New Years
Growing up public transportation was free to everyone in town New Year's Eve. Everyone's bus was full of people drinking and smoking, it was pretty much expected. One bus driver got pissed off with all of this and locked the doors saying he was calling the cops. Everyone's reaction was to pull the emergency bars on the windows, jump out and run away, leaving the driver with a windowless bus.
(Dauber, Thu 29 May 2008, 22:05, Reply)

Mr. Pee Pants
I was the only one riding the bus, until one other man got on. He had several urine stains on his pants. The stains were from many different pees which took place on many different days, including one that was quite recent. It looked similar the the rings on a tree. The bus driver told him to sit at the back of the bus. Mr Pee Pants said "why?" along with a string of profanity and mumbling. The bus driver said "because you stink like piss". Mr Pee Pants said "fine" and moved to the back. It still wasn't far enough, the smell a year supply of urine held in denim is pretty strong.
(Dauber, Thu 29 May 2008, 22:01, Reply)

a tramp won my mead.
i was going to london by train, and had thought it would be a smashing idea to get some cans of alcoholic beverage, to make the journey a little more bearable.i was chatting to my companion (a pretty young lady) as the train arrived, and we boarded and took our seats still deep in conversation. it was only as the train set off that i realised my four pack was not with me, and i looked out of the window to see a gleeful gentleman of the road, eagerly fingering the ringpull of a can. knackers!!! i had to pay top dollar for shit beer off the little trolley :(
(discodaz *generic witty comment*, Thu 29 May 2008, 22:00, Reply)

Tube troubles
When I was about 8 I went to a big old model show in London with my Dad and my Uncle. When we got on the tube on the way home my Uncle got his head stuck in the tube doors. Judging by the words he was spitting out it hurt a bit.
( Captain V, Thu 29 May 2008, 21:59, Reply)

Having spent three years as a student travelling to and from Aberystwyth
where there is -usually but not always- a train every two hours, and now living in the outskirts of Norwich, I probably have more than my fair share of terrible public transport stories.

Here's a Norwich one:

I was nearly two hours late for a works do in Norwich after the bus I was in hit someone. A pair of teenagers were trundling along the path, one on a push bike, the other on one of those damned mini moto things. The one on the mini moto suddenly just fell sideways, completely rigid, into the road. Kind of like a plank of wood. And got hit by the bus.

To be fair though, the bus driver breaked so quickly, she was obviously on the ball. Which was maybe unfortunate for the lad standing near the front of the bus... he went flying forward and hit his head against the windscreen with enough force to shatter the glass.

Cue sitting on the bus, having to wait while the ambulance and police do their thing... and while the bus company send a replacement bus, which is what took a longer. While getting snotty text messages from people already in the pub. Because obviously, I'd chosen to have the bus journey from hell instead of sitting in the pub getting drunk.

I believe both casualties were fine. Incidently, the lad who broke the window declined the advised trip to hospital because him and his mate were on the way to play snooker. [I told someone at work this, and -for anyone from Norwich - they said "Well, that's people from West Earlham for you" ].
(deviant fluffy bunnies has nothing funny to type here, Thu 29 May 2008, 21:55, 3 replies)

none of teh funny here, just an IT related rant - please move on
Already this qotw is proving to be a belter and I have nothing even remotely as funny as some of the gems posted here.

Once, however, on a bus coming home from work some years ago I overheard two off duty bus drivers have a conversation that made part of my inner child die as I came to the realisation that my profession would never command any respect in society. Ever.

I hate comedy nights.

Comedian: 'Ere, what do you do mate?
Me: *sigh* I'm a code monkey.
C: Eh?
M: I'm a software engineer.
C: Oh, computers 'n that? You mean you work in IT.
M: *sob sob*
C: Yeah must be pretty boring.

On second thought, I don't hate comedy nights but rather I hate comedians. Especially comedians that think taking the piss out of the front row is an acceptable alternative to bringing some material with them.

Anyhoo, I digress...

So female driver A is telling male driver B that she's had enough of driving busses and wants to get out. It's hard work, shit pay and you have to deal with the general public *shudder*. Her solution to escape this career path?

"I'm going to get a job in computers!"

Of course she is.

"You see, you look at all them adverts for jobs with computers it's 50, 60 thousand a year plus."

Is it really?

"Yeah, I've got a mate who knows all that stuff already and he says I can come over and he'll show me what's what. Or I could get on one of them courses they advertise on the tele."

...

"Some of them are learn on the job type things so I can be 'earning', while I'm 'learning'. Wicked eh, innit?"

Well fuck me furiously with a broom. I never realised it was that simple.

At the time of this conversation I'd held down a proper job for less than a year. I was 24 and had 'one of those jobs with computers' but despite having a PhD in Artificial Intelligence from a red-brick university I seemed to earning less than half of what I apparently should be. I realised there and then that my vocation would never be viewed seriously by society.

