Having read the first 5 pages...
I'm so glad that pre-driving licence, I'd rather hitchhike than use public transport...that or I've been so traumatised by some experience I've managed to block it out.
( snee held his breath since, Fri 30 May 2008, 12:38, Reply)

Ouch!
My worst public transport experience happened when I was on my way home from school when I was about 12. Whilst waiting for the bus, I somehow ended up in the situation where the bus ran over my foot.

What made it worse was:
*It stopped on my foot for about ten seconds.
*It was an almost full double-decker.
*It happened in front of half the school... and they never let me forget about it until I left.

Somehow my foot was not broken, just severly bruised. When my Mum arrived at the hospital (after obviously making sure my foot was not squashed to pate) she was more concerned about the fact I hadn't washed my feet for days rather than my accident.

To this day, my left foot is slightly flatter.
(hit me with your jesus stick, Fri 30 May 2008, 12:38, Reply)

Last Thursday
The 8.15pm from Paddington. Coach C.

I was the redhead in the flappy leather coat drinking some orange juice and reading something profoundly intellectual.

You were the guy with the mad afro and the laptop, and the mp3 player, and the DVDs.

You sat down beside me, asked me to look after your stuff, came back with a coffee and some hot and smelly food, put in your earphones, turned on your comedy DVD, sat back, AND THEN LAUGHED AND SANG ALONG FOR THE NEXT ONE AND A HALF HOURS.

I'd just like to say this:
You're a cunt.

( crackhouseceilidhband Fuck off back to Mumsnet, Fri 30 May 2008, 12:20, 3 replies)

Polish Public Transport = FUN!
Back in feb the missus and I went over to Poland so I could go and meet the family and drink too much. During the week we stayed with the family in Chestohova, and on the weekend we weekend we decided to go to Krakow for a romantic, post valentine's day break.

We left the house at about 4am to get the 5am train and it was snowing a bit but nothing too mental.

We got on the train and settled down for the 2 and a bit hour journey to Krakow. As we sat there trying to get comfy on what was literally a converted cattle carriage was proving difficult, but we chucked some more layers on and tried to make the most of it. After a while we noticed that it was getting really, really cold, but we thought nothing of it and managed to have a little nap.

Upon waking up I opened my eyes and was greeted by pristine white snow drifts all around us. Literally all around us. The snow had somehow come into the train and been blown into the carriage and so we ended up with about 6 inches of snow on the floor 3 inches on us and about a foot in between the carriages. What amazed me was the fact that nobody batted an eyelid at this. And the train got in on time, no fuss at all.

So, more a surreal experience than traumatic (I'd say traumatic would be on the journey back when I was threatened by a polish copper for not putting my fag end in the bin - and me not knowing a word of Polish apart from "I love you", "beer", "sandwich", "please" and "thank you").
(beninator, Fri 30 May 2008, 12:20, 1 reply)

Germ Vans
I'm gonna start at the beginning, as i have had many years of Poverty Wagon experience and it hasn't all been good, in fact it can be very fucked up....as you all know.

When in primary school i lived on a council estate, one of its more colourful characters was a psycho called 'Man McGinn' who was going out with/buggering local single mum, 'Linda Lookback' on account of her twitch. On the bus and there is Man McGinn with the 5 year old step-daughter. She is bouncing about like 5 year old do, nothing outrageous. However, McGinn quickly tires of this and shouts loud enough so everyone can hear, "Sit on yer cunt". Shocking even by 1981 standards.

Fast forward many years, and i am on the top deck of the bus heading home on a Friday, 6pm or so. I am reading a book and drinking a hoegaarden. 3, VERY drunk wide-o's get on and the drunkest sits in front of me and his pals beside me. He immediately turns round and asks me if i want a can, they have a cargo as well. I refuse and show him my beer, and say thanks anyway. This refusal must have piqued some remote part of his brain and i can see the machinations behind his eyes. He is getting annoyed, starts asking me who I am and all that sort of 'prelude to a fight' stuff. His pals look at me with sympathy, the twat has probably been baiting other folk for most of teh afternoon and they are now tired of his antics. They tell him to shut up, that i am a 'good guy' and he should just drink his can and chill out, the usual patter. He does chill out for a few minutes, then starts back down the path of potential violence, then is calmed down by his pals, then starts again...I really should have got the fuck down to the bottom deck, but i felt he was more mouth than anything. The he states that he is in fact 'gonna stab you tay fuck', i kinda laugh as do his pals. the he gets up on his drunken legs, bus rocking and reaches into his 'Benzini' jacket, his pal stands up and suggests that i just go down the stairs, for my own good. I do. But not before he threatens me and bit more, incoherent and pathetic. One good kick and the cunt would have been down... Anyway...it was a long journey and very tense at that.

A very positive one was after a night out in Manchester me and Mrs Cancer Joy got the coach back to Nottingham, where we went up the back and proceeded to fuck and suck our way home..Looking out for lorry drivers coming alongside was the only distraction. Mildly uncomfortable, but a good way to pass the time.

On the train this time, i had missed my usual commuter special and was getting one an hour later. The train was MUCH quieter and i sat at the bottom of a carriage, which was basically empty. This young ned sits right across from me, smiles and attempts to start a conversation. I assumed his goal was to beg for money or offer me chav-sex. He barely got the first words of his sentence out, when i simply got up and walked into another carriage. I sat with my back to normal looking guy who was facing me and started reading my paper. It's not long before he starts talking to himself...fuck it, no problem i think. He starts getting more and more agitated, moving onto shouting and threats, aimed at me, his reflection, elves, who fucking knows. I turn round an tell hi to calm the fuck down, he pathetically claims he is sorry and does look pretty wretched....Its then the carriage door opens and in walks the most unconvincing tranny you ever did see, replete with stubble and ill fitting wig. Fucking hell, whats was this, the spakkers special. Shouting boy then starts up again and i decide to face him, this shuts him up a bit, you dont really keep your back to a fuck up like that.

There are more, but i will have to get some reggression therapy to extract them.

Length - about 27m
Speed - 60mph
(Cancer Joy was short lived, Fri 30 May 2008, 12:14, 1 reply)

German Public Transport...
Many moons ago, I was fortunate enough to live in the German city of Munich. Well, technically, a reasonable sized 'dorf' outside of Munich, a little place called Gauting. It was a lovely idyllic little town, with a nice little railway station which linked it to the City - part of the "S-Bahn" infrastructure. Almost identical to the tube system, but mostly overground, until you reach Munich proper.

Munich, renowned as a City of great culture, and Beer. The Oktoberfest rolls into town every year, at the last two weeks of September, and the first couple of days of Oktober. The breweries bring out the special beer, and drunkness descends upon the city.

It's worth a visit. You've not lived until you've seen a city get pissed en masse, and peacefully at that.

Anyway, during my yearly pilgrimage to the alter of beery drunken-ness, it would entail complete reliance upon the efficient, cheap, German public transport system. This was always flawless on the way to the 'fest.

