A pearoast from last year:
Some are genuine, some are just shits. I had to go to A&E once because my knee was so fucked up. There was me and ONE other person on a fairly large bus, and I was sat somewhere in the middle, with one leg on the seat (I couldn't bend it) and my other foot on the floor. This stupid bint went and tapped my foot (the way people would if that was the last or easiest available seat on a packed bus) and asked me to move my leg in a bitchy manner. I smiled and apologised, telling her I couldn't really bend my leg because of PAIN, and she complained to the bus driver. He was obviously on my side, given that I'd asked for 'hospital' and dragged myself onto the bus.


Another time and another old lady. I have a BAHA, which is a hearing aid that's implanted into bone on the skull to make vibrations. Nobody else can hear any sound from it, only the whistle they sometimes make. I also have a headphone which plugs into that. My ipod was plugged into this on a journey home. Some woman sat next to me, not saying a word to me for a good 5 minutes. The minute I got my ipod out to change the track, she tapped me on the shoulder and said in a really nasty manner 'turn the music down please, I can hear the words!'. I got smiles and nods after I ranted to her that I knew for a FACT she could not hear a bloody thing, and told her why she couldn't. I'd understand if it was whistling she could hear, but I can hear that too and I certainly wouldn't be playing music on top of it!

I don't mind old people, but some are fucking deliberately obnoxious.




AND

On the Edinburgh night bus a few years back, somebody fell down the stairs, obviously smacked out of his brain, got his arm caught in the handrail, had a compound fracture in the middle of the radius, and then asked us all if anybody knew how to fix watches. I don't fuck with the Scottish.
( Methylene Blue - electrohead, Thu 25 Jun 2009, 17:43, 2 replies)

Euston
Got on a bendy bus once at Euston. A rail replacement thingy to Watford cos it was after 10pm/mildly cold so all the trains were broke. 2 hours later on the outskirts of Watford, me and Dave sat at the back, the only passengers on board, the driver pulls over and walks over to us. "I have no idea where the fuck I am." We had already realised that as he'd gone up the M1 at one point. "Can you tell me where I should be going?".

We directed him to our house, which was on a little street, just off the high st in Watford (smith st if youre interested) and absolutely not the sort of road an 80 foot bendy bus should go down.

Anyway, we got chatting to him, he was a good bloke. Left his bus outside the house and came in for a toke. He left about 10am the next morning after waking in our lounge and suddenly remembered he was a bus driver and that he'd left a fucking massive bus stuck at the bottom of our road, blocking about 40 people in a car park.

Happy days.
( I have run out of coke is a little sweaty, Thu 25 Jun 2009, 17:35, 1 reply)

Sorry mum
My real dad buggered off shortly after I was born, back to his wife we reckon even though he said he wasn't married, never to be seen again. So, my mother raised me as a single parent.

We were travelling on the bus into town one day, I was a toddler, my mum would have been in her late twenties. The bus was packed with people from the village all heading to the shops. We were sat opposite an elderly gent who I stared at for some time.

After a while I decided it was time to ask the question. "Mum". That got her and everyone else's attention. "Yes dear?" she replied. I asked loudly and clearly so that not one person on the bus didn't hear: "Is that man my dad?".

Cue much blushing, staring and sniggering.
( stopmeandslapme Cometh the hour, cometh your mum, Thu 25 Jun 2009, 17:31, 1 reply)

Eye Contact Leading to a (Very) Brief Physical Relationship
Trundling down from Tufnell Park to Kings Cross on the 390 on my way to the slave pit I also call my office, I catch the eye of a rather attractive young city-type girl in her posh business suit that makes her tits look absolutely fucking edible. Two things go through my mind: 1) God, that’s a fine pair of jugs. 2) Hmmm, nice suit – she’s probably fucking minted too.

Eye contact ensues.

She’s sat down, I’m stood up in the aisle. I attempt to arch my back surreptitiously to make my package appear bigger. I suck my gut in, and try to look all cool, intelligent, and sexy using only the awsome power of my big brown puppy dog eyes. This obviously doesn’t work. She starts gazing blankly out the window.

Buggerit!!!

The 390 breaks a few bones, dislocates a few hips as it hammers down York Way, going round the back of St. Pancras. We get to the shite wanky newly built train station. The girl gets up and makes eye contact with me again. She SMILES and plays a little with her long golden hair!!! Fuck, yes!!! Houston, we have a potential expedition to planet ejaculation!!! She gets off the bus. With my cock on full alert I follow – I was getting off at St Pancras anyway.

