or in the excitement they'd managed to get involved in a fight they had no part in, and then mistakenly beaten seven shades of shit out of one another, while the two who they had initially targeted focused their efforts on deforming the face of Mr. Montana's useless impressionist, and a good job they'd done of it, too.
( Moey, Thu 25 Jun 2009, 14:52, 1 reply)

School Buses
The bus with a hole in that everyone threw snowballs in on snow days.

The bus that turned around and took everyone back to school when someone pulled out a seat and threw it down the stairs.

The boy who got tied to the poles in the bus by his shoelaces, ended up three miles from home and then left the school due to bullying.

The bus which would rock from side to side as the students did.

The 24 hour bus journeys to the south of France consisting of drinking and Ben Stiller movies.

The single person who got travel sick and infamously broke the bus toilet. Unfortunately for him this was on the same trip.
(Ginger_Whinger got in the newsletter!! =D, Thu 25 Jun 2009, 14:46, Reply)

hmmmmmm...
Many moons ago I was on a bus from Gloucester to the village I lived in when something really strange happened.

The bus stopped and an old man got on. He was holding the side of his head as if he had a very bad earache, I was the only other passenger, it was late October, 6.45pm and was dark outside.

As I said the bus was completely empty but the old man shuffled along the aisle until he reached my seat, he stared at me for a second and seemed to mumble something under his breath. He then walked on, but sat immediately behind me. As the bus pulled away I was sure he mumbled something again.

I felt very uncomfortable.

After about 10 minutes the old man got up from his seat, still with his hand to the side of his head and walked towards the driver. I was very relieved that he was no longer behind me, but I had a horible feeling that something terrible was about to happen.

As he drew level with the driver he turned to face me and smiled whilst lowering his hand from his head.

I was petrified, as the bus driver seemed oblivious of the mans presence, and the bus was motoring along dark lanes at high speed.

Then the old man reached up and pressed the button to tell the driver to stop at the next bus stop.

As the old man got off the bus and walked down the side towards me, he looked up and smiled. It was then that I recognised him.....it was the old man who got on the bus every night and sat behind me.

I normally had a chat with him most nights, but I had not recognised him with his hand on the side of his head.

(This post may contain previously used material and was produced in an environment that might have a few nuts lying about somewhere)
( insignificantsnivellinglittleturd I Like Peas, Thu 25 Jun 2009, 14:45, Reply)

There are two old ladies at the bingo

and one says to the other, "Did you come on the bus dear?"

To which the second replied, "Yes, but I made it look like an asthma attack!"
( Naked Ape call me Caitlyn, Thu 25 Jun 2009, 14:45, 1 reply)

Fucking Bus Driver!
A few years ago, I had a shit job and was due to do a Saturday shift.

I ambled to the top of my road to catch the next bus and make sure I got to work in good time. Living just outside the city centre meant that this particular bus went every 20 minutes.

I can't remember the times exactly, but for the sake of argument, let's say I left my house at 13.15 to get the 13.20 bus, knowing that the bus stop was only 1 minute away.

As I get to the top of the road, I see my bus pulling away. "Fuck! It's early!" However it moved no more than 20 yards from the bus stop before it hit a line of traffic at a red light. "Huzzah!" thought I.

I walked up to the door of the bus and knocked. The cunt just waved me off. So I shouted "The light's red, can't you just let me on?" He shook his head in response.
I shouted back "I've got a weekly ticket, you just have to stamp it" so he knew he didn't have to fuck around giving me change and my ticket. Still no luck.

Luckily, the next stop was a mere 200-300 yards away, and the lights were in my favour. I took a brisk walk/jog to the next stop, which was empty, sat down and waited for Mr Fucknugget.

Mr F arrives and opens his door, no-one gets off. Just as I'm about to step on, another bus pulls up behind (the next bus, but very early).

"Fuck this, I'll get on the other one you miserable bastard" says I, and I do.