I should probably share one of my problems with you now. I'm a sympathetic vomiter. The sight, smell, or sound of barf, and I begin my own technicolour wonder-yawn.

Imagine the Scene - Young Ryushin leaves the HB Haus (one of the larger beer tents, popular with the tourists and english speaking crowd), pleasantly steaming, and walks, mostly sideways, back to the S-Bahn station to get back on the last train out of Munich. As this is the last train, it's heaving. Being the end of September in Munich, it's also Hot.

It began almost as soon as I got on the train. The stench of sick, as people had liberally thrown up on the train throughout the evening. I tried, in vain, to block it out by breathing through my mouth. I noticed that some other people were starting to go a little green in the face. Then, from the back:

"Hngrrrl.... Hukk.... BAAAARF!!" - Oh fuck.

The distinctive sound that spew makes as it hits the ground rang through the carridge, and the passangers began to swell towards the exit door and the next carridge, hoping to avoid the puddle of barf ebbing towards their feet.

Being caught up in the throng, I had no choice but to move with them, being pushed away, whilst choking down my own bile.

The carridge we moved into was already crowded, and someone had done the same in there.

And the next carridge, and the next one....

Every. Single. Carridge.

Puke on the walls, seats, floor. People being actively sick amid the layer of stale puke in the train. The September heat making the stench unbearable.

Amid all this, I had moved into the dangerous territory of Just-about-to-cry-huey. I looked at the people stood around me, a mute pleading in my eyes as I felt the first wave move towards its final destination: The train floor. Fortunately, they were smart, and I was rapidly moved to the outer edge of the crowd, near one of the larger puddles of vom, and there, I hurled. I hurled, and hurled, and once more for good luck. I threw up my toe-nails. I threw up meals I hadn't eaten yet.

I then had to spend 20 minutes dry-retching on a train, amid looks from passengers of equal parts sympathy and disgust, until I arrived at my train station, and got out.

Fresh air never tasted so good.

Apologies for length, but my right hand has never once complained.
(Ryushin, Fri 30 May 2008, 12:09, 1 reply)

7 hour clench
Last year I had the joy of going over to lovely Kazakhstan for various IT related tasks which I won't bore you with here. First two trips fine, last trip not so fine.

The day before I left the site my body decides it's had enough of the tasty food and forces me into a horrific night of stomach cramps (not fun for a Crohns sufferer), bum clenching, and lots of swearing and praying. Knowing I had a 7 hour flight ahead of me, I elected not to eat (or drink until I got home).

Once on the flight, everything seemed fine, no cramps, so I relaxed and had some food as I was feeling light headed...this was to prove a school boy error. Within minutes my body rejected the food and attempted to pass it through my intestines like it was soaked in Daves Insanity Sauce. As the flight was as ever filled with workers, and had decided to take off with only two working toilets, my choices were to stand in the queue constantly for 7 hours, or try and wait it out. I elected to sit where I was, reasoning that if I didn't move, then my intestines would be fooled into thinking I was dead, and would stop gurgling like a volcano. For 7 hours I sweated, hulcinated, and watched as time started to slow and the final hour became a week long slog before we landed.

The waddle to the toilets at Schiphol was interesting, mainly as people stared at the sweaty, 6-foot man walked as fast as his bum clenching allowed. The relief was awesome, as was watching a cleaner going in 10 minutes later to close that cubicle for anyones elses use.
(R4MP4G3, Fri 30 May 2008, 12:07, Reply)

On the plane
Did I tell you about the time I was flying long haul from South Africa to London on BA? Well somewhere over the Congo about 22 000ft up I noticed a kerfuffle behind me. It was lights out time and a man had summoned the stewardess and they were having an animated conversation. Then I noticed it on the floor....A perfectly formed log of poo. It was rolling around with the gentle movement of the plane and had somehow made it's own way down the aisle without being disturbed.

Cue a heated discussion in the galley over who was going to clean it up which finally resulted in a pretty blonde thing arriving with massive rubber gloves and a tissue. That is officially the closest I've ever got to a scat experience&I'm happy to report I didn't get turned on. Yaaa, I'm not a weirdo.
(The Archduke of South London I'm in your Girlfriend eating her organs, Fri 30 May 2008, 11:57, Reply)

Perhaps you'll understand me if I kick your feet off?
January 2004. I had spent 3 incredible weeks travelling round North East Brazil. My skin was a brown colour that had otherwise been alien to me, my spirit was calm, I felt rested and relaxed and all was good in my world. The 8 hour delay to my flight from Salvador to Lisbon had failed to annoy me. I was to be taking the flight alone, while the remainder of my party jetted off to a luxury island resort off the coast of Salvador, but this didn't bother me in the least bit. I'm far too relaxed and calm to be wound up by such petty things.

A night spent in an expensive hotel courtesy of TAP was a refreshing change from the accommodation I'd enjoyed the past 3 weeks and I boarded my flight with that mixture of sadness and relief that often accompanies the end of a holiday. I settled into my seat, which was unfortunately distant from the pretty girl I'd been chatting to in the airport, and began to look forward to returning to blighty.

This is where the problems began. As I assessed my fellow passengers I quickly became aware that I was surrounded by the most miserable looking bunch of teenagers ever to grace the skies. It was as though I'd inadvertently volunteered to judge the Portuguese 'Best Impression of Harry Enfield's Kevin' competition. I quickly identified the winner; he was the last one I noticed, but as soon as he brought himself to my attention, it was clear that he was a expert and wanted to make sure I knew this too.

It began with an occasional and gentle tapping at the base of my seat. This was followed by some particularly unpleasant whining sounds emitted from his stupid face. The tapping on my seat soon intensified in both force and rapidity while the whining followed suit and I was moved to turn and politely request a halt to it. Kevinho obliged initially, but wasn't to be put off so easily and within half an hour it began once more. Again I turned and politely suggested that he might like to reconsider his unwanted assault on my senses and again he agreed, albeit with a surly harrumph.

Thinking I'd won not only the battle, but the war as well, I allowed myself to drift off into a satisfied slumber, with thoughts of a happy holiday tumbling about my mind. Of course I was wrong; I was jolted out of my sleep by a solid boot to the base of my spine, which continued with machine gun like consistency until I leapt from my seat, made myself appear as big as possible (not easy when you're only 5ft 6), raised my hand as though to strike him with the back of it, and shouted that if he was to continue then I would kick him about the aircraft until his parents couldn't recognise him any longer. I don't think he spoke any English, but he clearly understood the sentiment and didn't kick my chair again. In fact, he was really rather quiet for the remainder of the flight.

I don't think I've ever threatened violence in such a manner before, and certainly haven't since, but it seemed to work at the time, and I'm glad it did as I didn't fancy being whisked away to a Portuguese prison upon my arrival in Lisbon.
( Moey, Fri 30 May 2008, 11:54, Reply)

Stansted Airport
Being poor and stingy, I once had to spend the night in Stansted Airport before my connecting flight home the next morning.