I stroll along side her, go to speak. Don’t realise some cunty cock sucking wankstain has left a half eaten cheeseburger right in my path. As this lovely vision of lovely loveliness (like the girl off the Timotei ad, or a really high class prostitute) stops and turns, obviously wanting me to say: “Hi,” I slip on the burger, go arse over tit and end up

...head butting her straight in the face...

I was fucking livid (she wasn’t very happy either)...
( SpankyHanky, Thu 25 Jun 2009, 17:20, 4 replies)

A tale of racism on the bus! Oh the humanity!
It was a warm day in March when I rode the bus home from school and saw the 2 young gentlemen (i.e. wannabe street toughs dressed like white rappers) see an acquaintance crossing the street. "Why, that young man is our companion! Let us beg the driver to halt the progression of the bus momentarily to let him on!" thought the boys.
However, the driver seemed somewhat reluctant to stop the bus directly in the middle of a busy intersection. The reasons for this are unknown, but this pissed the boys off mightily. "Excuse me, my good sir!" One boy exclaimed to the driver. "I believe the reason you did not stop was not for fear of causing a traffic accident, but because our friend was hispanic and you are a racist! I will now swear and threaten you loudly!" (I'm paraphrasing) "I as well will act as offensive as possible!" proclaimed the other youngster.
Thus the two young boys bleated profanities and obscene language until the driver politely asked them to get the hell off his bus. "Alas," cried the first boy. "We are not yet finished avenging our friend who was unknowingly the victim of a hate crime!" The bus driver offered two choices- that the boys leave the bus or the local constabulary would be called. "I accept the first choice," said the first boy, "but I will express my displeasure at the entire situation by making an obscene gesture with this finger for your viewing pleasure."
The second boy decided to do the same, with his own addition of kicking the side of the bus as it pulled away, ironically leaving a dent on the side of an ad promoting Mental Health Week at the marketplace.
So in the end, these two boys were never heard from again by this author. It is assumed they are travelling the world fighting racism and injustice for innocent non-bus riding people everywhere.
(mariam67, Thu 25 Jun 2009, 17:18, 1 reply)

Chicken buses
I don't like using the buses at home - not because I'm a snob or anything like that, but because they confuse the hell out of me. Whenever I've got on the same numbered bus (e.g. No.17) on more than one occasion it seems to have taken a completely different route to the time before. And not always in the direction I was intending to head.

Anyway, I digress. Whilst travelling in Central America a few years ago I didn't have the luxury of choice in the form of transport I took. It was chicken bus or expensive tourist mini van. I opted for the former.

The Guatemalan chicken bus is basically an old American school bus. Designed originally to seat slightly tubby children; in Guatemala I would often find myself sharing a seat with 2 other people, with my knees up somewhere around my chin, a foot resting on a sack of grain and my face pressed a little too snugly to a standing passenger's 'arris.

Getting from A to B normally necessitated a detour and 4 bus changes via C,D,E and F. It worked remarkably well though. You'd rock up at your departure point, tell the disinterested teenage "conductor" where you wanted to end up and then watch as your luggage sailed onto the roof. From then on you jumped off at various points along the way and chased your bag from bus to bus.

Guatemalan bus drivers were a law unto themselves as well. These were guys who proudly hung signs above their seat that proclaimed "Jesus is my co-pilot" and "I drive, God guides me" whilst double overtaking on a blind bend in the mountains.

Personally I liked to think that if they'd just curbed their enthusiasm a little they wouldn't have required the assistance of the almighty. To say I was scared shitless on occasion would be an understatement.
(mcgriffto, Thu 25 Jun 2009, 17:18, Reply)

I was kidnapped by a bus
Three or four years ago, I had just got together with Mister Anodyne, and I used to spend a couple of days at his place a week. One day I was going to his and had gone to the supermarket in town, after college. So I had a *really* heavy, massive bag with me... dragging the ground heavy (I am short and the bag was heavy).

Anyways, so I gets to the bus stop, and there's a bus from a different bus company there. It was a different bus company because it went all the way to North Yorkshire. It was an express bus, one that has many fewer stops. "No problem," thinks I, "I've seen this bus stop at my stop loads of times". So I got on, dragging my load, and sits down.