Winnar!
(porkinator is a Rock n Roll nerd!, Thu 25 Jun 2009, 14:42, Reply)

Im afraid this will be the third time I've told this particular tale of child cruelty and vengeance on here, but as its my only bus related story I feel I must

As an experienced traveller of buses, I feel that I have gained an invaluable insight into the problems of public transport. The main problem is that OTHER PEOPLE ARE ANNOYING. This rule applies tenfold in the case of children.

So, one particular day I get on the bus to go into town and take my seat towards the back of the bus. Far back enough to not be sat with the elderly, but not too far back to be stuck with the thugs. All is going as well as a journey in a clapped out stinking bus can possibly go, when the child from hell jumps aboard with his fat arsed chav mother. They sit in the gap thats designed for the elderly and the crippled in the standard display of selfish procrastinating lazyarsed effortless behaviour that you now seem to expect from the tax swallowing handout dependent wasters that are the chav class. The mother opens a family bag of doritos, and proceeds to munch her way to an early grave, while satans fart stands on his seat and starts pressing the bell over and over...and over again.

This went on for about 10 minutes, and I could see everyone on the bus becoming restless as they all got closer and closer to a total nervous breakdown. And then, something incredible happened. Something so extraordinary, noone saw it coming... The mother actually did some parenting.

"IF YOU TOUCH THAT BELL ONE MORE FUCKING TIME WE'RE GOING HOME YOU LITTLE SHIT!" she bellowed menacingly at the perfectly described "little shit". The child immediatly stopped, looking shocked and upset but kept his hand near the button mostly for balance. And so, the perfect opportunity for vengeance had shown itself.

With a quick glance at the mother to make sure she wasn't looking at either me or the demon spawn, I reached up and rang the bell in quick succession. The mother glared at the child, his hand still over his button, and with wails of protest she picked him up, and marched off of the bus screaming at him that he was no longer going to the zoo.
( Furness, Thu 25 Jun 2009, 14:41, 13 replies)

The Phantom.
There's one service (425/427, Wakefield-Bradford) that usually runs smoothly, is rarely more than a few minutes late, and always shows up - or at least it does if you're going towards Bradford. If you try and catch it going the other way, half the time it fails to appear at all, and you end up having to catch the next one. It usually "disappears" somewhere between Bradford city centre and the ring road.

I first found this out when I tried to take a quicker route back from work, and wound up standing in pissing cold ice and snow for well over an hour, stuck 12 miles from home in chuffing East Bierley with no shelter whatsoever. It goes without saying that I was not best pleased.
( The Mock TurtIe ™ --- Thinks you are a cunt, on, Thu 25 Jun 2009, 14:41, 1 reply)

When I did a 3-show running contract on "On the Buses" for ITV, I was placed in the same changing room as a young upstart from the US who was setting out an early career in acting himself.
"T" is how he named himself, and things were going great until he knocked over my Tizer on to my freshly pressed flares.
I beat him up within 3 rounds. Between each round I'd have sex with a page three girl whilst taking debilitating drugs to keep things fair.
Then I went home and shagged three Mrs Worlds.
( Jam Master Geordie Hero of B3ta., Thu 25 Jun 2009, 14:35, 4 replies)

China!
The buses in China are universally shit. Crowded (I mean face-to-armpit crowding), smelly, sweaty, crapholes. The Chinese don't queue, they just form a sort of cone shaped mass, barging past each other to get on board. Similarly to get off, there's no "excuse me" or "are you getting off here too?", just an elbow in the back. It is a bastard society.

Anyway my real story relates to the other week, it was late and I saw what was possibly the last bus of the evening sitting at the stop. I was across the other side of the road, but luckily it was clear (they also drive like shit here), so I began to run. And fuck me if the bus didn't start up and pull away. Drat! Of course I did the sensible thing and ran round the corner of the road, not thinking about the useless Chinese drivers that would be lining up behind me to turn me into minced Yeti, came alongside the bus and scared the pants off the driver as I banged on the door.