Hellish. Freezing, noisy, nothing open except the main doors through which an icy wind howled, full of freaks and cleaners and cleaners who were freaks.

That was not the ignominy, no. Worst of all was the fact that the only thing I could find to keep myself warm was a copy of the Daily Mail. The Daily feckin' Mail. How can anyone sleep comfortably wrapped in that?
( crackhouseceilidhband Fuck off back to Mumsnet, Fri 30 May 2008, 11:51, 15 replies)

Tube Perv
About 15 years ago I was on the tube coming home from work and on a packed tube I sat down next to a man in a suit who was busy with something in his briefcase that was open on his lap. Its probably worth saying that I was wearing a mid thigh length skirt. After about 5 minutes I felt something warm and sticky on my leg and to my disgust saw that the man sitting next to me had just ejaculated on my leg.
(Smumps, Fri 30 May 2008, 11:50, 7 replies)

Peter Wingle
Was once sat on a train going from Euston to Stafford. Sat oposite me was a Liverpudlian man in a suit.

He was making lots of phonecalls, and at the start of each one he would annouce "Alright, mate? It's Peter Wingle here . . . " Every time. And for some reason I found the sound of his name hilarious. Still do. Try saying it to yourself over and over: "Peter Wingle, Peter Wingle, Peter Wingle. . . "

Halfway into the journey I was having serious problems keeping a straight face. Giggles kept erupting from me every time he said his name. I was reduced to stuffing my hand into my mouth and breathing heavily, which may have looked a little odd.

Is it me? Is there something intrinsically funny about the name, or am I strange?
(MrC. Having the most boring username on b3ta since 2004, Fri 30 May 2008, 11:49, 4 replies)

On his way to Wimbledon common
As I have mentioned in a previous QOTW, before I was the legal age to work in a pub I used to work at Meadowhell selling cookies to moronic prats who decided to do nothing better than spend every single weekend hanging around the place.

Anywhoo I used to get the train into work and as it is with all trains in the region they were usually decrepid, any repairs were done with a mixture of chewing gum and crackerbread.There was an exception though as a few times a day there was the Barnsley to London train. The London one was well kept and didn't smell of a mixture of piss, Lynx deoderant and Mad Dog 20/ 20. Why a london service ever came to Barnsley was always a mystery to me as most people that live in the Barnsley class anyone who dosent live in their village a foreigner.

One day I managed to get into the station and make it to the London one and settled myself down across from a couple of Barnsleys finest (The kind of person that has an accent so regional only people that live on the same side of the street as them would understand what they were on about, I was sure that they must have stored their flat cap and whippett somewhere because that was all they were lacking).

As the train pulled into the first station (Wombwell) the train driver or conductor (Whoever uses the tannoy ) announced "Ladies and gentlemen we have arrived in Womble" and cut the mike off just as he started to piss himself laughing. The two Barnsley blokes opposite took offence of this (and I quote) Southern Poof laughing at something he knew nothing about (it should have been pronounced wum well) and wether to go sort him out.

I however had buried my head in my hands laughing. I wasnt laughing at the two locals who were having the "Barnsley Vs the world" rant (a typical thing that happens around here with the more chavvy barnsleyites), I was laughing at the person getting on the train dressed in an Orinoco costume (I don't know my Wombles, but he was dressed as the one with the red hat).

Made my day that did.
(mon bison powered by magnets, Fri 30 May 2008, 11:49, Reply)

lucky number nine
anyone familiar with the number nine bus service will know how notorious it is. it goes from one side of town to the other side of town, through two of the worst estates and on either route, there will be a group of thuggish looking blokes with their girlfriends draped across their laps, going in or out of town.

if i wanted to get to college, this was the bus.

one day, the group of blokes wander down to the front of the bus before their stop and discover the wonder of the bell. they start hitting it and sniggering to themselves.

"would you stop that please?"

id not seen this driver before. he was obviously a bit new to the number nine service. the best policy is for the drivers to ignore whatever the passengers do. i mean, they have a screen in front of them which makes them minimally safer than the other passengers but its pretty flimsy looking. the driver looks straight ahead but has gritted his teeth.

well, it is only 8 in the morning.

the blokes grin at one another and continue to bash away at the bell.

"i said, would you please stop that? i need to drive the bus.'

bing bing bing bing

clearly this was too much for our driver who'd been pushed over the brink. he'd accelerated so that anyone standing up had to lunge and grab onto a pole. then we went past the stop the blokes had been getting off at and started hurtling down the road.

"right!"

everyone sits up alarmed. we have gone past about five of the stops. iv just seen my own go past.

enter the most doddery looking old lady ever.

"excuse me laddy. you've just gone past my stop. can you stop please?"

the driver is seething. he's fixed on the road ahead and clutching onto the wheel with his teeth clenched. clearly a nerve has snapped somewhere. he's lost to the world. when the little old lady wobbles her way to the front of the bus, he whirls around and snarls at her.

'SIT DOWN. THE BUS IS NOT STOPPING.'

the old lady flinches. other people have started clambering down to the front of the bus by now but everyone stops their tracks. even the group of blokes hold their breath. they had the shred of decency in their souls where you know that under no circumstances are you allowed to shout at little old ladies. this one is particularly elderly and small. she had a shawl. she looked like a grandmotherly old lady. you could tell a couple of people were about to explode at the driver.

then the old lady draws herself up and goes in an impressively authoritative tone of voice, one that puts dread in the heart of any five-year-old "young man, stop the bus THIS INSTANT."

you could see the driver was surprised. but lost in his own madness, he stamped on the brake turned around and screamed at everyone "THAT'S IT! GET OFF THE BUS. EVERYONE GET OFF THE BUS!"

by now, we'd nearly reached the end of the line but you could tell a couple of slightly reluctant people had not reached the right stop yet. no one wanted to stay on the bus with the driver though. their numbers would had gone down and as the driver was not above a small scale kidnapping, the risk was not worth it. the blokes who'd been ringing the bell in the first place mooched about the stop angrily as they now faced an intrepid expedition back to their actual stop, making buying their tickets in the first place pointless.

as we all started plodding down the road, i got caught behind the old woman who turned to her friend, shook her head sagely and said "I don't know, Dorreen. the buses aren't what they used to be."

NB: not sure what tense i was going for in this post. ignore the flipping back and forth.
(ladyintheradiator, Fri 30 May 2008, 11:48, Reply)

I was on Eurostar
when it broke down for 24 hours. When I was 14. What is the best thing to hand out to two 14 year old girls, on their own?

Yup, bottles of red wine, and no food. For free.

Cue copious amounts of sick and me living in the toilet for a few hours.

We were then taken back to Lille to spend the night, where we were refused first dibs on the coaches because it was "parents and children first". Despite the fact that the other "children" were the same age as us, because we were parentless. So another few hours on our own, at 4 in the morning.


We never even got compensation.
( Madam Marlboro wonders if you've found her yet, Fri 30 May 2008, 11:47, Reply)

A few things.....
3 stories spring to mind for me, though not as traumatic as some of the others i've read here, but anyways, 1 of them would be strange from anyone else's POV, another irritating, and another was torture.