I immediately launched forth to the female bus driver a rebuttal that is now also well rehearsed prior to every comedy gig I attend:

"To say I work in IT is like saying an architect is good at colouring in. To say I 'work with computers' is like saying an accountant 'works with a calculator'. Both technically correct but missing the point very badly. I'm a software engineer. I know the syntax and semantics of all modern programming languages including every subtlety to do with object orientation and reflection, I understand the difference between memory allocated on the stack and memory allocated on the heap and how to do garbage collection on the latter, I can pass by value, pass by reference and do pointer arithmetic, I know dozens of different abstract data types (how they're used, how they're implemented, when they're appropriate for use, what their time and memory complexities are for all associated operations). I appreciate the complexity Apple had porting applications from the PowerPC chip to the x86 chip owing to the pure little-endianess of the latter. I understand what it means for a problem to be called NP-complete and can prove it too :P I know how to calculate the big-O complexity of an algorithm, I know how to write the algorithm using recursion, how to test the bloody thing when I'm done. I know about critical sections, semaphores, concurrent processes and avoiding deadlocks in distributed environments. I know about system architectures, how to write a .Net DLL that implements a COM interface, I know about OS paging, what the kernel does, whether my program is likely to be IO, network, database or processor bound. Perhaps you'd like me to describe the ISO OSI 7-layer model to you illustrating the interfaces built on top of each other and the protocols these networking abstractions use to communicate with each other. I can even get back to philosophical fundamentals with logical truth-tables and De-Morgan's law, state whether your language is Turing complete, assert that we'll never know if your program will end owing to the Halting problem. It's not just transistors either, I understand how neural networks work as logic gates using their weighted pathways to train themselves, how it's possible to store memories in a Hopfield net. I appreciate the strengths and weaknesses of various programming paradigms: imperative, functional, logical. All this and I can write your sodding program via the waterfall, spiral or evolutionary software design methodology if you'd like.

You wouldn't attempt to draw up a will after reading a book on law for 5 minutes, you wouldn't try and build a house after watching a DVD on structural engineering and you wouldn't offer to do an appendectomy on your best mate because you saw one done on ER. I have spent 8 years at university learning my craft, give me the respect I deserve! I... am... a software engineer."

Nah, not really. I just got off the bus, walked home and cried.
( djtrialprice, Thu 29 May 2008, 21:44, 14 replies)

Waterloo (technicolour) Sunset....
Picture the scene......you wake up after a mate's house party in Twickenham at half 10, needing to be in Bexleyheath (at your mate's wedding) in 3 hours. Puke up, leave the house, jump on the train and lie accross some seats breathing deeply like the dehydrated wretch you are.

Jump off train at Waterloo, grab bottle of water, run to Waterloo East. Find platform. Drink water. Look at train arriving at the platform. Work out it's not going to Bexleyheath. Oops drunk that water too quickly....it's going to come back up.....I'm gonna puke.....

Apologies to everyone who was heading to Tattenham Corner that fine summers day.

Apologies for length, especially to my mate in Twickenham, as I am reliably informed I took a shit in his garden the night before.
(LargeDoner, Thu 29 May 2008, 21:42, Reply)

Rochester buses, Part 3.
Same period of time as my last story. Still no car, again, stuck across the city in the winter at 1:00 am. This time I didn't even get the bus to downtown. And to make it even more fun, it's a freakin' blizzard out there. Literally- visibility was maybe a hundred feet.

So what does the Loon do? Starts walking.

The most direct route I knew home was along the expressway. So I got out there on I-490 and started sticking out my thumb whenever someone would pass by.

Didn't work, of course.

Cursing and shivering I walked as quickly as I could to try to stay warm, knowing that I had about a three hour walk ahead of me. The snow was coming down heavier, making the world into a dimly lit place of swirling motion whose only discernible features were the pavement beneath my feet (which was vanishing under a layer of white) and the buffeting winds and a very cold Loon. The orange glow of the sodium vapor lights made it even more surreal, and all I could think of was the innermost circle of Dante's vision of Hell.

As I trudged along I heard a clattering roar behind me, so I turned and held out my thumb. The headlights slowly went past me- a tow truck pulling a tractor trailer. The driver saw me, of course, but what the hell was he going to do? He was on a job and couldn't stop.

However, he wasn't going that fast yet- he was less than a quarter mile from the last entrance ramp and hadn't gotten up to speed yet. Acting on impulse I ran like hell and grabbed the handles on the doors of the trailer and leaped onto the back bumper, and found myself going about ten miles an hour through the blizzard and accelerating. Congratulating myself on my quick action, I found that I could fit my legs between the trailer and the bumper and sit down, arms over my head, and be relatively comfortable.

Of course, that was when I saw the flaw in my plan.