He was quite nice though, slowed down and let me on, so it was worth it in the end :)
(zenmeban thinks the weather could be better, Thu 25 Jun 2009, 14:31, Reply)

i dont have a bus, but i do have a clapped out ex postal van called Thelma AND i have a blog now!
ominousdubai.blogspot.com/

hop on. ding ding!
( spimf ™ is whoever you want him to be, Thu 25 Jun 2009, 14:30, 1 reply)

The strangest thing I have ever seen on a bus
A fairly elderly american lady got on the bus, seemingly quite intoxicated and carrying a bag. She wouldn't sit down but insisted that the driver talk to her whilst he drove. During part of the conversation, he mentioned he was quite hungry from his long shift when she reached into her bag and pulled out a couple of muffins, first offering to feed him whilst he drove, then ignoring his rejection proceeded to shove the muffins in his face anyway. Our bus consequently swerved all over the road whilst the driver was trying to clear his face of muffin crumbs and to stop the extremely helpful woman from trying to feed him any more.

She was asked to sit down after that...
( Imhotep is Invisible - Consider this a divorce, Thu 25 Jun 2009, 14:29, Reply)

Buses
With festival season getting fully underway this weekend, it's reminded me of an appropriate tale from yesteryear.

~~~~ wavy lines, about 4 years' worth, I reckon ~~~~

I'd got myself tickets to T in The Park, and having paid hideously over the odds through an online tout (scum of the Earth - don't get me started on those wankers), you can imagine my delight when my twunt of a boss told me that - due to "staffing shortages" (one other person with an unrelated job was off) - I wouldn't be able to get the time off.

This bloke was a monumental fuckstick of the highest order, and was basically just doing his usual thing of going out of his way to make other people's life worse, at no gain to himself.

Now, I was never that keen on the job anyway, so I thought to myself "fuck it, even if he knows I'm on a sickie he's not going to fire me just for that", and duly put on my best gravelly throat and called in sick on the Thursday, as we were making our way North of the border.

The weekend came and went in spectacular fashion - if you've never been to T in The Park, you should definitely try, the Scots know how to have a good time. We drove home on the Sunday night/Monday morning, meaning that when my alarm went off at 8, I did what seemed natural... and called in sick again.

Strolling into work on the Tuesday morning - having made the necessary preparations (i.e. cutting off my festival wristband, scrubbing the smell of Scottish field from my bodily crevices), I thought all would be fine - my boss might think that I've thrown a sickie, but he couldn't prove anything.

"TMD? Get your good-for-nothing arse in here!" bellowed the aforementioned fuckstick, the minute I set foot on our floor.

I walked in and fought my corner vigorously, explaining that my phone had been off so that "I could rest properly", and that I didn't have a doctor's note as "I was too ill to go", and "didn't think I needed one for only a few days".

"So, you were really ill, then?"

"Yes, and I resent the accusation that I wasn't"

At which point my boss leaned back, grabbed a remote, and pointed it at the TV in his office...

...revealing a video from the weekend's BBC coverage of the festival, showing me pissed up and lairy, sat astride my friend's shoulders singing along and proudly holding a banner with the words "My boss thinks I'm ill... what a cunt".

"I'll get my coat", quoth I.

~~~~ wavy lines bringing us back to the modern day ~~~~

"That's all well and good, TMD, but what the jiggery fuck has this got to do with buses", I hear you ask?

Well, I waited ages for a relevant QOTW in which to tell this story, then three came along together.

Sorry.
( TheMagicDwarf is back like ballroom dancing, Thu 25 Jun 2009, 14:24, 10 replies)

Police and Military Escorts
On a school trip to Moscow in the late 80s we had a bus/coach that took us to West Berlin - we were given a military escort from a few miles outside West Berlin (no reason was given!)

After a long night out boozing in Oxford I got on the last bus back to Bicester that evening and decided against going upstairs as it sounded like a WWE/UFC event. The police came on-board just before the bus departed and removed a couple of people. We got out onto George Street and I noticed a police car with blues and twos in front of us and as we turned into Magdalen Street noticed two behind us as well. They kept with us all the way to Bicester (a 12 mile journey or so) and then proceeded to arrest some more people as they got off.