*Time passes as the bus travels*

So now it was nearly time to get off, so I rang the bell, stood up, and started dragging my bag to the front. The bus stopped before I got to the front and let 3 people on. It then set off again. "Woah!" I shouted. "I wanted to get off!"..... This is how the following conversation went:

Me: Mate, I needed to get off there.
Bus Driver: You can't get off there.
M: ?
D: That is a stop for people to get *on* the bus. You can't get *off* the bus there.
M: But...eh?
D: You. Can't. Get. Off. There.
M: But you had stopped already! How is it a problem if I get off if people are getting on?
D: Those are the rules. The arrangement we have with *local bus company* is that people can't get off there.
M: THAT MAKES NO SENSE!!! WHAT THE MERRY HELL AM I SUPPOSED TO DO NOW?!?!
Passenger: This is an express bus! If you wanted to get off at that stop you should have got on another bus.
M: THE BUS STOPPED! IT TAKES AT LEAST 3 TIMES AS LONG FOR SOMEONE TO GET ON THE BUS AS IT DOES FOR SOMEONE TO GET OFF!!! AAARGH!!!! *Brain explodes at sheer jobsworthiness of it all*

Eventually the bus stopped. A MILE from where I needed to be. I had to ring up Mister Anodyne, and through my tears, tell him what had happened. He came to rescue me and carry my bag.

Once I had finished being all head explod-y and crying, I got really pissed off, I mean - what kind of wanker chucks a 16 year old girl off a bus with a bag she can hardly carry in an area she doesn't even know? So I rang the bus company, and they.... just told me the exact same ridiculous shit that the driver had.


Bus companies are wankers.


...Sorry about the rant, I hadn't realised I was still quite so pissed off with the whole affair as I obviously am...

Length? At least a mile out of my way.
(BelladonnaAnodyne Melissa's gonna wet herself, I swear..., Thu 25 Jun 2009, 17:15, 2 replies)

Buses: the discerning traveller's vehicle of choice
Incorporating a bit of a pearoast…

Buses are great aren’t they? A moving, human zoo in which the exhibits are ever changing as they hop on and hop off, whilst you stare out of the window dreaming of exotic locations and the warm welcome you’ll be getting when you arrive home. Not mention wondering how you'll get the chewing gum off the arse of your new pants that you have inadvertantly just sat on.

Actually, no they’re not. I hate bus travel; I hate the fact that for me to do a 16 mile journey from my house into Newcastle, it takes an hour as the charabanc meanders slowly around housing estates, picking up its malnourished cargo whilst negotiating speed humps and avoiding toddlers playing ‘chicken’ on tricycles. And the last bus home is a delight. Even besides the fact that the top deck is usually full of pissed up, mooning strangers, tunelessly regurgitating Newcastle United terrace chants at the tops of their voices, a one hour, violently bouncy journey on an item of public transport with no facilities is a prospect I can no longer endure. These days, I get the last train to Morpeth, then a taxi home. At least I can have a piss on the train. And another one in the nearest pub when I get off.

That said, you do get to overhear some gems of conversation at times, like, “Eeh, there’s some heat in that sun isn’t there”?

“Aye. Mind, it gets cooler when it goes in again”.

And so on. Best one I heard about, though, was this, overheard by a friend on a bus a few years ago. Sitting in front of a couple of 'attractive'* chavettes, he and his mate were party to their every word (every other word of which was 'fuck', or a variation of). Dave and his mate were trying to chat, but were repeatedly distracted by the stream of badly constructed obscenities, interspersed with the odd proper word, like chips, or kebabs.

They were hooked. It was like their very own mini Big-Brother, with 'ordinary' people laying their souls bare for the whole bus to be party to.

Then chavette #1 piped up, "Ah wuz wiv wor lad last neet, it were lush. W' had a proppa sesh, like, an' ah lerrim howk aal owa me chebs".**

Sweet.

*Subject to interpretation obviously
**Translation: I was with my chap last night. We had a smashing time and as a token of my love for him, I let him spill his seed upon my heaving bosom.
( Davros' Granddad a voice of calm reason in a world of spastics., Thu 25 Jun 2009, 17:13, 1 reply)

kamikaze jimmy
jimmy was our school bus driver. top bloke, but mad as a box of frogs. his favourite trick was turning as tight as he could into a roundabout, then driving around it as fast as he dared.
we loved it, but the teachers didn't, which resulted in a nasty phonecall to his boss and a written warning.
after receiving his warning, jimmy weighed up his options and decided that a new career was called for.
he didn't want to just quit, so he decided to get himself fired.
on his last morning, he drove like a maniac, getting us to school almost ten minutes early. there was a large roundabout outside the school, which jimmy headed straight for and began circling.
five times around the roundabout, then ten, then fifteen, then twenty. the headmaster and most of the senior staff were now outside the school gates, giving the bus and its crazy driver the most disapproving stares they could muster.
jimmy didn't stop.
with kids hanging from every available bar and the stairs, he went round for the thirtieth, then fortieth times.
by the forty fifth rotation, several teachers were in their cars, trying to cut him off or slow him down. they finally managed it, just as the bus completed its forty ninth time around the roundabout.
jimmy was, of course, immediately sacked, but to us kids, he became an instant legend.

