Pampers
Many years ago I used to do an utterly horrendous commute into London by Coach. This journey could take anything from one to three hours depending on how much the whole world was against me...

Anyways, one day after work I somehow ended up drinking Super-Tennants with a dirty tramp in a gutter somewhere, I have no idea how or why, suffice to say that he was my best friend at that particular time despite the fact he had wooden teeth. After many drinks and Pogues renditions I eventually had to bid my farewell and sauntered off to get the coach home.

Once seated, the coach rumbled away and immediately I needed a piss. Knowing full well that I was at the mere beginning of a roughly two hour hell ride before I could release the torrent of urine I could vividly picture swishing round my bloated bladder, the desire to urinate grew more powerful and desperate by the minute.
After what must have only been fifteen minutes or so, I was practically in tears, contemplating getting off the coach on the motorway and furiously crossing my legs. When I could take it no longer I had to take evasive action.

Glugging back the remainder of the Super-Tennants clutched in my sweaty palm, I carefully removed my thankfully tiny todger and placed the tip of the bobbys helmet on the can opening. Instantly a hot yellow stream jetted inside with a ferocious sound, awaking a few of my fellow passangers from their slumber. Relief was sweet but short lived as the can began to fill and I wasn't nearly finished - I felt like I hadn't pissed for years and could have quite easily filled a keg at this point.

By now my brain must have not been functioning properly as I desperately sought another solution.
And then it struck me. Even to this day I can barely believe it, but dear readers I must confess - I calmly undid my shirt and removed it, unbuckled my belt a notch, and then simply stuffed it down my trousers LIKE A MASSIVE FUCKING NAPPY!

I unleashed hell for what seems like hours, practically cumming with the sheer pleasure of it all until finally I was done and nothing more than a trickle warmly emenated from my limp and wrinkled babycock.
By now even through my drunken haze, I could smell piss. This hot coach began to heave with the unmistakable whiff of adult nappy juice and I HAD to hide my shame.

As I bent down to try and remove the makeshift Huggies from my tousers into my bag I accidently knocked over the can of Super Tennants urine which went happily spiralling down the coach glugging my pungent slash all the way down the aisle til it plopped down into the drivers cabin spewing liquid tramp odour much to his suprise.

I said nothing, but waddling off that stinking bus with a giant piss filled nappy down my strides avoiding the glares and mutterings from everyone on board is an image that will stay with me forever.

I get the train now.
(wrigglesworth, Thu 29 May 2008, 17:30, 8 replies)

I'm at a slight disadvantage
in that over here there really isn't a lot of public transport. However, I do have a few stories.

I lived in downtown Rochester NY for a few years, and didn't own a car. This meant either having to beg for rides or take the bus- or walk long distances.

Generally I rode the bus.

So one day I'm riding the bus to work when it stops and lets on passengers. Then in steps one of the most gorgeous black women I've ever seen in person- think Halle Berry, Toni Braxton and Pam Grier combined into one glorious being. I admire her, as I'm sure everyone else does as well, but try not to stare- especially as I'm one of the very few white guys riding the bus.

"Excuse me, may I sit here?"

I look up into her warm deep-brown eyes and radiant smile, and smile back. "Of course."

She slides in next to me. I can feel the envious and somewhat hostile stares from the black guys behind me burning into the back of my head and neck. I don't care- I'm in a cloud of her perfume.

She opens a book and reads for a moment, a smile on her lips, then says, "May I show you something?"

"Of course." I love a good conversation with a beautiful woman, after all, so I take the book from her. I look down and see a photo with text on it.

It was "Footprints In The Sand."

I spent the rest of the trip with her trying her best to save my immortal soul. I tried to look interested- I really did- but inside all I could think of was "God damn it!"

Longest bus ride ever.
( The Resident Loon Not a demographic. Do not measure., Thu 29 May 2008, 17:28, 7 replies)

Sleeping beauty?
On a Ryan Air no frills flight from Dublin back to Bristol, I found myself sitting next to some David Brent type suit who was boring the arse off the poor Irish lad in the window seat about the importance of his job and how respected by everyone he was. The obnoxious bastard wasn’t being quiet about it either, pretty much everyone on the plane was a captive audience for this wannabe Gordon Gecko and I could see heads turning and mutterings of “oh shut the fuck up” which were either ignored or didn’t make it past his internal monologue.

After about 15 minutes of this my brain said to my body “Well you can stay but I’m outta here” and I promptly fell asleep, something I rarely do on public transport. I must have slept for about 30 minutes because I woke up and we were just coming into land. The atmosphere on the plane had changed, people were giggling and I could see the stewards at the front of the plane were in fits of laughter. I was a bit groggy, I had a crick in my neck and I had to wipe the drool off my chin but the bloke next to me had shut up which was a bonus.

As soon as we landed and were able to get off, the suit next to me got up quick as a flash, shot me a dirty look and was the first off the plane accompanied by sarcastic calls of “byeee” from the other passengers. People were looking at me and nodding with approving looks on their faces, an air stewardess shot me a really saucy smile and a male steward patted me on the back as I left the plane. A bit confused, I made my way down the steps, across the tarmac and into the baggage claim area. Somebody said “there he is” and people started to come up to me, patting my back and generally wanting to speak to me. “What the fuck?” I enquired of my new admirers…

Apparently, after I had entered the land of nod, the arse next to me kept up his tirade of self-appreciation, but I had fallen asleep in a really weird position. My head was back and at an angle, my jaw hung open and my eyes appeared to have rolled back into their sockets. Word had spread around the plane and people were getting up to use the toilet just so they could get a look at the loud monotonous fucker who was making their flight a misery and the bloke next to him who had died of boredom.