Have been on a bus in Brussels that was given a police escort because they needed to get it off the road to let the King's entourage past - amazing coincidence was the next weekend I'd picked someone up from the airport in a car and on entering a tunnel coming into Brussels picked up a 4 motorcycle posse of policemen who had guns and instructed me to floor it (doing 150mph through tunnels is interesting!!!) and as I got out of the tunnel and pulled over the bloody King came past again.
(timbucks, Thu 25 Jun 2009, 14:24, Reply)

This happened to me once
I saw the bus I needed at the bus stop, so I ran to get to it, but right before I got to it, it pulled away! I had knocked on the window and everything! So I flew up in the air and shouted "SHINING BLAST WAVE!!" and a magic beam erupted from my palms and blew up the bus.

After that I went home with Megan Fox and she gave me naughty kisses

Cheers
( Lightguy hail satan, Thu 25 Jun 2009, 14:21, 5 replies)

THE BUS?
FUCK THAT SHIT


THIS IS WHAT I DRIVE.
( WormuIus, Thu 25 Jun 2009, 14:20, 17 replies)

Kneeeee-el for the bus driver, bus driver, bus driver.....
WARNING: This post may contain a high quota of gay.

This story starts with a highly embarrassing situation; the one, and only time I have been stood up. A beautiful young boy of 17 (never fear, I was the same age), I had long desired to pop his middle class cherry. Alas, he didn't turn up, probably thinking twice about meeting a strident, sexually carnivorous semi-chav. I have been known to devour my virgin conquests so he made the right decision.

I digress. He had not turned up, so I was waiting in the tramps-piss soaked bus station in beauteous Bedford. I eventually got on a bus to go home, whereupon alighting the bus the driver looked at me with his kind, kind eyes and asked, "Whats wrong, sweetheart?" As he was obviously more gay than Rupert the Bear pulling aside a set of pink, loveheart strewn bikini briefs for an unseen dogger to enter him roughly and without sympathy, I told him the whole story. His lovely big pink, shiny head nodded along.

From then on, I saw him a few times a week on the buses. He let me on for free, and used to mimic the horrible little chav girls who screeched constantly on the buses until I nearly wet my tiny pants in laughter. I knew everything about his nice bear of a boyfriend, and his love of high camp female singers.

Then he met my best friend, a massive bender.

To give a little background, 1. He has had a full beard since the age of 13. 2. His Irish dad is nicknamed Hatchet because at 17 he chopped a mans hand off with a hatchet (This is long before Lock, Stock). Thats Tinkers for you! 3. He was only 15.

Obviously, this 40+ bus driver would have a passing pancy to this young, hairy bum bandit. Unfortunately, it went a little further. Only a few months ago (bearing in mind he is now 19) he told me once he went into the bus driver's cafe for a weak cup of tea and a jam sandwich and ended up noshing him off in the staff toilets. The bus drivers boyfriend at the time? Off visiting his mum, who was dying of cancer. Classy.

And that?

Is why you should never speak to strangers.
(Turn that bloody gramaphone down has incorrect spelling in her username *WINS*, Thu 25 Jun 2009, 14:17, Reply)

I have a story.
There's a bus driver here who always tries to overcharge young people.
It costs £1 to get to the university campus from town, but £1.40 to get to Asda (without a student card). However, he tries to charge £1.40, no matter what.

One day, he tried to overcharge me, but I said no. Then he let me pay £1. I was still angry though, so to get revenge, me and Amanda Holden, who I've mentioned shagging once before, got into a Honda Accord and pinned him to the wall. Then we weed on his shoes and went home and had sex. She's good at sex by the way.

Cheers.
( WHARRGARBL, Thu 25 Jun 2009, 14:16, 3 replies)

One doesn't use public transport.
*looks down on the povs*
( Captn Hood-Butter is not dead yet., Thu 25 Jun 2009, 14:16, 1 reply)

I know this guy called Friz
His face is as big as a bus.

It looks like he was assaulted with a bicycle pump.
( Donkey Gums @mattcomedy, Thu 25 Jun 2009, 14:15, Reply)