good on you, fella, you made a crap school day that bit brighter.

length? about 10-12 minutes as i recall
( Smash Monkey lowering the tone of the whole internet, Thu 25 Jun 2009, 17:11, Reply)

The Rules of Bus-Or
1. Buses MUST smell of either:

a) Piss
b) Vomit
c) Farts

or a combination of the three.

2. Buses MUST, at all times, contain:

a) A month-old copy of Metro
b) An empty drinks can which rolls sloooowly and noisily under the seats
c) One loony (see 3. below)

3. With regards to c) above, the loony must meet the following minimum criteria:

a) Must smell, and the smell must be so overpowering that when combined with those set out in 1. above, that it is physically visible and/or audible
b) Must resemble, or indeed be, a paedo
c) Must have unnerving stare of at least 75 on the Alan Moore scale and be able to engage passengers in conversations about the nuclear bomb he is building in his shed, Star Trek, or the little green goblin that talks to him and tells him to kill women

4. In summer, buses must contain at least ONE wasp at ALL times. Drivers to be issued with wasp in jam-jar at commencement of journey, to be released prior to emboardation of any passengers.

5. No Standees Beyond This Point.

6. Exact Change Only. Passenger Change Tickets Available.

7. Posters recruiting bus drivers must be as outlandish and askew to reality as possible, so much so that David Lynch himself would cry. Example: "Enjoy meeting people? Enjoy travel? Become a bus driver!" There should be no limit to the imagination when designing such posters, up to and including, "Want to pull the birds, earn millions, and become the most popular person on Earth? Become a bus driver!"

8. The hyrdraulic brakes on every bus should make a noise akin to a thousand elephants being castrated with a rusty scythe.

9. Should any man over the age of 26 board a bus, the driver should regard him with a pitying stare and slow, sad shake of the head.

10. Bus-Or is never late.
(Dr Skagra glorious glargzhem, Thu 25 Jun 2009, 17:09, Reply)

Bus-ted
In my younger days whilst in london somewhat pissed and feeling randy after getting a glance of some stocking tops in Anne Summers I decided it would be hilarious if I knocked one off on the empty top deck of a bus.

People must have wondered what the hell was happening after looking up from the pavement and seeing some frantic movements and strained facial expressions.

Unfortunately the nice old ladies and female bus driver on the bottom deck weren't so impressed. I mean, how the hell was I to know that these fucking things have CCTV on them these days?

"for my safety and enhanced journey experience" my arse.
(Mong The Merciless Older not wiser, Thu 25 Jun 2009, 17:04, Reply)

My Boss
Is always going on at me for turning up late...


Fucksocks
(Is this a good idea? ... Yes this is definitely a good idea, Thu 25 Jun 2009, 16:59, 1 reply)

The Bus Bet
Me and my mate Dave were watching one of those compilation shows on TV where they show old feats of derring-doo, sword swallowing and the like, when one came on about insane bike jumps. It was of some fella jumping over 15 buses on his bike.
Dave turned to me and said "I bet you 50 quid that I could jump over 15 bikes with a bus."
"Pah! Ridiculous!" quoth I, then I thought fuck it, he'll never be arsed to try and do it, let alone succeed, "You're on!" I roared, saluted him, left and thought nothing more of it for a week.
The following saturday my mobile rang, it was Dave growling down the phone "Get your arse to the playing fields. Bring me my 50 quid" and hung up. I swiftly pocketed the cash and made my way to the playing fields where the first thing I saw was a massive ramp with a fucking big, red double decjer bus at the top. My eyes spanned down the ramp and spread in front of it in almost military fashion were 15 bikes, evenly spaced 3 feet apart.
I whistled in appreciation at the stationary spectacle in front of me as Dave approached. "Alright?" he said "It's all set up. I'm going up there to the bus now, when I come down I want that 50 quid, well, I need that 50 quid. This has cost me a fucking fortune and a shitload of favours to pull off. Gary in work sorted out all the relevant angles and speed bollocks, all I've gotta do is get the bus to at least 65 before going off the end of the ramp, keep it straight and I'm laughing. See you in bit."
I obliged and wished him luck, genuinely looking forward to seeing him sail over all those bikes on his borrowed bus.
He climbed aboard and started the engine, then finally pulled off and hurtled down this ramp going faster and faster before flying through the air and passing over the first few bikes whilse still arcing quite gracefully into the air.
He passed over 5...6...7
And kept going, 8...9...10
"Fuck me" I thought out loud, "He's going to do it!"
11...12, then suddenly...
*CRASH*
His bus had crashed down onto the thirteenth bike, so close to his goal. I ran over to the twisted metal wreckage and got there just as he flopped out of the cab.
"Mate what the fuck happened, you were going perfectly! Then you just fell from the air like a stone with cement shoes!"
"I know" he gasped, "Some cunt rang the fucking bell"