Eventually, a large Irish gentleman stopped in the aisle next to me and said loudly and firmly to the suit, “Poor fellow, didn’t stand a chance sat next to you did he?” which was followed by howls of laughter from passengers and crew alike. Or so I was told.

Apologies for being a bit off topic. It’s hardly “The worst public transport experience ever”, nobody got stabbed or mugged or puked on, but it’s all I’ve got.
( Colonel Dracula Two manky hookers and a racist dwarf, Thu 29 May 2008, 17:24, 5 replies)

The vomit on the bus goes round and round..
A friend of mine called Hippie Ben had had a fairly rough night, and him and his mates were catching an early morning bus back home. He sadly suffers from Chrohns disease, but that doesn't stop him induldging in every type of narcotic and intoxicant he can lay his hands on. Hippie has earned his nickname .. long ginger hair, lanky, 'alternative', drug addict.

Anyway, they parked themselves right at the back of the bus, and as the early morning rush began, a couple of girls sat down near them. The girls began giggling to one another, nudging and making disparging remarks. They openly mocked his hair, his piercings, his clothes, his shoes, his face, and the same for each of his friends, one by one. Not ones to make a scene, Ben and his pals just sat back and tried to ignore them.

Nature had another idea. Abruptly, due to a mix of Crohns and intoxicants, Ben felt his guts churn over. A graceful, arcing jet of thick, lumpy spew erupted from his mouth and spattered into the seat next to the two chavettes.

Smirking a bit, Ben wiped his mouth and winked. "Morning, ladies."

They got off at the next stop.
( Pineapplez, Thu 29 May 2008, 17:20, Reply)

I try to avoid public transport...
...if I can help it. I used to have to get the train to school everyday when I was a little Stig. I walk everywhere I can now, only using my car when necessary. However, one day I was on the train and I felt something hard poke my leg. Glancing down, a guy was either rubbing against me, or hopefully, his mobile phone had turned around in his pocket, and was now prominently pointing towards my thigh. I hope it was the latter, because I took that idea to heart and started doing it to annoy other fucking irritating school children.

The other thing myself and some friends used to do was to sniff people that were facing away from us, then snap back into normal positions when they looked. Good lord it was immature, but people get so paranoid, knowing there is no chance of them making a subtle attempt to check their own smell in a crowded train.
(stiglfc And the big wheel keep on turnin', Thu 29 May 2008, 17:16, Reply)

All aboard the Vomit Bus
I used to live in Oxford and they have devised several fiendish ways to stop people using cars and use the (admittedly very good) public transportation. These included; not being able to drive through the city but having to go around in a massive one way street hell taking twice as long, giving you no where at all to park (I think I saw one car park, excluding the train station) and making it much cheaper to use the buses than to run a car.

So out in town one night, I have no recollection where but we ended up in a cocktail bar, and we are all feeling a little worse for wear. As is the way when you are drunk we all craved kebabs. Luckily the kebab van preyed on drunken people and was parked right outside the bar. I thought I would go for some chips, cheese and beans instead (this is, sadly, relevant).

The bus stops were also on the same street (Queen's Street for and Oxford dwellers) and we were heading back to Headington, about a 20 minute trip depending on how many drunk people got on. Food consumed and the bus in view (a No. 7, single storey, for any bus spotters) we jumped on and sat just over half way down.

The next stop is right in the city opposite the University and on got two of the most drunk people I have ever seen. I did, however, originally think there were four people but after debate with my friends we settled on two.

The people that got on, we shall call them Bill and Ben as their conversation made about the same amount of sense (flobberdobberdobber) took a few minutes arguing over how much 10 pence was actually worth with the bus driver before falling over into the nearest seats to the front.

We continue on our merry way, I notice one of my friends was looking slightly pale but she said she wasn't feeling too bad. We started to climb up the hill to Headington. Now this is a pretty steep hill, if you drive an L reg Golf 1.4 you will need to drop down to third to make it, and the buses probably go down to second as the floor shakes and the poor engine strains. Also the footpath is about 18 foot higher than the road so there is no place to stop.

Now, I am unsure if it was the noise or the rocking or purely just the amount Bill had drank but he stood up as we were about half way up and threw up. Spectacularly. The projection was a vomit coloured rainbow of vileness, spraying the windows, the seats, Ben and on hitting the floor started rushing backwards to us. Ben added his own stomach to this whilst the poor driver starts yelling that as soon as we reach the top he is throwing them off. My friend on seeing the river of what looked a lot like spaghetti hoops, lost her stomach as well. Sadly as she was sitting by the window and I was in her way, I found myself looking at half a digested kebab in my lap. Which was then topped with beans.

As the driver stopped at the top of the hill the entire, slightly green looking, passenger load exited in silence. I think I hear the poor driver sobbing quietly as he turned the sign to read "Not in Service" and had to travel a good 40 mins back to the depot in the vomit bus.

That was by far the worst experience in any transport I have had in my life.
( TGB checking Off Topic is still shit at, Thu 29 May 2008, 17:15, Reply)

The Tube
I was stood on the platform at Waterloo waiting to get onto the train for Bank. Place was packed and everyone was doing the same shuffling forward and waiting to board. As I was going to work I was in no rush to cram myself in to a stinky carriage, so I got to the doors and made to wait for the next train.

It was then that I was elbowed aside by a power dressed business woman in trainers. She tutted and lept onboard to take her place in the miniscle gap by the doors, she looked out smugly upon me. Superior in her powerful business woman commutes regularly way.
The doors shut on her head.

I laughed so loudly, people turned to stare and frown. Apart from the one woman on the platform I shared a wicked smile with.
Made my day.
( Weejock, Thu 29 May 2008, 17:13, 2 replies)

Selfish suicides
My sister is an engineer on the Underground and we got very shitty looks from all and sundry after the news of a man jumping in front of the train was announced as a reason for a delay.