The strange one first:
I had journeyed from canterbury to gillingham to spend the day with my (at the time, our realtionship has since come to an end, dammit....) gf, anyways, it ended up with me having to take a late train back to canterbury (10:30-ish pm if i remember right....) anyways her dad kindly gives me a lift down to the station, knowing i was on a bound to end the day on a high note, as i made to get out of the car (cut me some slack people, this was my first relationship and as a result was still kinda nervous about it plus i was head-over-heels in love with her) so just before i get out of the car, i turn around to her and say "night my princess, i love you" and we hold hands for a few seconds and for the first time ever all my worries in life vanished, leaving me feeling incredible. Anyways, I then get on the train not long after and find myself a seat, the euphoria of what just happened hitting me in full force, i was slumped in my seat with my eyes watering, anyone who set eyes on me on that train probably thought i was high as a kite or a very close approximation.

The irritating one:
Another time me and my best mate from uni were both getting the bus from canterbury to deal to have a good ol' drinkup with a friend of ours as it was his birthday, so we get on the bus, chossing to sit right at the back as at the time it offered the most space. A few stops down the line, the bus is now somewhat more crowded than when it set off from canterbury, so cue a (very soon to turn out) family seating themselves on the seats around us. Off the bus goes, cue the stereotypical uber-noisy kids who won't shut the hell up. Thankfully that bunch of genetic party favours people these days call a family got off eventually, although it did leave my head pounding afterwards.

The torture experience:
The day after the drinkup, which took place that previous evening and culminated in me getting blitzed out of my brains as a result of downing a sizeable amount of a bottle of whiskey and of rum, not to mention a big bottle and a half of smirnoff ice and a few beers on the side as a result of a hefty game of fu-bar (and i swear the bastards rigged the deck but i digress). The result of me downing all of that was me almost pushing my best mate out of our friend's living room window (which was on the 2nd floor as it was a flat) scaring their dog (i swear they fed that thing nothing but pure, refined crack as it was permently hyper but i digress) and our friend's gf to the point that they both barricaded themselves in the bedroom (off on a random tangent again, prior to these violent events i did discover that i can play darts whilst heavily under the influence as hit the bull on my first shot). Anyways the shock of what I did soon hit home and that screwed me up good and proper, but enough of that, fast forward a few hours and i was (trying) to sleep on the sofa but this was hampered by a number of things, firstly still being in shock from what i did earlier, secondly now realising i was extremely hungry and thirdly their idiot-fucking-titty-bumwank busted answering machine that would switch itself on and off every few minutes. Having had enough of this, myself and my mate decide to take the earliest possible bus back to canterbury, which was at about 6:30am. What I neglected to realise was that this bus didn't go straight back to canterbury like our outgoing bus had been, this one was heading for dover and who knows where. All too soon the effects of last nights piss up were taking their toll on me and I was feeling a tad queasy, that coupled with the fatigue of a sleepless night and a headache as a result of the answering machine made me feel like utter shit, so from the start I knew I was in for a tough ride home. So most of the jounry home was spent trying not to throw up whilt feeling lousy all the way back. Somehow I managed to never throw up from all that booze which I thought a miracle but that none too smooth bus journey back was nothing short of torture for me.

Apologies for what probably seems like a rant but I felt I had to go into slightly deeper detail on certain things.

Length? The relationship - a little over 2 months, the outgoing bus journey - about 90mins, the bus journy back - about 2 and a half hours
(Howling_Mad Gave God the finger on:, Fri 30 May 2008, 11:47, 2 replies)

just this morning actually
the Barcelona subway system, while efficient and very regular, is also notorious for both its stupid staff (ticket checkers who either - stand in the middle of a platform between two exits, or stand at one exit of a platform, leaving all the scum to stroll away out the other exit), and its breakdowns between stations. This morning, on returning to my office, I noticed the timer board state there was a break in the service between the station I am in, and another stop in the opposite direction. Which shouldn't really affect me. But, being incompetent, they have closed the platform I need, leaving the other platform (from the opposite direction) open - the direction with no service. Meaning I have to double back, and get a different line, to connect to the original line further on. Where I was stuck to the wall of the carriage by, on one side, and smelly tramp, in front of me, the largest sweatiest man you could ever see at 10am in the morning, and a lovely lady on the other side (which did make up for things, as the view was nice).

The subway is unfortunately my only means of transport, as I do not drive, and the buses don't have the same reach or regularity I need. I maybe posting more on this as the week goes by.
(bamboozled Can hear you getting fatter, Fri 30 May 2008, 11:34, Reply)

JEEEEEESUSLAND
Probably the worst public transport trauma I had was when I flew from Austin, Texas to Vancouver.

I was sitting down in the middle aisle seats and behind me was this crazily hirsute and clinically obese be-mulleted redneck-type chappie (stereotypes save so much time, n’est pas?) who kept on repeatedly muttering about how he hated flying and he wanted Jeeeesus to save him. I mentally christened him ‘Jeb’.

I could handle this initially but when he then started to whisper it through the gap between the seats into my ear. I got seriously freaked out and asked to change seats. Thankfully the air hostess was sympathetic to my plight and moved me across to the window aisle. Several other people started to do this as well and the hostess approached Jeb and asked him to please keep it down and he was disturbing the other passengers.

Jeb didn’t take this very well.

Jeb stood up and grabbed the hostess by the throat and started to shout what he had previously been whispering.

Several other hostesses and a steward (and me, but just so I could strategically rubberneck from a better position) ran towards him but this guy was really strong. He chucked the poor girl onto the floor, fended off the rest of the hostesses, and ran to the nearest exit and started to pull the levers to try to open the door. He was screaming how he wanted to get off the plane. In all probability he wasn’t thinking about what would happen if he depressurised the cabin (although I am sure that the exits are locked in flight anyway).

Everyone on the plane had craned their necks and was seriously freaked out until another steward ran over to Jeb and injected him with something. Jeb then collapsed and people started to drag him over to his seat. Everyone cheered. I asked the poor hostess what would happen to Jeb when we landed and the hostess didn’t bat an eyelid and said that most flights from Texas had at least one ‘screamer’ so they would just send him on his merry way with a warning not to do it again.

Welcome to Jesusland.
(powervator and NONE SHALL PASS, Fri 30 May 2008, 11:33, 1 reply)

Not my Nightmare, but definately someone elses.
Welcome to Sweden.

The Bus drivers in towns are sat low in the busses, and consider themselves to be "at one" with the traffic: bumping shoulders with cyclist very rarely.

They also run on time... but at rush hour there are pedestrians swarming all over the place with a "It's my legal right to walk here so I won't check for traffic" attitude to pedestrian crossings. This Attitude is potentially Fatal.

In this particular case the bus driver failed to notice the 50 year old woman disappear under his bus, and only stopped when people ran into the road to stop him.



Note the smeery line from the back... That's what happens when you wear through clothes.