I'm so so sorry. (not)
(Formaly Over say's hello, Thu 25 Jun 2009, 16:53, 1 reply)

Fear and loathing las buses
I flatly refuse to take buses- not because they are chariots for the poor (like a few replies have said so far ), they just remind me of a horrid past job and the problems that came from it.

A long long time ago I worked as a mechanic at the London Transport bus overhaul works (It is a place, look it up). The staff turnover was quite high mainly due to the bosses ability to pick unqualified people who had wasted most of their lives at drama college and would dick around and burst into song at any opportunity. The hours were long and the work was hard.

Anywhoo one day one of the gang of ex-acting blokes announces that he has managed to blag a loan of one the company buses to use for a European break with him and his mates and spent the next week or so ripping out the fixtures to put in beds etc for the trip. They did all this while neglecting the jobs we needed to do piled up and attempted to turn the whole thing into a musical montage counting down the days to their holiday.

The bunch of luvvies and one god botherer then jumped on the bus and fucked off to France. Turns out they ended up in Athens and most of the other staff back at the works in London were fired due to the fact that we weren’t able to clear the backlog of work they had left us.

Just typed the name of the god loving bloke into wiki and found out that he went on to make a shitload of money releasing songs at Christmas every year.
(mon bison powered by magnets, Thu 25 Jun 2009, 16:53, 2 replies)

I used to think that the village idiot was a made up job title
This was however until I got on the bus in Wales.
Now I had been visiting my grandma and grandpa when me and me two brothers were then dragged to the bus stop by our mother, to go to town, this meant a trip on the bus. All was going well until about three or four stops into the journey a rather odd man wearing one of those bum bags got on the bus. Now as the next stop was the one we had to get off at we were stood at the front, and so was this guy. Once he had paid and taken his slot on the bus he then proceeded to kiss his ticket and wave it in the air like some kind of banner, a bit weird but I’ve seen worse or so I thought but then he employed his tong in the act of kissing this now sodden tick as well as still waving it about. After about five or so minutes of this when the ticket was on the verge of falling apart, he opened his little bum bag and carefully placed the dripping ticket in amongst his other equally treated ticks that were stuck together in his bag.
After disembarking the bus we were then informed that he was in fact the village idiot.
Thankfully he wasn’t there on the way back
(radial head fracture, Thu 25 Jun 2009, 16:51, Reply)

Worst. Driver. Ever.
I have no idea how this guy got his bus driver's license.

Driving along, I was standing near the front because it was ny stop soon. We come to a fairly big roundabout, and the driver stops half way around. Why? To let someone come onto the roundabout. From the left. The pillock was treating roundabouts like junctions, and he was being so very nice, letting the cars go. Never mind that the car he was trying to let on the roundabout was beeping his horn and waving at him to get off the roundabout.
( Damocles wants no part of your debauchery, Thu 25 Jun 2009, 16:49, 1 reply)

bus trips in East London, and Mango Land
I write some bits and pieces for friends to keep them amused at work, and one of my topics is quite often bus trips. It all started when the tube was down last summer...

I’ve been busy riding buses around East London this week following all the tube cancellations. I love buses. On my trip from Walthamstow into Canning Town (and what a delightful place that is!) I’ve noticed many things that I found interesting - firstly, just how many kebab shops do we need in one area? I didn’t even realise there were that many in the UK… and I have a few questions about what I saw on my bus adventure:

1. To the owner of ‘Mango World’ - what possessed you to open up a food shop specialising in (and only stocking?) mangoes? How did you pitch this idea to your bank manager? Are there really that many mango addicts in E15?

2. K.A.K Mortgages - did anyone raise any concerns over the office name or is it only me that finds this amusing?

3. As above, but for the owner of Meb-Boob (it appears to be a travel agency.)

4. Shoe 4 U - is this a bad grammatical mistake or do you really only sell shoes in the singular - a specialist shop for people with one leg?