“Selfish git,” she said. “Why couldn’t he have stuck his head in the oven like anyone else?”

Amazingly for the Underground, where most people would rather pull their own nails out than actually talk to someone, some bloke admonished her for this comment. Bad move. My sister is hard as nails and takes zero shit from anyone – even Chuck Norris would slink away from her with his tail between his legs if he’d aroused her ire.

She pointed out to this guy that over half of all train drivers can’t face driving a train ever again after driving over someone. They don’t get a big pay out, despite what crap British cinema suggests, and it costs a fortune in therapy to sort them out afterwards, and a small percentage take their own lives out of guilt at failing to get the brakes on in time.

Add to that the poor bastards who have to clean up after a jumper. She’s had to do this job herself on occasion and it’s foul in the extreme. The trains typically cut through the legs and chest cavity, so not only are there plenty of parts to pick up but the internal organs go everywhere. Unwinding lengths of shit-filled intestine of the axles of the train makes most ‘tough’ jobs look about as bad as being Alyson Hannigan’s mimsy waxer.

Plus everyone else gets delayed.

She finished this explanation and left the poor sod gibbering apologies. It was one of my best trips on public transport, but one of his worst.
(paxvobiscum, Thu 29 May 2008, 17:12, 2 replies)

There are two old ladies at bingo...

and one says to the other.

"Did you come on the bus?"

to which the other replied,

"Yes, but I made it look like an asthma attack!"
( Naked Ape call me Caitlyn, Thu 29 May 2008, 17:12, Reply)

Chavs. Buses. Phones. R n'B.
I think you can see where this is going.

However, I have been in a position to exact revenge on these scumbags on two occasions.

1 - Bus 65, Kingston-Ealing. Two teenage girls start their ridiculous tinny warbling from their stupid walkie talkies.

"Please turn that off" say I.
"Fuck off" say they.
"I don't want to listen to that" say I.
"It's a free country, innit? You can't stop us" say they.

In my bag, I have the following:

*An MP3 player full of the latest rockin thrash metal sounds.
*A pair of battery powered speakers.
*Balls of steel.

Cue, as a starter, "Army of Me" by Chimaria, a fine, rousing tune if ever there was one. Especially when turned up to 11.

"Turn that shit off" say they.
"Free country, innit?" say I.

After about 5 minutes (during which the deafening musical selection had changed to the soothing tones of "I will be heard" by Hatebreed) they turned off their phones. So did I.

2 - Bus 418, Kingston-Epsom

Similar scenario, this time 4 girls about 13 years of age.

This time, however, my armament was different, comprising:

*An acoustic guitar.
*Two mates.
*Three skinfuls of beer, shared out between us.

It's amazing how long three pissed blokes can keep up a rousing chorus of "I've got a song that'll get on your nerves." And as we were all musicians, we did the harmonies, and the secret second verse, which goes "We've got a song that'll piss off some chavs."

So if you're on a bus in South-West London, some chav is playing shitty music from their phone, and no-one else can help, maybe you can hire:

Axeman Jim and his weapons of sonic doom.
(Axeman Jim, Thu 29 May 2008, 17:07, 11 replies)

Empty bus perv
I'm sitting on a bus on the way home from working half-day and there's literally me, the driver and this quite smart girl sitting on the opposite side further down the bus. I'm about 4 rows behind her, frantically masterbat...errr...looking out the window as I'm on the way home. Honest.

But anyway, halfway through the journey the bus stops and some old bloke gets on the bus. He shows his pass and slowly walks up the aisle. The he proceeds to sit next to the girl, ignoring every single empty seat on the bus. Then after a nervous few seconds he turns his head very slowly to look at her, much to the terror of the poor girl. She gives a terrified look at him, then does a quick 1 second look to me as if I could help, but unfortunately I chose that time to piss myself laughing, then she starts asking him to move. After about 20 seconds he took the hint and sat opposite her, but he stared at her all the way home.

I did do me chivalrous bit (if that's how you spell it) and stayed on the bus until she'd gone and had no old fruitcake following her. Plus I finished my wank too. Although I may have just made that bit up. Still, the driver was into bukakke.
( Jeccius Steam Borderlands 2 junkie, Thu 29 May 2008, 17:03, Reply)

poo at the airport
This story was retold to me by my mum some years ago and gets regurgitated every so often at family gatherings. Mostly when I have whatever floozy I happen to be dating or married to at the time over at hers.
So the story goes that my family booked us on a fabulously extravagant holiday. Well is seemed so at the time given I was about 5 and we were going on a plane. Most other kids drove the to the petting zoo and stroked donkeys for their holidays, but not us, we were flying somewhere!

At the airport Mums hands were full and she was stressed out while trying to maintain control over 3 kids, several suitcases and passports that had mysteriously disappeared. In an effort to keep me from running around like a lunatic she popped me onto the airline check in desk and told me to sit still. I'm relying on my mums memory on this, but apparently during the check in procedure a rather nasty smell wafted over the desk. Mum glanced over and I was standing up with what looked like melted chocolate with peanuts running down both legs.

The smell I am told was incredibly pungent and had the amazing effect of drawing the attention of a room full people within a 20 metre radius towards mum. Dad returned from his cigarette outside, which if you believe mum was only another one his covert missions to avoid parenting at critical moments, and took me outside to hose me down.