To add insult to injury, when the driver stopped to open the door, the bus did what all of these busses do: Lowered it's suspension 150mm on one side...

As far as I know the lady survived, but was seriously injured.

ALWAYS CHECK WHEN YOU CROSS THE ROAD... Just because you're in a pedestrian crossing DOES NOT mean that you can walk without looking.

^^^^^^^ Scratch that.. the Gene-pool needs a little Chlorine. If you're one fo them, keep doing it: we don't need you anyway.
( Humpty Dumpty was Pushed Is unaware of having any limits., Fri 30 May 2008, 11:21, 9 replies)

Big smoke
I was traveling along to Welwyn garden city, to see a gig. (got in for free too!) When I got on i was fortunate enough to be in the same carriage as a group of pissheads.

They were being shouty, but as they didn't seem aggressive, and as I was more than likely to be on the return train in a similar state I didn't mind.

They got off en-masse at Stevanage. As the doors closed and they disappeared up the platform steps I heard one of them shout "we're in London!" followed by cheers.

Fucking rural types, how can they mistake this shit hole town for kings cross I muttered to myself and started on one of the many unopened stella cans they had graciously left behind.
( willenium Fist bump for verification, Fri 30 May 2008, 11:15, 1 reply)

The Vomit Comet...
Not me, but my dear ol' man this as I don't live on the country =)
Anyway, winkywankywoo the elder was up the city on business after having a bad dose of gastroentiritis, and had taken in unto himself to go for a rich meal in the Cinnamon Club - the old Westminster library as it was - and then hit the blind beggar just outside of Liverpool Street Station with his chums.
Anyway, as the fabled black stout is consumed, he's starting to feel somewhat uncomfortable of bowel, and by the time he boards the Vomit Comet from said station he's about to thunderously shit himself. So, down he hobbles to the khazi and voids himself to then discover that there's no bog roll. So, he has to use whatever he found down the bin in there to clean himself up. He does this, and realizes that he's shat all up the back of the toilet, tucks his shirt in and quietly sits down next to his his business partner who was wheezing like my nan's old hoover. An fellow business man who's jittering in the way someone who's had more liquid than solids for lunch goes into the toilet, and had obviously put his cromby in the ensuing filth - Business man comes back out, to which most of the train car look in disgust and a fellow traveller pipes up "Which dirty cunt has shit'emselves?"

Last train outta Liverpool street... Always good times.

Apologies for Length? Ha! I don't think so somehow....
(Mr. Cunt put the indy in kindy., Fri 30 May 2008, 11:15, Reply)

It's not the flying that scares me, it's the "smacking into a mountain at 500mph"
I've always been a bit of a late developer. I was 11 (1991) when we first had a VCR (I was socially ostracised at school for being the only kid in the class not to own one). It wasn't until just after my 21st birthday that I got to take my first flight abroad.

I didn't start out with a simple internal flight to another Britsh city, or even a short haul flight to the continent - no I decided to travel around the world and my first flight was Heathrow to Los Angeles - a marathon 11 hour flight. All good so far. Had awesome time in LA, met Cypress Hill in a bar and had my photo took in George Michael toilet! Good times!

From LA I flew to Rarotonga in the Cook Islands - an 8 hour flight with Air New Zealand. When we arrived at Rarotonga after a boring flight, it was 3am, 21c and I could see the palm trees and hear the ocean. We were serenaded by a little man with a guitar and a girl gave me a flower whilst I was queuing to have my passport checked - certainly better than bloody US customs!!

We arrived at the hostel on Muri Lagoon at about 4am, and prompty went to bed; all uneventful except the shock of a large lizard in the toilets (bear in mind that Weymouth had been the most tropical destination in my life before!)

When we awoke and stumbled outside I couldn't believe where I was - tourquoise waters stretched out across the lagoon from the almost deserted white sands. Birds of paradise swooped over my head and palm trees swayed lazily; the occasional thud of a fresh coconut hitting the floor. The sort of place you only ever see on TV or in books. Paradise; and I was there. I had found my eutopia.

I met a few others from the hostel over a fresh fruit breakfast, including a bloke who lived not 5 minutes up the road from me!! The phrase "Small World" doesn't begin to cover it! and we sat and chatted in the warm sunshine. All stress and strain of my life had gone. I couldn't be happier.

Then the real world was brought back to me in a shocking manner...

A man, one of the islanders, can running up to us with a print out from the BBC Website; ears in his eyes. We crowded round this scrap of paper he had managed to get hold of. We read the headlines:

WORLD TRADE CENTRE HIT BY PLANES, HUNDREDS DEAD.

PENTAGON DESTROYED IN PLANE CRASH

You see I had flown on September 11th 2001. I had taken off from LA airport in the evening of the 10th but the time difference and the length of the flight meant the attack on the WTC had happened while we were in the air. All air traffic had been stopped but we were allowed to continue to our destination. I even have a passport stamp with "Sept 11th 2001" which I think is bloody rare considering only Air Force One were flying that day!

Whilst the man with the printout ran off to the next building, we crowded round the tiny TV in the hostel owner's shack watching BBC World Service - his wife and child watching us take the news in. Watching the reporters explain the horror that was unfolding in front of our very eyes, choking back the tears in some cases. The Austrian couple were in tears, the British were just silent. Absolute horror was going on and I am thousands of miles from home.

Then it struck me - nobody knows I'm here! They don't know my plane landed safely, or diverted or if I was still stuck in LA. I had to let people know I was ok. The only internet cafe in Muri was packed with travellers - flicking between the BBC site and emailing their loved ones. Once it was my turn on the terminal I let everyone know I was safe and carried on my travels as best as I could. Before I left for Fiji we attended a church service on the island where we prayed for the victims and the people still missing.

Although airports from then on were a nightmare - I had to explain my epilepsy tablets to the security at Fiji airport.

Once I reached Australia I had to take 2 flights. From Melbourne to Sydney where we were stuck in a holding pattern for 45 minutes, swooping over the sea in stormy weather while Quantas thought it would calm the passengers by playing the Titanic theme over the tannoy!! And from Sydney to Cairns, where on our descent into Cairns, the plane caught fire! Smoke billowing from one of the seals - the cabin crews' fixed grins were becoming more strained with beads of sweat appearing on their brows! Landed safely but my god I thought my number was up! Cheers Quantas!

Otherwise I fly pretty well - except when I was flying from Munich to Bristol in a tiny BA City Connect plane we were blown off course and the pilot had to do an emergency landing almost sideways!

