Mutiny over the busses
Edging our way along the lofty precipice, some hundred or so feet above the green grass, us we struggled against the squally wind which threatened to snatch the unwary amongst us off their footing and throw them to oblivion into the valley below.

Although the air at ground level was calm and warm, we were the highest point for miles around, a fact both sobering and a little euphoric. The gentle rolling rural landscape nestling against the colours of the early evening horizon was proving uplifting for the most world weary of souls, especially ones that had been drinking warm, nutty ales for most of the afternoon. To be at a place this precarious after six pints of fragrant Hopback ale was probably extremely foolhardy, but were it not for the maternal warmth of beery confidence we’d never have summoned the bravado to be clambering along using our fingernails for balance. We got to the halfway point and stopped, looking down at the road snaking below us as the people of the village and visitors alike went about their business.

In truth, we didn’t have much time to ponder, for our lofty vantage point was in fact a red brick leviathan, a mile long viaduct whose sole purpose was to allow the passage of a lonely railcar back and forth over the rural landscape every hour. It was Beer Festival week, three hundred yards away lay a sleepy Victorian railway depot which played host to the beers and good people whom we were enjoying in equal measure a few minutes before. The stubby train wasn’t our concern though, for we were actually waiting for a bus.

“Here he comes” said Scott, keener of eyesight than myself or Nomis.

A moment or so later I piped up.

“I can seem him now, he’s getting closer”

As the green single-decker rounded the corner the tranquillity of our vantage point was vandalized by the uncouth clatter of a diesel engine.

“Wanker” said Nomis. We nodded sagely in agreement.

“Ready lads… On the count of three…” said I

As I began to count down, the three of us simultaneously unzipped and took careful aim.

“Fire!”

In spite of the dimming evening light, I could make out the look of disgust on the face of the angry, mutton-chopped, lycanthrope behind the wheel. I caught his eye momentarily and bathed in the smug glow of victory as his lip curled in impotent disgust. There was no way he could avoid our combined vengeful deluge, all the snarling, Teddy-boy arrogance in the world couldn’t have changed his outcome one iota, I chucked to myself and hoped that some of our stream dribbled through the open driver’s window and onto his Brylcreemed head.

That’ll learn you, mate. That’ll learn you.
With that, we zipped up our flies and carefully made our way back to the welcoming sanctuary of the Shunters Arms, having settled a debt of honour that had been outstanding since last year, when the same bus driver had condemned us to a soaking three mile walk home in the dark.

“Fuck off you lot. You’re too pissed to get on my bus” my arse.
(Bicycle Repairman "you're also a bit of a wanker", Fri 26 Jun 2009, 17:14, 5 replies)

Ha-Ha!
Revenge is a dish best-served warm!
(SonoraAeroClub "OH SWEET HELEN OF BALLS!", Fri 26 Jun 2009, 17:27, closed)

Chappel & Wakes Colne...
...per chance?

Seven million brick leviathan, in fact. And a fine beer festival.

/bridgespotting
(Good old boy just like yer grandma!, Fri 26 Jun 2009, 22:13, closed)

This
Is also my guess... I know the viaduct well.
( MatJ LOOK, Fri 26 Jun 2009, 22:28, closed)

Yes it is!
I've been a regular there every single year since 1996!
(Bicycle Repairman "you're also a bit of a wanker", Fri 26 Jun 2009, 22:47, closed)

In fact
I was in Earl's Colne last night on my way to a party.
( MatJ LOOK, Mon 29 Jun 2009, 0:17, closed)