I have another gem of a poo story that haunted me for years, but I'll have to wait until the 'So, have you ever thought a raison in your poo looks tasty' QOTW comes round. I hope it never does because that story is just too much to bear.
(The Archduke of South London I'm in your Girlfriend eating her organs, Thu 29 May 2008, 17:02, Reply)

Kennington nightmares
As most of you London B3tans will know, the Northern Line of the tube often terminates half way down at Kennington where you are expected to get off and get another train to carry on your journey south.

A few years ago, I was sitting on such a train, engrossed in a book. I think that I had been out on the sauce the night before as I was a bit dozy and in my own world. I was not paying any attention when the train stopped, the guard announced the everyone should get off and that the train was terminating here. I also failed to notice everyone actually getting off.

A few minutes later, as the train was still sitting there some guy tapped on the window and shouted to me that it was terminating. Just as my mind comprehended what he was going on about the doors went beep beep beep and I knew that I was in trouble.

As the train pulled away, my would be saviour and I stared at each other through the glass. He could see the terror in my eyes. I suddenly had visions of the train being parked up in a tunnel for the night and the lights being turned off. I was going to get eaten by mutant rats, alone in the dark where no-one could hear my screams.

A few minutes into the journey to hell, the train stopped in the middle of a tunnel and just sat there for 10 minutes. I just stood there in the middle of the carriage, waiting for the lights to go out. I worked out my route to the nearest alarm so that I could make it there in the dark.

After 10 minutes I was litteraly about the pull the alarm and the train started again and out we popped back into Kennington station heading North.

As soon as the doors opened, I fell out, gasping for breath, sweating and shaking. My ordeal was over.

The moral of the story is: when the guard says get off the train, do it!
(Tom Jones's Mojo Hasn't had any since, Thu 29 May 2008, 16:56, 4 replies)

Trapped
I live in the West Country. I once had to take a train journey all the way to Kent with a colleague to attend a conference. It's a long way - a good four hours by rail. He and I had always got on well and I had no great qualms about the journey - a bit of witty banter, perhaps a couple of cans of lager from the buffet, a newspaper would all help to pass the time.

I found out about five minutes into the journey - once I was already on and seated opposite him - something I never knew about him. In his spare time he was a trainspotter. He chose to reveal this to me by pointing out that the points we'd just crossed lead north and then eastward back toward Cardiff, and didn't I know that that station and area of the line had the most fascinating history, see back in 1893 ...

Four hours. Four FUCKING HOURS.

On the way home I made damn sure I left early and got on a different train.
(MattDP (Squiggle), Thu 29 May 2008, 16:56, Reply)

Mass Transit
Like many other ordinary London wage slaves, I baulk at the prospect of £0.76 out of every £1.19 litre of petrol I put in my car going to Gordon Brown so that he can joyfully spunk it all away on banks, hospital managers and PR gurus with all the restraint of Posh Spice at a Harvey Nicks closing down sale. Indeed, it's fair to say that it makes me seethe like Mount Etna after imbibing an city sized prawn vindaloo.

Then there's the inescapable fact that it's nose to tail traffic all the way in to the office. My stress levels are raised by rounds cut and thrust driving and sparring with between psychotic cockney cab drivers ("Faahk orf aaht 'uv it, ya faahkin' khant!"), rabidly deranged MILFs in Mercedes SUVs smug in the knowledge that their pampered offspring are safe from the paedophiles lurking behind every lamppost along the school run, the sleepy truck drivers who insist on taking fucking ages to do anything and worst of all, those wretched souls who persist on washing your windscreen at traffic lights and feign ignorance of the universally recognised meaning of "Fuck off!".

Yep, driving one's own car is bad for the soul these days, so I elected to do as Norman Tebbitt once helpfully suggested and get on my bike.

My ride to work is roughly ten miles and to be honest I'm quite happy with the journey as most of it carries me along a canal towpath and through a nature reserve. It's a heck of a lot better for the soul than a miserable journey by road staring at the arse end of a TX1 cab, chauffeured by a lobotomized OrangUtan.

Quite frankly, it's a revelation. Each morning I get to appreciate the tranquil beauty of nature as it goes about its wholesome business while I pedal past. Winter mornings I watch the sun lazily rise and the crisp, dark rides home leave me feeling refreshed and smiling. On warm summer mornings, I'm waved at by friendly folk on their canalboats and I've slowly been accepted as part of the scenery by the numerous fauna I pass en route.

"Good morning Mr black and white water bird, with big blue feet" I cheerily announce as if I'm greeting a neighbour.

"Hello Deer!" I smoothly chime to a timid creature staring at me through the hedgerows.

It's wonderful, there's no-one to criticise the badness of my puns. I swear that on some mornings, the animals smile back.

However, I'm not the only one who's made a move toward more eco-friendly transport. And frankly, the six foot wide towpath has suddenly become somewhat claustrophobic as half of London seems to have cottoned on.

Kamikaze Jews

There is a small, demented group of Red Sea Pedestrians who have embraced off road cycling. The fact that these guys eschew the normal garb of baggy man made fibre for traditional snow white shirts, black waistcoats and skullcaps means I have some long range warning as they approach. Dear God I need it.

They're crazed I'm telling you... For they never, ever let me pass. Instead, they opt to aim their bicycles straight at me as if to challenge me to a game of towpath chicken. They don't hang about either, any collision with these old testament folk is going to hurt some.

I'm forced into the shrubbery to let the Orthodox folk past, but never once do I get a nod or smile of recognition.

The Slavering Hounds

Dog walkers. They're a selfish bunch aren't they?

Without fail, at least once a day a middle aged person with a brace of semi feral canines will pretend not to notice my approach until the very last minute, until they suddenly stop, panic and attempt to usher the hounds to one side of the path.

"Come here!" they'll brainlessly twitter as their dog promptly ignores them and stands sideways right in my way.

Slow. Brake. Stop.