Smell it I was sitting it!
( h3donist tryin' to play me out as if my name is Sega.., Fri 30 May 2008, 11:13, Reply)

heatwave
was it 2005? oh well, there were record breaking temperatures.


i thought i had what were flea bites on my arm. i kept scratching at them when i thought no one was looking and assumed that one of them had got trapped in my sleeve.

by the time we boarded the train at london liverpool street, the number and the size of the bite marks meant that ... this was no flea.

i was allergic.

my wrist then began to swell. not only did i want to scratch and bite at my wrist, it had begun to grow in size and my watch wasn't fitting round my skinny wrist anymore.

meanwhile, the heat had climbed to such a point that the tracks were dangerous. the train started moving at half its speed.

then, the air con broke.

my arm was three times its normal size, it was the kind of heat which makes it unbearable to move and we were inching our way verrry slowly along the track with people shoving their heads out of the windows and gasping.

then my brother started throwing up purple chunks of sick.

hurrah!
(ladyintheradiator, Fri 30 May 2008, 11:11, Reply)

Genocide
Many moons ago i used to live in the vibrant london suburb of wembley quite close to the old stadium in fact. The thing about wembley is that its very afro-carribean and very indian. Most of the caucasians that you met are from parts of eastern europe. Oh and the odd nz/oz/sa houseshare.
I used to reside on park lane if you know the area.


After a day out in london i caught the tube back to wembley park station . Normally i would walk back to the house unless a bus happened to be there as it was only about 5 stops along the road.

One day joy of joys a bus happened to be waiting at the stop across the road , so welgar thinks " Wont be walking today".
It was one of those small local busses that seat about 30 people. When i got on it was pretty full in fact there was only one spare seat so i took it near the back. I was the last person on anyway.

As chance would have it i was sat next to the only other caucasian on board , a man in his early thirties.

The bus gets going after going past the first two stops the man turns to me and says in a rarther loud voice "Yup . What we need is some ethnic cleansing around here!"

Ooh fuck everyone on the bus heard him including the driver. Did i mention that there were a couple of large angry looking Afro - caribbean types on board? Glancing up towards the front i caught a strange glint in the drivers eyes from his mirror

fuck
fuck
fuck

You could cut the tension with a knife. Threre were probably a couple on the bus anyway. Everyone had there eyes and ears on us and i was up next.

Dilema : Get torn to shreds by an angry mob for being a racist if i agree or get attacked by some nutter for being a paki lover.

Deep breath and ......



Ring the bell "Excuse me this is my stop" get off.
Wasnt my stop but close e-fucking-nuff.

I watched the bus disappear into the distance with the bigot still on it. He was either very brave or very stupid but a complete physco upon reflection. Wonder where he was released from?

I dont like busses anymore
(welgar, Fri 30 May 2008, 11:10, Reply)

When I die...
I want to go in my sleep like my Grandad.

Not screaming like all the passengers on the bus he was driving
(Fuckarma was masturbating into your handbag, Fri 30 May 2008, 11:10, 1 reply)

Not the worst

But one of the scariest. For almost a year, about a decade ago, I was commuting between York and Leeds; a nice easy train journey and no real problems most of the time, except the time it was so hot the signals all went haywire and I ended up travelling in a train quite like one of those rotisary ovens at the hot chicken counter at Tescos, but much more crowded and not so pleasant smelling, however...

One evening, after an early start and a late finish, I got onto my homebound train and found a nice window seat at a 'table for four' type seat. As I got comfy, got my book out and prepared to settle down to a 30 minute read, I glanced at the guy sat opposite me. He was an armed robber.

No question. He was about 6' 4" and built like a lock forward. He was in his late 40s/early 50s and he was wearing a denim jacket, his hair was grey, wavy and shoulder length, combed back from his face. His face was more ploughed than wrinkled, he looked like Sirrius Black's nasty older brother, he was scowling, but not actively scowling, more as if that was his natural expression. And oh, on the table in front of him was a huge sports bag which looked as if it was stuffed full of cash - no other way to describe it - over which his arms were draped, so that I could see the tatoos on his hands.

All of this I took in, in about one second. To say I didn't try to stare him out would be an understatement on the scale of saying something like a Formula One driver during a race didn't try to keep to the speed limit. I felt like Pip in the graveyard coming across Magwitch in the mist. So, I hastily dropped my eyes to my book and started to read...and the gentle rocking of the train eased my tired body, and the procession of words on the page made my eyes droop, and the warmth of the carriage made my tired body relax...

I woke suddenly and opened my eyes to find myself staring at 'the armed robber'. Went back to my book - don't fall asleep, don't fall asleep...don't...fall...asleeeeep........

Woke again, just outside York, packed away my book and shuffled out of my seat being careful not to tread on his feet. I feel I got off lightly somehow - I'm just glad I've never had to share a cell with him.
(Che Grimsdale Best before:, Fri 30 May 2008, 11:08, Reply)

The thrill of the daily commute (or how my mind works)
Check I've packed my sandwich and fruit in my bag, my wallet in my left pocket and mobile in the right. Ready to go. Walk down the stairs, get angry that the maintenance company still haven't sorted their shit out and gotten this stairwell clean. It's less than two years old and looks an absolute tip. What a pile of bollocks. Turn any lights off that have been left on. Why couldn't the guy who built the place just get timed light switches that you press once and turn off automatically. I wonder who's even paying the bill for the electricity in the hallway anyway. Another bulb gone, the electric's probably a bit dodgy in this building, not that I'd ever know. It'd be handy to have knowledge about stuff like that but I just really, really don't care. It's like wanting to learn another langu- Open the front door.

Fucking bin men have left the bins straddled across the path like an obstacle course again, bastards. Is this like some petty rebellion because I make their job more difficult. Why are those wooden chairs still there!? Can't someone phone the council to get them taken away? I'll have to get Bryony to do it or something.

I'll just pop the newspaper in the recycle bin. We've really got to get a separate bin, this hand-carrying of recyclable goods everyday is bloody annoying, especially as I'm the only one who does it. Saying that though there's so much that needs to be done to the flat... Best not to think about it.

No two steps can be on the same surface. Keeps me occupied till I get to the tube at least.

There's that old tramp again. He's one of the reasons I fear the summer. The idea of seeing him with his top off again and his matted silver jacket of hair is one I wouldn't miss too much. On the one hand I hate him for being there, everyday, with his trolley suitcase, on the other hand I wonder what the fuck his story is. He looks shabby, but not completely destitute. Anyway, probably best not to think about it too much.

Oh here we fucking go. 50 odd people at the pedestrian crossing and not one fucker has had the initiative to press the wait button. Since they've tilted the time balance in favour of traffic at these traffic lights, all we need is for them to only start ticking now. I'd fucking hate pedestrians here if I were a driver. I consider myself a pretty confident crosser when there's a gap, but these people are just taking the piss. Also, what's with people standing on the road!? Do they think that if they edge closer and closer that all cars will give up and just go "You win! On you go. I'll just abandon my car and we can all walk together hand in fucking hand"? Look at that bus about to pull off, he physically can't fit past. He's just gonna twat that guy in the face. Ooooh! That was close. The guy looks pissed now, haha. Well, if you will stand on the road, Sir Shitobot.

Finally I can cross. Why the fuck is everyone walking so slow. So many fucking people, and those bastards coming the other way can fuck right off. Not going towards the tube? Unemployed shitbrick, get out of my way. No I do not want a Metro thanks, although I'll actually verbalise my "no thank you" with a smile. That guy's just trying to make a living, no need to get arsey like some of these cunts just because he's trying to give something away for free, even if it is propaganda. I applied the same logic to those Scientologists the other day. Does that make me a better person? Does it fuck but at least I'm reducing the spread of negativity emanating from me.