5. Chevy Chase pub - is it named after the actor? I like the ‘Three Amigos’ too, but not that much…

From there, an obsession grew amongst my friends for Mango World, so this theme continued... unfortunately the shop closed a few months later (or so I thought), leading to this recent update:

Regular readers will recall that, tragically, last year Mango Land of Walthamstow ceased trading*. It was a sad day everyone, and one that has cast a shadow over us all (although those wishing to buy cheap mangoes in bulk more than others) ever since…

But - what is this?! - are we seeing those much promised green shoots of recovery on the very pavements of E17 which so cruelly took the wonder that is Mango Land (previously Mango World) from our lives? Yes, dear friends and fruit lovers, like a fantastical green and yellow phoenix which also provides at least one of our five a day, I can hereby announce that MANGO LAND HAS RETURNED!

Brave fruit-based retailer, we salute you and your recession-battling ways, for surely you have provided what we embittered Londoners need - hope for the future (and mangoes).

I can report that Mango Land is back in the same spot in Walthamstow, ready and waiting for anyone wishing to purchase one (or perhaps a discounted six box) mangoes. They have new tarpaulin signage and have set up their wares outside the shop, using the inside of the premises to store crates upon crates of - you guessed it - mangoes! (I peeked inside)

You may also be interested to know that - possibly due to their bank manager’s advice - they have decided to diversify. Being creative mango-selling types, they have resisted what many would see as traditional routes open to fruit retailers and instead of branching out into, say, the avocado market or the melon business, they are now stocking clocks in the shape of wheels. Yes, they are now possibly the world's only mango and novelty wheel clock sellers on the whole of the planet. This makes me very happy.

*OK, so it is entirely possible that Mango Land did not actually go bust as first thought but instead that they only ever open during mango season, but that doesn’t sound as dramatic…
( hanabanana, Thu 25 Jun 2009, 16:42, 5 replies)

EVIL
In the late 1980s I went to Wolverhampton Polytechnic and resided in Dudley. Oft I had to get the dreaded 558 to Wolverhampton (Journey of a Thousand Stops) or the 120 into Birmingham.

A female student friend of mine related the story of how, one day, she had to get up to the campus but only had 35p on her. On asking the driver how far this would get her, he bellowed,

"EVIL!"

So she backed away and walked instead. Only later did she realise that he was actually saying, in his West Midlands accent, "Eve Hill", which is a locale in Dudley.

Fuck me that's lame, I'll try to come up with better!

Dr Skagra
(Dr Skagra glorious glargzhem, Thu 25 Jun 2009, 16:38, Reply)

Not a funny story, please skip...
Mrs. Maneki and I were riding the bus back from town when a young couple (a young black man and an asian girl) in the back of the bus start arguing. He was extremely aggressive, and I was concerned for her safety, and carried on riding the bus past our stop in case I needed to intercede. Suddenly, she shouts in pain and says "You think you can hit me here on the bus?" He had just elbowed her hard in the face. We asked if she was OK and he starts mouthing off to us, blaming her (!?) for causing a scene. I was worried that the situation would escalate and we persuaded her to get off the bus. She did, but of course he follows, now angry at my wife and I for humiliating him.

Long story short, it soon became clear there was no way an immediate resolution would be forthcoming. She didn't want us to ring the police, or to 'impose' on us when I invited her to Chez Maneki for a cup, which I offered to make it clear to him that she was under our wing. He discovered that I wasn't scared of him, no matter how Lesta he got or how much he paced and postured, giving Mrs. Maneki the time to counsel the young woman ("You don't have to put up with this, etc"). Eventually things seemed to have calmed down a little, and she called a friend. We finally left them to leave together, which was the young ladies idea and which I advised against.

I have no idea if that was the right thing to do, to let it end that way, but it was quite clear that the situation was not one we could fix. When she spoke out on the bus it was clearly a cry for help, and she was brave to make it. The young guy didn't at any point think it at all wrong or shameful to have done what he had done, and seemed almost perplexed that we thought it unacceptable or would go out of our way to intervene. After all, no-one else did.