At thirty miles an hour we weren't going fast enough for it to be quite suicidal to roll off of the thing, but it probably was going to really suck. I stood up again to try to see road signs to figure out where I was- and about then the truck started to slow down. He was getting off the highway, having gotten me a lot closer to home, and I would be glad for wherever we exited from.

As it happened, the exit he got off on was a mile or so from my house.

I waited until he came to a full stop, then jumped off the bumper. I walked along the truck until I came level with the cab, gave the driver a cheery wave and walked toward my apartment, cherishing his look of utter shock.

When public transit lets you down, you sometimes have to improvise.
( The Resident Loon Not a demographic. Do not measure., Thu 29 May 2008, 21:36, Reply)

I use the tube every day..
There is an unbelievable amount of dirty, psychotic, socially inept people who are drunk or on medication (or both) that can't string a sentence together without drooling or blasting you with putrid breath..

.. and that's just the underground staff, the commuters are worse (moi excepted)
( Signify, Thu 29 May 2008, 21:35, Reply)

NYE 31/12/2000
Had headed into Manc city centre to go see in the New Year with a few friends and the ever-charming Mr. Scruff on the decks (who was a legend by the way, we got to meet him after). The whole night was a joy, but for the journey home:
The driver of the only bus we could find anywhere was charging 4 quid. Usual fare just a pound. A cunt, but still a wonderful fella compared to what happened next.
Back in 2000, we didn't have these fancy 'chavs', we had good old 'Scallies' (abbrv. 'Scallywag'). One of whom made the simple mistake of trying to get on too quickly, and must have nudged past another. Who waited until the bus was moving before beating seventeen shades of shit out of the poor guy. Packed bus, and no-one to help the beatee as his assailant has about 5 or 6 cronies with him. Does the bus driver stop? No. Does anyone do anything? No. How long does this guy have the crap kicked out of him for? Long enough that anyone sat in the back four rows had a healthy splattering of blood all over them, and a completely unconscious (and frankly, possibly dead) guy on the floor still being set upon. Eventually, a few guys rallied around to drag the poor guy away from his attackers at the next stop. The driver again did nothing, except telling everyone to 'get that fucking guy off my bus', and counting his healthy, healthy profits for the night.
( the brass moustache putting the ass moust in brache since, Thu 29 May 2008, 21:25, Reply)

Just...no
I was 21yr old newly graduated young chap (that bit's important, as will become horribly clear) working in Glasgow at the time and had a daily 45min bus ride to and from work. One day I got on and the bus was uncommonly busy and the only free seat was on the back row. Of course the back row is normally psycho central and to be avoided at all costs, but with a lack of other options I plonk myself down in the far corner and stick my head in a book only stirring to check out newcomers for care in the community types.

Anyway, 15min or so into the journey the bus stops. I look up as two average looking kids get on. One boy about 8, another around 12. They didn't rate on the nutter scale so I go back to my book. Then I realise they're heading to the back row. Fair enough, I thought-the bus is packed it's probably the only place with two seats close to each other. The squeeze into the now almost full back row, right next to me and again I dive into my book. Along we go, starting and stopping, weaving from side to side and at some point I realise that theres something kind of touching my leg when we go round corners. I glance down and it's this kids hand, just the edge of it, just kind of brushing against the outside of my leg. Not in an overtly weird way really, just the kind of thing you just...don't do. He must have noticed me move or something and he pulls his hand back. Internally berating myself for being over-sensitive and probably embarassing some poor boy for no reason, I ignore it as best I can and go back to my book.

That's when my arse drops well and truly out.

Still looking at my book, but with eyes now wide and heart going like the fucking clappers, I mentally re-check what I think is happening is actually happening.

It is.

I'm sat, on a crowded bus, and this 8 year old BOY is slowly, but surely stroking his hand up and down my thigh. Cue Stewie Griffin slow-head-turn-of-horror as I look at him and the little fucker is staring me full in the face with this horribly blank expression on his face. Not laughing and joking, just blank and kind of unhappy while he continues to stroke my thight. Trying not to make a scene I gripped his wrist - much harder than was probably necessary - and as quietly and with as little fuss as possible forced it away and turn back to the book trying to pretend nothing had happened as that-did-not-just-happen, I-do-not-fucking-believe-that-just-happened style thoughts going through my head over and over again. The kid grabbed his friend and they got off at the next stop.

The awful look on his face haunted me for a long time. It was, and still is without doubt the most disturbing thing ever to happen to me.

I don't ride the bus any more.
(Funtime_Frankie, Thu 29 May 2008, 21:15, 1 reply)

More tube bastardness
I do believe it was the District Line this time.

Bunch of people get on somewhere near Wimbledon. I say near Wimbledon because it was already busy, so couldn't have been at Wimbledon.

Anyway. Among the people who get on at thi station are a pregnant woman and a city boy. Apologies if you work in the city and are not a wanker, but if you're not, then I'm sure you're all too aware that alot of the people you work with are.