"Oh he's usually much better behaved!" is generally the response I get as their ridiculous excuse for a dog is shooed along.

Then there's the dog owners who aren't as bright as their pets. Last year, I'm minding my own business when a large spaniel chasing a stick leaps out in front of me, making me slam on the anchors and nearly fall off my bike.

"You should keep control of your animal!" I yelled at the slightly overweight middle aged woman owner.

"You should watch where you're goin' innit!" she yelled back before compounding her stupidity with the sentence "This ain't a cycle path!", oblivious to the fact that a large, blue sign not six feet away stated otherwise.

The man I presumed to be her husband appeared by her side. Fuming, I pulled my headphones from my ears and looked them both in the eye.

"It can't be easy being married to someone so stupid" I sympathetically offered the more masculine of the two.

With that, I swung a leg over my bike and pedalled off, leaving a stunned silence in my wake. Never has a point been so well made.

Hissing Hitler Geese

Geese are rubbish. The avian answer to the Pit Bull, these birds have an evil temper and think nothing of squaring up to you hissing like Mary Whitehouse at a Chubby Brown gig. Never mind that I'm ten times the size of them, they'll eyeball me and have a go

The very towpath that was created and maintained by homo sapiens is ruthlessly annexed by a bunch of territory obsessed thugs. Honestly, they even goose step too.

Once they've finished conquering by intimidation, they decide to leave the place liberally spattered with greasy, goose shit just waiting to cause chaos.

"Oooh fuck!" I'll whimper and my front wheel suddenly slips sideways as I feel an unwelcome twitch in the saddle area as I momentarily contemplate an unplanned dunking in the canal.

Shit

Having to scrape slimy green kaka off my expensive Specialized frame every day is not quite the ultimate indignity.

Even worse is trying to lever out the stinking remnants of some incontinent canine's last meal from my tyre treads before I wheel my bike through the office.

No, my most recent scatological trauma is far worse...

One morning I'm happily pelting along the towpath as the sky is blue and the bright sunlight is warming even the darkest recesses of my soul. The day is perfect, however as I round the next corner I'm greeted by a sight that even now I'm unable to fully accept as reality.

My gaze falls upon a man in his twenties, squatting by the side of the path in broad daylight, pants round his ankles joyfully indulging in an al fresco number two, looking like he didn't have a care in the world... Not fifty yards from a set of well maintained public toilets.

"Mornin' mate" he greets as I cycle past.

For the love of God and all things holy, what kind of utter bastard unleashes their stinking arse cigar by the side of a path so that everyone can cycle through it? Short of seeing the disgusting individual hung, drawn and quartered, I cannot think of any penalty which befits that particularly unpleasant crime.

It's only going to get worse when nobody can afford their own cars anymore.
(Bicycle Repairman "you're also a bit of a wanker", Thu 29 May 2008, 16:52, 7 replies)

More tales from the armpit of South Yorkshire
For a while, I used to get the bus to school. It just so happened that my mum got the same bus into town every morning, and far from being too-cool-for-school, I'd sit with her.

Anyway, one wintry morning, the bus was pretty packed, and a few were stood up. One person in particular was C, an older girl I knew through a friend of my mums. I noticed that she seemed to be giving the daggers at a particular lass on the bus for most of the journey.

Pointing that out to my dear old ma, she called over to C as to what was the matter.

"Hey up Mrs Scentless, I'm fine thanks..."

And that was that, mum and I returned to the conversation at hand (think it was to do with my stash of Loaded mags she'd just found the previous evening, great fun).

Until the bus stopped at the local park. At which I witnessed C sliding a rounders bat down out of her sleeve and into her hand, and proceed to smash aforementioned person repeated over the head, then burst out of the emergency exit at the back, and off into the park, obviously to ditch the weapon.

(It turned out that the spat was over the fact that the injured girl had given a blowjob to C's fella a week previous, C had found out and decided to deal out some council estate justice in the meanest way possible. The fella had a bit of a pasting too, apparently.)

There was a bit of a mess, but the girl seemed fine in the circumstances. Because of all the furore afterwards, I was late to school (rock and roll) and despite me having a top-notch and 100% true excuse, I was in detention that night for 'obvious and quite surprising lies'!

I don't know what was worse, having seen a poor girl's head caved in or having to write 'I should know better' 500 times!!!

Remember kids - violence might sound good, but remember the collateral damage...
(scentless_apprentice takes two bottles into the shower!, Thu 29 May 2008, 16:52, 5 replies)

Experience taught me...
...that when asked at an airport whether you have anything sharp in your luggage, the *wrong* answer is "No, my gun is quite blunt".

It might have been funny, but it really wasn't worth it.
(davywavy, Thu 29 May 2008, 16:50, Reply)

A bit of a pearoast to get me to look at something other than my phone.
One day a couple of years ago Stalker Boy and I were on the train to Birmingham, which was about half an hour away on the train. I went out onto the platform while Mr Transport (he's a travel geek but too much of a snob to take a Leisure & Tourism course as he thinks it's for illiterate chavs) got our tickets. Out on the platform nearby to me is a man on his own, who comes over and announces in a comedy Brummie accent "Cold today, isn't it? I would have worn a jacket but it wouldn't go with my trousers..." "I see."

After a while the comparatively normal Stalker Boy appears. Mr Brummie shows slightly more interest in us, and suddenly announces "I know what you're looking at, mate!" "..." "We're WEARING THE SAME SHOES!" Fortunately at this moment the train arrives. We get on, followed by Mr Brummie and wander to a table, where a random student is sitting on his own. Mr Brummie also sits down opposite us and proceeds to kick Stalker Boy's feet under the table and tell the student over and over that they're wearing the same shoes. It is at this moment I notice the smell of vodka.