The whole thing was depressing and every time I think about it I regret my inability to have done more.
(ManekiNeko loves horses, Thu 25 Jun 2009, 16:29, 5 replies)

Only last week..
.. I was on a bus minding my own "bus"iness when the driver shouted down the bus - OY you didn't swipe your oyster. This was aimed at a young lady walking down the aisle. He shouted again OY - are you deaf, yes she sure was as she pointed out her hearing aid. Cue driver jumping back into his box rather sheepishly and driving off


The bitch still didn't swipe though!
( Signify, Thu 25 Jun 2009, 16:25, 1 reply)

Uncle George the Disabled Bus Driver
There’s not many people who can say Big Daddy actually sat on their face. But my Uncle George can. He used to be a professional wrestler back in the eighties. You could say he’s as hard as a teenage boy’s cock who’s just been invited into the Playboy Mansion to judge a naked bunnygirl table tennis competition.

My Uncle George is also a bus driver (the No. 27 route in Coventry, for anyone who wants to say hello to the fella, he’s the BIG mountain of muscle with a fuzzy beard which makes him look a little bit like Bluto’s older, scarier, harder brother).

One time Uncle George was running a little late. This meant he didn’t get to have his customary fag break whilst back at the depot and he had to go straight back out on route. He’s a chain smoker of David Bowie proportions and as such gets angry as fuck if he can’t have his two-hourly lovely woodbine fix topping up the kind of super rich nictoine levels flowing through his veins that would kill a shire horse stone cold dead at twenty paces. So, being a sneaky sod, Uncle George whizzes through the city centre, picking no fucker up, while having a cheeky fag out the window of the cabin. All’s going well until he remembers he actually needs two hands on the wheel to operate a bus properly. This thought came to mind when he nearly totalled the front of Barclays Bank going round a sharp bend. He drops his fag in his lap, grabs the wheel, and saves the day. The ciggie then proceeds to burn a large molten plastic hole in the crotch of his polyester mix uniform trousers and eats its way down Alien-pissing-blood-style into his Debenhams Y-fronts.

Uncle George slams on the anchors, wailing like a bitch in heat as he slaps at his burning meat and two veg. The *ahem* flash fire spreads quicker than a bout of syphillis in a holiday camp for swingers. Uncle George eventually bats out the pubic flames and stares at his fire ravaged cock and pubes; his man meat resembles a small, scared trembling mouse caught in the ravages of a *ahem* bush fire. There’s no permanent damage but Uncle George will be peeling little bits of melted plastic off his bell end, love hose and scrote crevices for weeks to come.

There’s a hole... Not a particularly big hole, but a hole all the same. Large enough, if he were to stand and walk about, for anyone to notice this man was – in point of fact – airing his dangly family jewels.

Uncle George does the only reasonable thing – he sits there and sparks up a new woodbine. Then, after this, he starts doing his route properly – stopping and letting passengers get on and everything! All the time he’s wondering what the hell he’s going to do when he gets back to the depot – walking round with your cock hanging out is not an option (not even in Coventry). His mind on other things, he hardly notices the bus fill up. He’s on autopilot. And he doesnt hear the elderly passenger calling him as he pulls in at the next stop. The No. 27 is the bus to Walsgrave Hospital, so you get a lot of doddery old coffin dodgers blocking up the seats with the stench of impending death and stories about how good it used to be before clitoral piercings, free love, and the female orgasm.

“I need some help getting on,” came this timid voice.

Uncle George just stares ahead. His heart sinks.

“I said I need some help getting on,” again the fucking voice! “Can you hear me?!?”

Uncle George turns his head. Sat just outside the bus, waiting patiently, is a little elderly lady in a wheelchair. Now, Uncle George knew he was supposed to get up, sort out the ramp, wheel the old bugger onboard, stow the ramp, and fuck off bandit style into the evening gloom. But no, not this time. Not with this huge hole in his slacks and his plumbs and cock dangling like a meat wind chime.

“They’ll be another bus along in a minute, love,” said Uncle George.

This doesn’t go down too well. Uncle George hears some other passenger behind him advise him that he is, in fact, being a bit of a cunt. The old dear, the extra from Chorlton and the Wheelies, starts to protest, starts to get old-person angry, starts threatening to write a nasty letter to the Coventry Telegraph.

Uncle George considers getting up, sorting out the ramp, facing the very real chance that thirty or so people on the bus will see his fire damaged gonadal area. But then he hits on an idea. An excellent idea. A watertight excuse so he wouldn’t have to stand and save his ever-decreasing dignity. He whispers it at first, so only the old woman will hear. She doesn’t hear. She’s probably as deaf as a Take That fan. So he says it again as she strains. Then again, only louder this time. The old bugger still can’t hear.

So Uncle George places both hands firmly on the steering wheel, takes a deep breath, and roars:

“I CAN’T GET THE RAMP OUT BECAUSE I’M A PARAPLEGIC !!!”