I digress, though.

Both people clock the last remaining seat at the same time. Pregnant woman's closer, though. So just as she's maneuvering her soon-to-be-popped belly round so she can sit down, City Boy slips in behind her and nabs the last seat and buries hsi head in his paper. She only got alerted to this when she nearly sat on him. Wanker!

The best was yet to come, though. Someone who had seen this happen tutted (although very quietly) and quietly offered the very pregnant lady a seat. Good on them. However, she very politely yet loudly declined the offer and proceeded to sit cross-legged on the floor opposite the City Boy and his paper. Staring at him. And staring some more. On the floor. Heavily pregnant.

I don't know what the hell was in the news that day, but I've never seen anyone furrow their brow and bury themselves so deeply in a copy of the Metro before or since.

Good on you pregnant lady! I hope you had the smoothest most painless birth in the world, and that your child is really fun, happy and healthy!

And City Boy - I hope you have gall stones and have to wee out the biggest spikiest lumps of piss-rock in the world!
(Benjimawoo, Thu 29 May 2008, 21:14, 1 reply)

Radio One Fun
I got a pair of tickets for radio1s big weekend the other week which I was most excited about! So my friend and I set off for Maidstone with a six pack each on a train which was entirely unremarkable and on which nothing interesting happened....

AHA but that is not the train journey about which I am writing dear reader! no no no! I am writing to tell you about the train journey home from maidstone, which turned into probably my most embarressing and amusing night all rolled into one for a long time!

Picture the scene: The sun is beaming down and we have each drunka six pack drunk by 2pm prior to entry and we've had a couple of doobs in the big weekend place. Our lust for alcohol is so intense that we decide to create a terrible abomination to get ourselves more drunk, the cider with white wine top! A genius idea which involved splitting a mini wine bottle between our pints of cider.

This served it's purpose and we ended up wasted. So wasted that my friend thought it would be a grand idea to buy some strange pills from the man at the dance stage, and get jiggy with it to sounds of whatever repetitive booming was eminating loudly. Of course the medecine took it's effect and dues to the amount drunk and the days excessive heat I became something of a retarded zombie, lurching around and generally making a prat of myself. Now onto the train journey!

My friend has to walk me to the station because I can't walk more than 10 steps without falling into something. We finally get on the train which is absolutely packed and miraculously we get a seat opposite each other, all is going well until I feel the need to vom BADLY. I spew a little bit over my mate and of course he does the natural thing and laughs, meanwhile everyone else looks digusted. I thought that would be the last of it but NO, I spent the whole train journey being sick into my mouth and then swallowing it back down (not to say there was not any leakage of course) Every time this happened everyone would make disgusted sounded ERR noises and made such priceless comments as:

"I really dont like can we move please!" from the girl next to me, to which her boyfriend laughed and said no.

and the dad with his young son who said something along the lines of:
"thats what happens when you drink too much and do drugs Timmy"

They were all stuck with the puke monster as there was no more space on the train, it was about as bad as rush hour.....

No one would move to let me get to the toilet, not that I could walk anyway. Of course as soon as I got off the train I painted the platform with an orange cider broth, which had stained the floor up until this week.

I should feel ashamed at this, but strangely I don't.....
(Jimmy Large Is huffing Jenkem on, Thu 29 May 2008, 20:56, 3 replies)

Thankfully only the only major incident I've had involving Public Transport, but it was more than enough
A good few years ago (we're talking 1999/2000 or so) I needed to get from up on the North Norfolk Coast down to Wimbledon for a work project. Just a few hours needed on site to do a measured survey of the ground floor of a property, and 3 elevations of a property, ready for a custom made bespoke hardwood conservatory to be drawn up and prepared by the company I was working for at the time. (Not a 'cheap' conservatory company either)

Now, at that time I didn't have a car, but the company said they'd like me to go, so all travel expenses were taken care of (which was nice)

Leaving a seaside town on the Norfolk coast at 7am, I reckoned I be in London Liverpool Street for around 10.45am - 11am, and then another hour via tube and I'd be there, certainly no later than midday.

So, train journey starts off well enough, get from Sheringham to Norwich without too many delays, but it was also the school time, so hundreds of kids screaming and shouting wasn't the best start to the day I could have hoped for.

Got to Norwich, and on the train to London, and that's where the fun began. The night before torrential rain and storms had hit Ingatestone, and the entire track was flooded, so we were backed up with at least 7 trains waiting to get through. And we waited... and waited, and waited. At 1pm we were still at Ingatestone, it was standing room only on the train by this time, and everyone was getting riled, and didn't get to London Liverpool Street until 2.15pm, where we were told that the last train back to Norwich would be leaving London at 5.30pm due to the dangerous conditions of the track.

Arriving at Liverpool Street, I didn't get to site via tube until 3.30pm.