At one point he gets up to go to the toilet, and the student asks "Do you know that guy?" "Er, no, he sort of latched on to us at Nuneaton and wouldn't go away."

On his return Mr Brummie tells us the heart-wrenching story of how he lost his job because 'I wanted to take the company in one direction, they wanted to take it in another and they kicked me out...', and how as a result his wife left him and he was going to get revenge on his former employers 'it'd be worth going to prison for', presumably involving flaming death and explosions.

And then the train stops about halfway to New Street, for no apparent reason. Which adds another ten minutes to my stalker hell from all angles. (The student went to sleep on his enormous rucksack.)

After that, I have to say, even a day with Stalker Boy was a picnic, even if the point of the trip had been to get me some "classy" and "elegant" clothes, in other words to drag me into M&S and make me dress like a 40-year-old. Freak.
( Maladicta, Thu 29 May 2008, 16:46, Reply)

Race war
I was on a packed tube carriage one morning sitting next to an enormous rastafarian.

Opposite us was a row of commuters. All of a sudden the rasta shouted at one of them "DID YOU JUST CALL ME A NIGGER?!??"

The man stammered "No, God.. no of course not" and the rastafarian winked and said "only joking".
( browser still relating boring anecdotes into a void on, Thu 29 May 2008, 16:45, 4 replies)

No me, but a spacker on a bus
When I was in college I used to be in line with a bus pass at least 4 times a day, what with having 3 hours between lectures and the city centre only 10 minutes away.

One particular afternoon I'm on a double-decker bus which is just starting to make it's way up a steady hill towards the college. Downstairs is pretty much full of students, all pretty much minding their own business. We get two stops towards our destination, when the bust stops for two eldery people to get on. Now there was only one set of seats left downstairs on the bus and they ran perpendicular to the rest (so we could see them side on). They were raised up a bit too, for all to see.
Firstly a nervous old lady gets on, shows her pass to the driver then sits on one of these seats without saying a word. No-one battered an eyelid at this, as it was just completely normal. What happened next was a bit different. An elderly bloke gets on, shows his pass to the driver who lets him on. The guy stumbles towards the only seat available which is next to the woman. Just as he's about to sit down the woman slides across the seat to block him while in a stupidly high pitched voice "NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!"
Now obviously the guy is taken aback at bit, plus with about 35 students now looking and trying not to laugh at this he tries to politely ask the woman to sit.
"Awww, don't be silly love I need to sit..." so he edges himself to the other side of the seat. If she did;
"NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!" and she slides back like lightning, a look of pure terror on her face.
So...the old man FAKED to the right; she slid across and he dived into the left, much to the cheers of the students. She didn't take it too well though; she started screaming and crying her eyes out. One of the female students went up to help her and she cried on her shoulder, while the rest of us tried to hide the laughter.

Turns out that just past the college and also on that bus route was the local nut-house (Cefn Coed Hospital in Swansea), and she was on her way for her weekly appointment. Oops.
( Jeccius Steam Borderlands 2 junkie, Thu 29 May 2008, 16:45, Reply)

Routemasters

When I was a nipper of about 11 or 12 we used to get the bus to school in the morning. I was a little short-arse in those days, long before attaining my current giant stature of 5' 7", I was about 4' 10" and weedy. If the weather was nice, we'd walk all the way home and put the 5p fare we saved towards a bag of 15p chips - yippee!

Buses were real buses in them there days, in fact, I still sometimes think of buses with a door at the front a 'new bus' as opposed to the old Routemaster which you could jump on and off. Bendy buses - what are they? I remember one time arriving late at the bus stop and running, puffing after it as it pulled away from the stop and just managing to jump on and grab one of the uprights and nearly falling backwards off into the road into the on-coming traffic, as I had a full P.E. bag over my back and a heavy briefcase full of huge science books in my left hand. It nearly pulled my arm out of my socket but I hung on like grim death and managed to pull myself to safety as the conductor grinned wickedly from his lair under the stairs.

At the other end of the journey lay North Finchley bus station. Us schoolboy urchins used to stand on the platform and leap off as soon as it was safe, to prove our bravery and bravado. One of my friends, who rejoiced in the nickname Harry Hyams was as short-arsed as me and also wore glasses, in fact, his other nickname was Joe 90. One fine morning as the bus cruised into the bus station, Harry stepped off the platform thinking the bus had come to a stop. It hadn't. Comedy gold, especially as he wasn't badly hurt, except a seriously bruised pride and grazed hands and knees. He just stepped off and went flying; briefcase, glasses, blazer all a-whirl as we watched agog from the safety of the platform.

But it made us the men we are today! Health and bloody safety? It's for wimps.
(Che Grimsdale Best before:, Thu 29 May 2008, 16:43, Reply)

the school bus
to be exact the school bus from hell that we eventually stopped using and walked the 2 miles home instead.

Apart from the usual overheating on hot days, in winter the thing would be full of wet school blazers and furry hooded duffel coats and parkas, worn uvf style over the head with the hoods pulled forwards. this was the 70's "man"

Threats ranged from getting "yer head stoved in wee lad" to "I'll fuckin stick ye" usually accompanied by a demand for your pocket/dinner money. This got so bad, the school in the end made parents bring the dinner money in, and tickets where issued instead in school so no money was carried by the pupils.

Back then the only girls interested in boys were the 6th formers, all sitting at the back smoking away, and god help any bloke who thought he could take them on. One of them tried and was unceremoniously dumped out through the emergency exit, and broke his ankle when he hit the ground, the girl who did it simply said "its a pity the bus was not moving"
( TBL I posted this on, Thu 29 May 2008, 16:39, Reply)

We can solve the obese children in London problem today if we want.
Don't let anyone under the age of 30 use public transport.