Why is it that some people walk so slowly down stairs? I'm not talking about the elderly or someone who is physically disabled in any way, I'm talking about the woman who was walking at a reasonable pace back at the pelican crossing making a nice slipstream for me to capitalise on, but now she's strolling like she's at Kew fucking Gardens taking in the full splendour of nature. If that guy to my right picks up the pace, I can jump in the gap and get down these stairs 0.1 seconds quicker. It's not much but I'll feel better knowing I took the best path.

The ticket hall's rammed on the right with people stocking up their Oyster cards. Shit design that is. That lot could be siphoned off elsewhere, there's enough space. Instead they're just sprawling into the walkway like well-dressed extras from a George Romero film. Anyway, I'm past them now, time to make the most of the empty space behind them before deciding on the most efficient gate. Bollocks, I had to choose the girl with the dodgy Oyster card. Gonna have to be a cunt and cut through to the line for the gate next to me. Sorry! I learned a good lesson from my old boss that when acting like a cunt that way, just put a big grin on and below an apology in a loud voice and they'll end up either thinking you're simple or English isn't your first language and this is just some cultural difference. Either way, they'll be too confused to get too annoyed by it and by the time they work it out, you're gone.

The left escalator is always the best. I have no idea why. The right one is more in line with the less busy gates, so the gates where surely people who know where the fuck they want to go come from, yet it seems pretty consistent that the left escalator is the speedy one. A good display of unity here as everyone's walking down, not one bastard standing still, even on the right. I think the signs that say "stand on the right" are wrong. People shouldn't be encouraged to be lazy. The rules of the road should apply here. Right is the slow lane, left is the overtaking lane. That way, when some bastard starts strolling as though it were a hot summer’s Sunday on the left, I wouldn't have to bite my lip and try to channel my pure hatred into the back of his head.

Take a look to my left, no train, a look to my right, train. I never trust the "Next train" signs, they're always pessimistic. I don't care if the train's about to leave, I'm not here to travel first class, I'm here to get from a to b. I don't mind running whilst the doors are beeping.

No train on the other platform means I've got time to walk down the platform to get into the best position for the interchange at Stockwell. The double doors opposite the last opening to the other platform. You've gotta have a system. Most people can't be bothered to walk this far, so there are plenty of seats available, but I'll stand. If I do choose to sit, I'll never sit in the furthest seats, those are the "please give these seats up to someone more needy" chairs. If I get a seat, I want to be able to just sit, and pretend the world doesn't exist around me. It's either that or I'll stand, no in-between.

Take my surfing stance as I hear a train pull into the other platform and the beeping as the doors close on my own. No space issues here and I'll be getting off at Stockwell so once the doors are closed I brace in the centre of the doors on the correct side of the train ready to run if I can see a train on the opposite platform when we get to the next station.

A couple of minutes later and the train pulls into Stockwell. There's a fucking army of people all just standing there staring into the window as we glide past them, decelerating. This scene always makes me think of Zombie films. The desperation on their face. The single goal they all have. The uniform way they line up to the doors. BRAINS!

The train has stopped and the doors have yet to open. I can't see anyone making any space for me outside the train so I can get off and I can see a Northern Line train on the opposing platform with swarms of the cunts towards this one. In this second I give fair warning with a look of determined malice on my face targetted at the inconsiderate bastards in front of me. I'm letting them know that I will shortly be leaving this train and if they aren't polite enough to make a space for me to get through then I shall make it myself. The doors open and a little token half-arsed shuffling from one or two does fuck all. My path is still blocked. I drop my shoulders and walk as though I'm walking through an overgrown garden with thin vines hanging down in my path. Sure a few people get knocked, almost losing their balance, but it's their own fucking fault.

The flow of traffic in the walkway is still vastly imbalanced as I trail blaze the way to the northern line as the scout of the Victoria Line. Some have gotten complacent and haven't thought to look where they're going, maybe subconsciously thinking this is a one way tunnel. Wrong fucking move, amigo. A few shoulder on shoulder collisions always see the other person worse off as I'm actually paying attention to my stance and whereabouts. I'm being considerate, I'm about as far left as you can get skirting against the wall of the tunnel with it's helpful "keep to the left" signs, but any sign of weakness against these bastards will mean I'll never get through.

As I finally get through the doors close on the train opposite. It wasn't even that full! Shitty tube driver getting kicks out of abusing what should be a natural synchronicity between the two lines. Look up to the next train board. Oh bollocks. The next one's a Charring Cross one. There are hardly ever Charring Cross branch Northern line trains that go beyond Kennington, but here we are, patiently waiting for one. Great.

Ideally, I want to be at the far end of the platform but (a) so does every other fucker going to Bank and (b) that's the end where the entrance of the station is, so anyone without tactics will gather at this end. I cannot tolerate those without a game plan. I don't mind losing to better players, but every second counts here. I don't want to be on this network one second longer than I need to be. Best to find a spot mid platform where it's quieter so I can get a better strategic position on the train itself after boarding.

Dealing with a Charring Cross train is tricky. You want to find the position on the platform adjacent to where the doors open, secure your spot but not obstruct anyone who actually wants to catch that train. Media types no doubt. Charring Cross branch commuters generally tend to be more attractive than Bank branch equivalent. I guess the city takes a certain type of cunt. I find the best method is to stand your ground, then when the train arrives, move yourself right up against the train, standing at the edge of the doorway, not obstructing it at all. You allow the transition flow of people, but retain your front-of-platform position. Don't get too eager though. Watch this inconsiderate berk who thinks he's being clever by standing in front of the still open door as the waiting passengers who wanted to board have done so. Watch as that big burly running guy literally knocks him out of the way as he dives on board the waiting train just as the doors close. I nonchalantly take the opportunity to step in his now vacated place as he stands aside dazed. Now I've got the prime spot. Yes.

At this point I can even risk taking my book out of my bag to read. No more distraction from tube advertising which I pay far more attention to than I'd like. Those bastards better be paying good money. No advertising sinks into my subconscious as much as tube advertising. Look how cocky they are with their essays on the wall. There isn't an audience much more captive than that. We're close to autopilot time now, I can almost taste the victory. I ensure I'm behind the yellow line and I'm going no fucking closer no matter how hard someone's poking me in the back. It's not like it's going to make any difference. Here comes the train. Watch the minions around me envy my prime position. Look at the pathetic scheming in their eyes. Like a dog salivating over its dinner, have you no shame? It slows down, coming gently to a stop... Wait, the bastard's stopped a metre different from the last one! What a cunt!