Working out rough times in my head, I had just under 45 minutes to conduct the best part of an entire measured survey for a 3 storey property, meaning I then had enough time to get back - just - for the last train.

4.15pm - or thereabouts, and already 15 mins. behind schedule - I finish, and high tail it around the corner back to Wimbledon Tube station for just after 4.30pm, ready to get back to Liverpool Street, but was met by burly Tube officials saying there's been an 'accident' on the line, and it'll take at least another hour before anything can get moving again. It took us the best part of half an hour just to get this information.

It was at this point the crowds around me had the same idea I had, and we all cast a gaze at 3 lonely taxi's sitting outside the tube station.

Now, whether it was the adrenalin rush of the events leading up to actually getting to London, or the intervention of someone smiling down on me, I legged it and reached one of the taxis just ahead of the throng of people behind me.

"Where to mate" came the inevitable reply.

"Liverpool Street. And you have 25 minutes".

He looked stunned, then puzzled, and as we drove he asked why the rush. Never in my life have I met a nicer taxi driver. Hell, he must have broken just about every rule in the Highway code, but he got me outside Liverpool Street station at 5.25pm, £45 lighter (it was worth the hefty tip, but he even made me out a heftier receipt so I could claim it back as expenses)

On the train, YES! nothing could stop me now. I reckoned back in Norwich for 7.30-ish, and back to Sheringham by 9pm.

Nope, that didn't happen either.

Bloody train stopped again at Ingatestone, due to a previous accident there and the water hadn't drained properly from earlier in the day.

We waited. And waited. And waited.

Norwich arrived... 11.30pm. Last train for Sheringham left at 9.55pm. The station staff were handing out compensation and refund forms as we came off the train, to save us queuing for them in the reception area.

Another taxi. Another £40. Arrive home 12.45am.

A total of 17 and three quarter hours to do around 45 minutes work.

Conservatory was drawn up and fitted like a glove on site though. After claiming back expenses as well, I'd also made around £40 profit.
( The Great Architect is still waiting for his account to be deleted on, Thu 29 May 2008, 20:51, Reply)

Hahahaha dude, I totally yakked on the Picadilly Line last year
during rush hour, following an immense lunchtime bender. Had to be there etc. Lols!
( Liquid Crystal, Thu 29 May 2008, 20:46, Reply)

"°¥Ñ½"...
I you think the London Underground is bad, you should try the Shanghai Metro at rush hour. After flying for 12 hours. Whilst carrying a 65 litre rucksack, a 20 litre daysack and a carrier bag with a mint chocolate Thorntons Easter egg.
Do this for seven stops packed in like a sardine, only to have to change at the busiest interchange that is people's square, go two more stops to the main train station, then after queues of epic proportions and standing-room-only waiting rooms finally get on a train to Hangzhou.
And after you do all that, after you find your seat and put down all your bags, then proceed to sit down only to realise that you've just sat on the Easter Egg.

The one you dragged half way around the world for your girlfriend.

That you kept with you at all times just to keep it safe.

The one that has the special message written on it in Chinese for her.

The one that survived the plane, the monorail, the shanghai metro rush hour and some crazy ticket queue people.

The very same one that is now cracking under the pressure of your very own arse.

That's trauma. If not for the egg, then at least for my arse (it was quite hard).
(Brigadier Arthur Charles, Mrs, Thu 29 May 2008, 20:42, Reply)

On the Tube a few years back
It was a Saturday evening and there was a surprisingly mellow atmosphere among my fellow Tube-ees.

Obviously there were a few folk dressed up ready to embrace the capital's nightlife, including a very pretty blonde lady.

As the train made one of its stops, in climbed a trampy-looking man in his 40s, who made his feelings for the blonde girl very clear, by leering, wolf-whistling and then swigging on his can of Diamond White.

And then karma waved its cheeky little hand and the train door shut straight into the middle of his smarmy face.

Here's where the trauma began: I thought I might actually die from keeping my internal laughter locked up and managed with just a bit of discreet shoulder-shaking.

But it got worse. I made the fatal error of glancing up at him. Not only had this man gone bright red with embarrassment but, unbeknown to him, he was now also the proud owner of a massive black strip of train-door muck decorating his face in a diagonal line.

It was too much. At this point I began weeping - well, what can I say? He looked like a badger that had been on holiday to the Sahara Desert.