And if they do - IF THEY DO try to get on, fucking KILL THEM.

Fucking little cunts. All teenagers are scum.
( Je suis un vagabond is an unfunny, up your own arse middle class knob, Thu 29 May 2008, 16:35, 3 replies)

lets finish this joke once and for all...
My worst record...

is managing to answer a QOTW 218 weeks late
(Foulkesy123 The one and only..., Thu 29 May 2008, 16:35, 5 replies)

Is it just me...?
I heard the most disgusting sound ever one morning on the bus to work: the guy behind me flossing his teeth. Is it odd to find this so unacceptable?
(I Love Your Shoes, Thu 29 May 2008, 16:34, 4 replies)

On the subject of jumpers.....
I used to commute to Brighton from London on a daily basis on the lovely green 'Southern' trains. On a return trip during the summer of 2004(?) i was sat, minding my own business, hurtling along at some oscene speed when the train just stops. No announcement, just stops. The train was sat about half way between Gatwick and Brighton. All around was green fields and no roads. We must have sat for almost 2 hours goinng nowhere, until a Southern van drives up next to the train and starts fiddling about. After another 45 minutes we get to bumpkinville rail station and everyone is told that due to a fault with the train we have to get off. So dutifully we all tramp to the end of the train (the platform was so little we had to get out on the front 4 coaches) only to find that as we walked down the train there was what looked like mud splashed across all the windows. It only became apparent when we left the train that a suicidal idiot had jumped in front of the train, and due to speed/mass qualities of physics, had literally caved in the whole driver cabin. It honestly looked like a car had driven into the train. Anyway, so on the traumatic part...

... The only other train heading home was also taking a billion Britney Spears (or something) fans to a one-off event in London, so after cramming onto a packed train, all of use business types had to sit and listen to a chorus of children singing Britney's worst the whole way to London, stopping at every hick station on the way. I hate people. Especially teeny-boppers.
(neocaligatio, Thu 29 May 2008, 16:33, 1 reply)

There's a lot of posting re: London Underground...
So let’s get things straight, once and for all. I present to you, the Devil In Tights Guide to London Underground Etiquette (if anyone from TFL is reading, the consultation fee is £300,000, non sequential £10 notes. Leave it in locker 4B at St. Pancras. Come alone.)

1) Have your ticket ready before you get to the barriers. Watching you fumble around trying to find it isn’t fun. Be prepared!
2) Move right along the platform, find a less busy bit. You don’t get cool points for being in the front carriage.
3) When a train pulls in to the station, stand to one side of the doors so people on the train can get off it, thus making space for you. Standing in a giant, impenetrable throng isn’t helping anyone, you know.
4) Let other people get off the train first. This is not a nightclub. It’s not ‘one out, one in’.
5) If you can’t get a seat, try to use the space in the aisles. That way, you can still read your Metro without using my head as some kind of rudimentary lectern.
6) While we’re about it, if we’re packed in like Sardines, don’t try and read the FT. It doesn’t make you look important; it makes you look like a tosser.
7) There will be a train in the next 5 minutes. Leaping on board between the closing doors does not the new Indiana Jones make, so don’t do it. If you’re late for work, start leaving earlier.
8) The playing of shitty music through tinny mobile ‘phone speakers is to be banned forthwith. It’s no-one else’s fault you have deplorable taste in music, and there is no reason for forced sharing.
9) Wheelie bags now require a driving licence. If it is light enough to be carried, then it shall be carried. No wonder we’re all getting fat.
10) Transport Police officers are now allowed, without prejudice, to shoot on sight people who stand still on the left when on an escalator. Alright, they can’t – but don’t make us resort to it, OK?
11) The rubbing (sexual or otherwise) of other passengers is expressly prohibited, unless a service is being paid for.
12) Smile. If we all smiled a bit more perhaps we’d all enjoy the experience a little more.

Further suggestions:

1) Three classes of carriage: a) Crackheads and strange people, b) Smelly people, perverts and Ken Livingstone, c) Normals. A test/urine sample will be required.
2) People aged 65 and over to be banned from the tube between 0700-0900 and 1600-1900.
3) For the Love of Mike – Air conditioning!
4) No mobile ‘phone conversations. Ever.
5) Free Cake for all passengers.

Now then. Can we all just get along?
( Devil_In_Tights the *real* DiT!, Thu 29 May 2008, 16:33, 8 replies)

Do planes count as public transport?
I went travelling in Central America last December and, just in time for the journey home, got scarlet fever. Contrary to what you might believe from reading 19th century novels, scarlet fever is very rarely fatal. It is however hella nasty. It started with just a few blotches on my abdomen, which I just assumed were insect bites. A few hours after they appeared, I got on the plane home with a Spanish-based airline whose name may or may not rhyme with "Siberia". I hate this airline. On a 12-hour flight a few weeks previously, they had deigned to give us only two tiny glasses of water for the entire journey, which I'm pretty sure is some sort of human rights violation. They had also played really shit music of little kids singing Spanish Christmas carols for half an hour after take-off and half an hour before landing, which was bad enough to make anybody consider infanticide. I was already a bit apprehensive about the return journey.

So I boarded the plane, found my seat and settled down for ten hours of fun. An hour into the flight, I began to feel a little queasy. I forced myself to eat some of my dinner, reasoning that it was all I was getting for the next several hours. Big mistake. I drank the only glass of water I would get until breakfast.

I waited.

I didn't feel any better.

In fact, I was feeling much worse. The contents of my stomach were threatening to make their way back into the outside world with alarming speed.