Silence. Confused silence, but silence all the same. George closes the doors and fucks off, leaving the old dear looking a little stunned still on the pavement. As the rest of his passengers disembark he gets the occasional look of sympathy, the occasional momentary glance of support.

A few days later Uncle George was called into the supervisors office. Oh, fuck! The supervisor sits him down and hands over a card and a letter. “You were doing the No. 27 run last Thursday, right?” Uncle George does a little scared wee. The supervisor continues: “I’d just like to say you’re doing a sterling job, George. Not sure what you get up to out there, but I tell you it’s not every day we get a letter from a member of the general public saying one of our drivers is an example and an inspiration to others. Well done!”

Uncle George just stares down at the lovely card feeling a little perplexed (and incredibly guilty)…
( SpankyHanky, Thu 25 Jun 2009, 16:23, 3 replies)

The 143 to Brent cross smells of wee
I know because I saw a chav pull his tiny cock out and piss on the seat in front of me last week. Ahh good times.
( fuck shit up the best you never had, Thu 25 Jun 2009, 16:14, 16 replies)

Quotes from tourists on the London open-top buses.
These should all be asked in an American accent (obviously).

Excuse me sir. Which side of the river is tower bridge on?

Excuse me sir. The queen mom, she's older than the queen, right?

Excuse me sir. Why do the traffic signals make that noise?
It's so blind people know when the traffic has stopped.
Gee! In the states we don't even let blind people drive.

(While travelling through Blackfriars underpass) Excuse me sir. Is this where Lady Di had the accident?
( TriedItOnceAndDidn'tLikeIt made you lose the game on, Thu 25 Jun 2009, 16:05, 3 replies)

recent holiday to spain
call that an airbus? it's not even red. pffft.
(TheManWithThePlan cussed your mum on, Thu 25 Jun 2009, 16:04, Reply)

WE'VE GONE BACK IN CUNTING TIME
After a nights revelry at a friend’s party in the arse end of London, my friend and I started the epic journey back to New Cross, which involved getting to Victoria and getting a bendy bus home. The sun is coming up and we're a little worse for wear, but we somehow manage to get on the right bus, and collapse on two seats facing an empty row. After about ten seconds we both promptly pass out.

The bus heads out from the station and makes its way through the city, over the river, past our lovely beds and to the end destination (Deptford, as you ask). We sleep throughout. Oblivious to us the bus changes drivers and starts back on its journey to Victoria.

I eventually wake from my slumber, wipe the drool from my face and rub my kohl-caked eyes and wonder why we are almost back where we started, but going in the wrong direction. I try to be eloquent in the matter but I am drunk and confused and instead start violently prodding my mate and screaming "BEC! BEC! WE'VE GONE BACK IN CUNTING TIME GET OFF THE FUCKING BUS OH SHIT". She wakes up screaming, together we scream and swear and jump up and ding the fucking bell and stumble about in our groggy states, both of us looking like mad-haired, raped-and-dragged-through-a-bush-drag-queen-banshees. It is then that I look at the once empty seats in front of me.

It is a Sunday, and there sitting opposite us is the perfect family unit dressed for church, in their Sunday best. They are wearing colour-coordinated outfits for fuck’s sake.

I'll never forget the look in the children’s terrified eyes.
( fannycradock, Thu 25 Jun 2009, 15:58, 1 reply)

The new Magnus Mills novel
entitled The Maintenance of Headway, is all about buses and bus drivers, so should be a good read for all fans of public transport beauracracy.

I'm not his agent.

Dr S
(Dr Skagra glorious glargzhem, Thu 25 Jun 2009, 15:55, Reply)

I can't be arsed to pea the full roast
But basically sex at the back of the last bus from the seaside.

www.b3ta.com/questions/cringe/post315867
( sandettie light vessel automatic New Twitter - @bollocksreally, Thu 25 Jun 2009, 15:54, 3 replies)

The X43 from Manchester to Burnley.
I had a panic attack on the bus, (long story), and the man sat behind me thought I was going into labour because of the heavy breathing.

Bastard.
( girlinthehole, Thu 25 Jun 2009, 15:52, 2 replies)

Women are a bit like buses
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...




...




Big and smelly and ridden by millions every year.
(Vice Admiral Sir Charles Cockbrush KCB MBE DSO, who is finding it increasingly difficult to log into b3ta.com wants to duck your aunt and kick your puppy, Thu 25 Jun 2009, 15:50, 4 replies)