I chuckled solidly for about three more stops and only stopped due to physical exhaustion. Thank you, letchy tramp man, you made my night.
( The Helpful Bear, Thu 29 May 2008, 20:30, Reply)

I attract these people. Lucky me.
I'd gone up to London to see Metal-A Headbangers Journey on the big screen. Not really relevant except that it explains two things: Why I was wearing my trusty denim & patches waistcoat and why I was riding the 11pm bus, aka the Pisshead Special, back home.
About halfway there the drunk asleep at the back of the bus woke up. He looked around him, spotted yours truly peacably reading my book, twigged that I was probably not a fellow chav and engaged Bus Nutter mode.
He then proceeded to tell the other passengers that I was obviously a Paedophile because I was reading a Paedophile book. Loudly. And often. (Not entirely sure he knew what the word actually meant except that The Sun thought it was a bad thing.)
When this got boring he started wandering up and down the bus complaining that I stank. And was a paedo.
At which point I leapt from my seat, beat him about the skull with a fire extinguisher and urinated onto his twitching body.
Actually that's what I've been doing in my daydreams ever since. In reality, being British, not mental and, oh yes, a massive coward, I ignored him and hoped he would go away. All the while expecting a tattooed fist to the side of my head. That was a fairly uncomfortable half hour.
Bus Nutters. They're wacky.
(Big D, Thu 29 May 2008, 20:11, Reply)

Salisbury to Falmer, circa February 2007
Around this time I was dating a young man who lived in Salisbury, and was in my first year at the University of Sussex, which is in a little village called Falmer outside Brighton. I regularly used to go and see him at weekends to escape living on campus - anyone who has lived on a university campus will understand what I mean. Handily, there was a direct train from Brighton to Salisbury and this train also called at Bath, which was very helpful as my best friend was dating a girl who lived in Bath at the time, so if we were visiting our respective partners we would get the train together. This particular weekend we knew there would be replacement buses on the way home, but that was fine, we'd done it before, all you did was get the train to Barnham, get on a bus from Barnham to Brighton, and Bob's your uncle, or quite possibly the train driver.

Anyway I met my friend on the train and we were on our way to Barnham as planned. Until we reached Fratton, where a confused train driver came on over the intercom. "I'm sorry, we seem to have been terminated here...your best bet is to get on the next train to Fareham, change at Fareham for Barnham and get the replacement bus as planned". Ok, not ideal but off we trotted. My friend had some beer with him so we also proceeded to get a bit squiffy while laughing at a chavvy couple on the next train. We got on the bus, next stop Brighton, excellent. Oh, no, no. We stopped at Angmering. And had to get the train from Angmering to Brighton. At least it was only a 10 minute train journey back to campus......no, that was a rail replacement bus too.

Length? 5 hours for a journey that normally took 2 and a half.
(Petite chien is going to do science to it, Thu 29 May 2008, 20:06, 2 replies)

Ooh, lots of these. Where to start.
As a teenager, I was on one of the old-style trains in South-east England that had loads of doors all the way down the carriage, next to every seat. Bored, I – unbelievably stupidly - decided to play a game of “how much can I press the latch before the door opens”.

Guess what happened next.

Guards really don’t like it when you open a door when a train is going quite fast, and then hang halfway out the opening trying to pull it shut again. Fortunately, someone pulled the emergency cord and I got away with just a very severe b*llocking – in part because I had clearly been scared completely out of my wits.

Kudos to the guy sitting opposite me, who kindly bought me a coke from the drinks cart, told me not to worry too much about my stupidity and gave me his phone number in case the police got involved.

--wavy lines—-

Now for two as a grown-up, each on the tube in London. Both amongst the most unsettling things I’ve ever seen.

First one – Northern Line, going south. I’m sitting next to a guy, mid-40s, seems slightly grubby, who’s writing in a notebook. I’m a nosey parker, so my eyes wander down to what he’s reading.

At best, it appears to be a collection of rather violent sexual fantasies against women. At worst, it’s some sort of “rape diary,” saying what he’s done to people.

Stunned, I continue reading. He’s basically writing down what he hopes to do to a girl he knows that night. It’s pretty grim stuff. I don’t know what to do – confront him? But I’m reading his diary, it’s not very polite. But then politeness is not exactly the most important thing here, is it? Pull the cord and tell the driver? Tell the driver what – a guy is writing bad stuff in a book?

Of course, I did nothing. He got off a couple of stops before me and I kept a wary eye on the newspapers for a couple of days just in case, but didn’t hear anything out of the ordinary. But, still, I have no idea what I should have done - my conscience isn't clear over this one - and I wish I’d never cast my eyes downwards in the first place.

--

The second is spookily similar in a way. On the tube again, in around 2003. Old guy gets on, image of the dapper city gent. Suit, hat, coat and tie – and a leather briefcase, from which he took a Times and began to read.

Normally, I’d have thought nothing of it – but there was something odd about him that caught my eye and led me to peek over. Gradually, a series of strange details filtered through – his nails were too long, and his hands kind of unkempt, and his skin a little battered. And his suit, while a smart (if old school) cut, actually looks a little stained somehow.

And then I noticed what was really wrong – the paper was indeed the Times, but from 1984 – a good 20-odd years ago. But it looked like it had been neatly folded up every day – even ironed, maybe – and placed in the briefcase.