It was then that I discovered that the lady sitting next to me was too large for me to even consider squeezing past, and refusing to get out of her seat. So I jumped over her and legged it to the bathroom. Then I discovered that the contents of my stomach weren't actually going to make a hasty exit at all, and I was going to spend the next hour or two in the bathroom trying to vomit.

After some time I began to feel inexplicably better and returned to my seat (jumping over the fat lady again). Two minutes later I was DEFINITELY about to vomit, spectacularly and uncontrollably within the next few seconds. I grabbed a sick bag, leaped over my seat mate, made an undignified dash for the bathroom and *just* made it in time. It was probably the most unpleasant vomiting session of my life. It was so acidic that it felt like someone had taken a blowtorch to my throat. When I emerged shaking from the bathroom half an hour later, I tried to find a stewardess - surely they would give me some water under the circumstances. But I could only find one sitting alone at the back of the plane, and she was asleep. And I was too much of a wuss to wake her up. Besides, I was about to vomit again.

This happened several times over the next couple of hours, through some pretty unpleasant turbulence I might add. I kept thinking I was feeling better, that there couldn't possibly be anything left in my stomach, returning to my seat, and then having to jump over my seat mate and sprint to the bathroom again. Passengers who were awake were watching the action unfold with increasing fascination, disgust and sympathy. For most of the time, I just stayed in the bathroom, sitting on the toilet listening to my iPod, without which I'm sure I would have gone completely bonkers, and occasionally turning round to vomit.

Finally, I emerged from the bathroom for the umpteenth time about 8 hours into the flight to discover that finally they were serving breakfast. I got myself a glass of water and went back to the bathroom, to discover that they were all occupied. So I sat myself down on one of the chairs just outside the toilets that the stewardesses sit in for take-off and landing. A few minutes later, one of the stewardesses serving drinks strode up to me. Now, I was sitting outside the bathroom, looking like death, shaking, shivering, clutching a sick bag in one hand and gingerly sipping a glass of water with the other. So I thought it a reasonable assumption that she was coming over to offer me some sympathy and ask if there was anything I needed. Not to tell me off for sitting in her chair, which was what she proceeded to do. I just gawped at her and stood up like a good girl.

A couple of hours later, it was time to go back to our seats for the long-awaited descent to Madrid. About five minutes before landing, I felt the urge to vomit AGAIN, despite the fact that I had puked up the water and had literally nothing left in my stomach. I was buggered if I was going to chunder into a sick bag in front of everyone. I leaped over Fat Lady for the last time, skidded past the rows of bemused passengers, any attempts the stewardesses tried to make to usher me back to my seat were met with a desperate "VOY A VOMITAR!!!" I think they concluded that it was best for all concerned if they let me use the bathroom.

Remember the shit Christmas music I said they played during take-off and landing? Well, whilst my entire body was convulsing with the supreme effort of ejecting the now-scant contents of my stomach, the soundtrack of my vomiting was a bunch of odious children singing, "Navidad, navidad, hoy es navidad!" (goes to the tune of Jingle Bells, to give you some idea of just how annoying it was).

I staggered, shaking and shivering, off the plane (having first taken as many sick bags as I could carry) and into the terminal building, called my mother and begged her to buy me some anti-vomiting pills and rehydration drinks and meet me at Heathrow in four hours.

Then the diarrhoea hit. My God, it wasn't pretty. It was totally uncontrollable, like pints and pints of water were just pouring out of my arse. It got to the point where I had half an hour before my flight left for London, and I was still glued to the bog. I had no choice but to take a massive dose of Immodium and hope for the best.

As I was going through security to get to my connecting flight, the battle that my now-paralysed bowels were having with their contents gave me the most horrendous stomach cramps. I ended up lying on the floor, doubled over and moaning in agony. The security people wanted to call an ambulance but I used my best Spanish to explain to them that there was no way in fucking hell I was missing my flight, staggered to my feet and limped over to the gate.

The rest of the story isn't all that interesting - I made it onto the plane, got to Heathrow in one piece, all my luggage was waiting for me, my mum picked me up and I even managed not to throw up in her car.

Although I got over the acutely ill phase of the illness pretty quickly, it was several weeks before I got a diagnosis, discovering that millions of nasty streptococci were having a party in my throat the day after I'd snogged my ex.
(grandmasterfluffles Come to my Armageddon party on, Thu 29 May 2008, 16:29, 2 replies)

Hmmm, I may have to change my username........
I rarely travel on public transport in this country because it's shite outside the capital and frequented by London types in the capital.
I have, however, inflicted trauma on public transport.
I was on the platform in Manchester's Picadilly station watching two DNA wastes trolling through the crowd. Whenever they saw someone of a victimlike nature they'd bum a fag (ooer mrs etc.), ask for a light and keep the lighter etc. I was sitting on a bench with my laptop bag between my feet whan the taller of the two subhumans caught my eye and wandered over, his simian mate wandering behind me. Obviously they thought they would try it on.
Wrong guy.
As oxygen thief one drew closer, I took my umbrella in my right hand (as an aside, it's one I bought in a "special", invitations only, security show in London. Carbon fibre and batteries go into it's construction, get the idea?).

He/it asked "What's in the bag"?

I replied "Nothing you'd want to die for sonny".

He took umbrage at this and moved toward me.

It's surprising how well nose hair burns when 65,000 volts are applied via the tip of said umbrella inserted into the nostril of the aforementioned miscreant. He/it fell in a twitching incontinent heap while I turned to deal with neanderthal two. Unfortunately for him, he'd decided to back away looking at me the whole time. Which was probably the reason he fell off the platform, onto the rails, breaking both ankles.

Which was nice.
(Captain Placid 24/7 ball gags, brownie mix and clown porn, Thu 29 May 2008, 16:28, 7 replies)