The icing on the cake of all this weirdness was that I then saw that the guy wasn’t actually reading the paper at all. His head was moving far too fast, and he was basically just moving his head up and down, pretending he was taking stuff in, and then turning the pages.

He noticed me looking at him, and I turned away in embarrassment, and got off soon after anyway. But I’ve never been able to get him out of my mind – why that paper? And why dress up every day, and ride the tube?

It was a little like the film Falling Down, but I swear it happened. I’d love to know why, but I never will.

Apologies for length. Imagine you’re on British Rail.
(silencer, Thu 29 May 2008, 20:05, Reply)

Oh! Oh! Oh! I have 2!
First was on the Northern Line coming back home from work one evening. I was even coming straight home in the heighth of rush hour, so there must have been plenty of witnesses.

Anyway, this fairly respectable looking guy gets on and sits next to me. You know the sort. Suit. Briefcase. Fairly straight looking kinda fella, I thought. So I duly (because it's still the tube) bury my head in my book and think nothing more of it. Until 2 minutes later, when I notice out of the corner of my eye that he's opened up his briefcase, pulled out a jazz mag and is happily browsing through pictures of ladies' boobies and bits. It wasn't anything classy either - something at the lower-rent end of the rythm magazine market - Fiesta, or Razzle or somesuch. As luck would have it he didn't actually bang one out, but he was definitely shuffling suspiciously in his seat.

The second one was on the number 1 bus in Basingstoke, from the big Sainsburys to the Bus Station. I was sat merrily making my way home (I'd upgraded by then from book to laptop) writing a bit of code and generally filling the 2 1/2 hour journey home with somethng engaging when I heard an almighty scream from the teenage girls who were sat at the back of the bus.

It would seem that someone had left a deer's head in a carrier bag at the back. WTF? A friggin' DEER'S HEAD. A HEAD! FROM A DEER! Looked pretty rfesh as well. The eyes hadn't started clouding over, and some of the blood around where it had been severed still hadn't had a chance to congeal.

Haven't a clue what it was doing there, but I'm sure someone was gutted when they got home and discovered that they'd left their deer's head on the bus.

Now I drive to work. Which is far less eventful.
(Benjimawoo, Thu 29 May 2008, 19:40, 3 replies)

On a suburban train from Kings Cross...
.. in a crowded carriage, an old indian man got on, sat in the only available seat next to me and treated us all over the proceeding hour, to a veritable opera of flatulence the like of which I have not heard before or since.

The smell was a primeval fug that enveloped the atmosphere in the carriage and left us gasping for air. Initially I thought he might have a rotting fish in his coat, but a loud rasping fart (which he lifted one of his cheeks to facilitate the exit of) clinched it for us.

The oddest thing was not one of us mentioned it to him. By the time we reached Bounds Green the feculent smell was so bad and pervasive I wanted to ask him if he required a spare set of undercrackers.
(Vic Flange, Thu 29 May 2008, 19:31, Reply)

China...
China. The third largest country in the world, home to over a billion people. Despite being the second largest economy in the world, most Chinese people are too poor to afford cars (less than 20% of people have them). So long-distance travel is done by train or by bus.
These services can vary wildly.

The nicest train I have ever been on was in China, the Tourist Train from Ji'nan to Qingdao (an ex-German occupied city which still produces China's finest lager). This was a double-decker train (!), virtually empty, with an extremely attractive Chinese girl pushing a trolley up and down the train selling cool lagers. Heaven.
Mistakenly, me and my Aussie travelling buddy Robert hoped all transport would be like this during our trip.

A bit of travel round China later, we faced a dilemna: how to get from Xi'an (home to the Terracotta Warriors & generally wonderful city) to Shanghai. This is 600 miles.
We opt for a train journey again. It was fun last time, right?

So the day before we plan to leave we buy tickets, reserve seats, etc. The station is large, mainly empty and very pleasant. It even has a bookstore selling English books- I pick up several, including Heart of Darkness.

The next day we arrive at the station half an hour early to find it full over people. Seriously full. Not just Kings-Cross-At-Rush-Hour full. FULL. And no-one is moving.
But we try anyway. By this time the veneer of Western civilisation has been stripped away from us, the concept of fair game and queuing no-longer exist in our minds. We have a goal: the train. We have tools: superior height, combined with bags and elbows. So we employ our advantages, mercilessly crushing all in our path.
And, amazingly, in the following half an hour we actually get to our platform, and see our train. In fact, we are just in time to see it pull away.

Fuckbuckets.

Luckily, my handy Aussie pal Robert speaks fragmentary Chinese. After a brief hour-long argument, he procures us a refund. Meanwhile, I have been perusing the Lonely Planet, and have had A Cunning Plan.
The sleeper bus! A brief 15 hour trip, and we could be in Shanghai! And it's a bus, with beds! What a wonderful idea!

The next afternoon, we arrive at the bus station, and meet our new carriage. It's quite as perfect as in my mind.
The beds are bunk beds, both 50cm wide by 100cm long- not as spacious as I imagined, and rather difficult to fit my 6'2" frame plus huge rucksack into. At least we're both lanky.
There are three rows of bunks in this odd vehicle, two along the sides and one down the middle. We opt for the window- me on the top bunk, my friend below.

And so begins hell.

There are simply Too Many People in too small a space. Let alone the fact that these are Chinese people, and there's a culture of spitting. We are subjected to a constant barrage of noise- farting, burping, spitting, sniffing, scratching, screaming children...
It's even worse for Robert, as the lower bunks are routinuely used as seats by people even when occupied. He's suffocated several times.
I hide in my bunk, trying to ignore everyone and reading Heart of Darkness.

This was a very apt choice of book. As it goes on, the lead character's contempt for the natives becomes stronger and stronger, becoming a burning hatred of their whole race. I know how he felt.

There is also no edible food. We stop twice at petrol stations with horrible attached cafes, but the food is less stir-fried and more oil-boiled, and made of never-fresh veg and slimey lumps of tofu.

The loo on the bus is a hole in the ground, in common with most loos in China. This one is a tad more dangerous tho- it's an actual hole in the bottom of the bus, with the road rushing beneath you. To stop people falling in, it's a very small hole. Balancing over the hole whilst the bus is bumping around and trying to shit is not an easy task- as the floor of the small loo cubical's covering of shit and piss proves.
I use it once, and then try not to think about it. The smell makes this difficult.

The bus has entertainment- a constant supply of Jackie Chan films on a small tv up near the front, in Chinese with no subtitles. These are fun for an hour or two, then tedious, then incredibly fucking repetitive, and then you go mad.

Oh well, I think, as I try to sleep. At least we'll be in Shanghai by morning.

Except we weren't. The time of arrival comes and goes, and poor Robert goes increasingly mad trying to make the angry hag steward tell us why we're not there yet, and when we will be there. This is amusing for a couple of hours, and then becomes deeply worrying. Will the journey never end? Are we heading to the right place? Why the delay?

Eventually, after a 30 hour trip (twice the advertised time!) we arrive. Our leg muscles barely work as we've only had a two chances to use them during the journey, we've had very little sleep, and we both have a deep burning hatred of the Chinese. But at least the trip is over.

The Horror! The Horror!

(Robert's version of this tale can be found at www.thebackpacker.net/travelstory/5250_xian_story.htm, or google "sleeper bus china")

I would apologise for length, but now you know how I felt...
(bunni, Thu 29 May 2008, 19:28, 2 replies)

Don't Bother Believing Me, No One Else Does.....
Not so much traumatic as just plain fucking weird. Once, on an early morning bus on the way to university, we drove past a man twenty foot up a ladder fixing the roof of his house. A totally normal scene apart from the fact that, I swear to god, he was wearing a two foot high, black, pointy witch's hat and going about his business like it weren't no thang.

I also was sure I once saw a destination sign on the front of a bus reading "19 - HEDGEHOG" but I may have been slightly drunk so am less willing to swear it on the lives of family members.
( Gleeballs is mostly made out of chocolate and hate., Thu 29 May 2008, 19:24, 3 replies)

Tramp Tennis
To play this fun game, you need two people equally blessed with tramp attracting powers, a gentleman of the road, and a relatively empty platform or train carriage.

The two players take up positions some distance apart and attempt to keep the tramp (or nutter or fag poncing chav, whatever) wandering back and forth without any obvious invitation to one player or the other.

It's harder than it sounds and slightly more fun than the average Monday morning journey to work on the eastern end of the District Line.

Top score so far is a five way rally.
( speedyballbangpots, Thu 29 May 2008, 19:22, Reply)

bit of a lather
I was seeing a fella for some no-strings-attached action. Having spent the weekend delightfully working our way through several sets of bed sheets, a variety of dodgier-looking household utensils and a giant bottle of Astroglide, he left to get the next train home.

He texted later to say there was a slight problem. It seems that, not wanting the weekend to end, he'd nipped into the train toilets for a quick wank. He there found out that cheap liquid train toilet soap does not a good lube make. Still, no harm done - once the swelling had gone down and the rash had subsided and the burning had stopped and his skin grew back.
( crackhouseceilidhband Fuck off back to Mumsnet, Thu 29 May 2008, 19:17, 3 replies)

Paris in the Summer
German tourists everywhere. Everywhere but the showers of their hotels, it seems. Hot summer days. Crowded trains. Crowded trains full of unwashed, loudly talking Germans, seemingly always accompanied by herds of small blond children. No, we'll wait for the next train. . .okay, maybe the one after this. . .shit, we're going to be here all night, aren't we?


All. Fucking. Summer. Long.
(louveciennes , Volvospotter, Thu 29 May 2008, 19:17, 2 replies)