It's usually a satisfying feeling watching the hoards pile out of the train, but there's a real problem here. I'm in a position that can not be described as prime by any stretch of the imagination. In fact, my closeness to the edge gives me absolutely no control over my path. It's sidestep all the way. There's real potential that I may not be able to board the train. All I can do is watch the people getting off. Shit, is that it? That wasn't a good turnaround for Victoria Line changers, this is going to be a challenge. There's not much in way of tactics at this point (or have I just yet to work out what is best) other than to shuffle and hope for the best. Some have given up, the train is almost rammed, but further down the carriage I can see there's more space. Inconsiderate motherfuckers. Riled on by this injustice I'm left with no choice but to make space where there is none and sort the filtration after the doors are closed. Sorry! Apply the loud beaming face method again, push into people uncomfortably to make sure the door can close around me and... Ouch! The bastard door opened again and smacked my head. That'll teach me to relax. Take two and we're away! Hooray!

I have no strategic handle to hold, but at this point I'm wedged enough that it doesn't matter. Got to keep my eye open for an opening to a handle though. No chance to read the book at this point but that may improve later. Got to stay optimistic, hey? My face is awkwardly close to another woman’s and I can tell she's pretty uncomfortable about it. What can I do though? She has the option of looking away, but my head is like a murderers on a pike in medieval London, doing nothing but staring vacantly in one direction.

It's funny watching the people at Oval. They're the ones I pity most. I used to have to get on here. No-one gets off at Oval and the train's as full as it's going to get. Breathe in- door opens. I look around sympathetically to the man standing there on the platform and also thank god for some relatively fresh air. It might not be country fresh, but it's better than that guy's suit jacket that could really do with a dry clean. My head's back and I'm taking big lungfuls of the stuff. BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP. Breathe in- we're off again.

Hooray for Kennington Bank Branch. I'm not fucking about as the door opens, I'll step off the train, onto the platform into a position that ensures I'm the first back on, but the Charring Tossers can get off more easily. Always good to shoot looks of distain at others who should really have done the same but instead are now bouncing about like human pinballs. Last one gone, now I'm straight back on. Don't toy with me German dude. I was on the train before and I'll be the first back one. Quick decision needed... Seating aisle or opposite door? Seating aisle or opposite door? Seating aisle or opposite door? Opposite door. The seating aisle will have high turnover and since this journey only involves the door opening on the same side at each stop, my opposite door position will give me minimum fuss like my own cave to hide in. There's good access to a handle, a good space to hold my book and now I can pretend to be somewhere else.

London Bridge. Used to get off here when working at my old job, amongst the swarms of people waiting to cram on but alas now I too have to deal with this, the biggest changeover stop of the journey. If it weren't for my prime location, I'd be battered alongside everyone else, but I can stand my ground and stay focused on the book, ensure that I'm using as little space as possible and tune out again.

Time to start the I'm-getting-off-at-the-next-stop-don't-you-know shuffle to inform those around me that they will shortly have to get to fuck. Eye up my opponents also performing the same game to work. Know your enemy. This is a game often with more losers than winners. Be forceful when dealing with people who'll be remaining on the train, but always back down in one-to-one battles with people also trying to get off. They'll be using the same force and it's just not worth it.

The platform's fucking rammed. Everyone's trundling at a ridiculously slow pace towards the Bank Of England exit end of the platform. Time to play the ace up my sleeve. Shuffling, 5 metres. Shuffling, 4 metres. Shuffling, 3 metres. Shuffling, 2 metres. Shuffling, 1 metre, and ninety degrees! Across to the opposite platform! Hahaha, look at my acres of space! A rare opportunity to walk full speed on the underground at rush hour should not be taken for granted. I'm like an Olympic fast walker, throwing in a cheeky waddle as they do too. Look right and catch someone's eye amongst the masses each time I walk adjacent to a walkway to mock them from afar. Look at me with my space, look at you with your zombie paced walking. I am better than you. I am the best.

Keep to the left up the stairs, sure it's slower than running up the right, but if anyone on the right wants to push an ascender back down, then I for one will clap. Them’s the rules.

Cut through the phenomenal people traffic to the lifts. The day I discovered the where the lift entrance was a good one. Goodbye elaborate twists and turns through the warren hole, this baby takes me right to where I need to go. Lift number 2 is still there, quick jog round the corner to have a look. Shit, no chance. Number 5 behind me is next. Bastards! Where did they all come from! I'd better get in that one when it arrives, you parasites. Surely I have rights, I was here before you! Aaah, the lift's huge, what am I worrying about. Got to stay as close to the entrance as possible as it's also the exit. Find the first available spot adjacent to a wall and make it your own.

It's plain sailing now. The slow ascent of the lift. The casual stroll out the doors with the other. Out the much less busy gates, keep to the left through the tunnel and then first exit on the left. No need to bother with overtaking games here, they're just plain dangerous in this tunnel. I've seen some pretty nasty collisions in my time. Unnecessary games of chicken. Nobody wins. This is the final furlong, almost back to the surface. Just the stairs remain. Almost ready to start fucking work.
( ma0sm, Fri 30 May 2008, 11:06, 7 replies)

Weird end to a lovely weekend
So i'd been seeing this girl, only for a month as that's how long she was temporarily working for the same company, and then she left to return home and pursue full time work in London. It was only a month but it was great, it's almost tragic but it's probably the best relationship I've ever had...she was beautiful, funny, and loved spending time with me. And the night-time sports were amazing. It was a connection that I'd not had before, or since for that matter. But alas, she went home. She cried and I cried (but only a little, honest) and we kept in touch.

A month or so later I arranged a weekend visit and booked a hotel for us both, and we spent an amazing weekend catching up...I'll let you use your imagination but it's basically the best weekend I've ever had. So it was a sad few hours when we had the chat at the train station before I boarded the train for the journey to Edinburgh. This is where the trouble starts.

So not only was I gutted, but there was railworks and my train was only going as far as (IIRC) Doncaster, where we would then be disembarking to wait for the next train which would take us to Newcastle. I would, of course, lose my allocated seat between Doncaster and Newcastle. So it was an hour in Doncaster, wishing I was still back in London in bed, in a dreary station before the train turned up.

It. Was. Rammed. I had to stand in the doorway/aisle area, beside the toilet, bags at my feet, with about 10 other people...and their bags. I was not fucking chuffed, and starting to really feel sorry for myself. It should have taken me four and a half hours to get home, and that time was almost up and I wasn't even in Scotland. And I'd maybe never see the best girlfriend I'd ever have again. Then, to top it all off, the meanest looking chav scumbag you've ever seen gets on and stands with us. Brilliant.

He was only about 5 foot 9, but had the whole 'white man who wants to be a 'gansta'' issue going on, ye know? Baseball cap pointing up, baggy jeans, showing his pants of course, and some really baggy baseball jersey of some sort. The piece de resistance was not the three cans of Stella he had with him (one in his hand, one in each pocket), nor the crazy always looking ahead and down the aisle stare he had, no it was the way he had a special holder for his mobile phone...a special holder that let him hang it round his neck. So that when he wanted to listen to 'fiddy cent' through his phone without headphones he could, but so did all the other unfortunate souls in the aisle at that moment.

He's lucky I'm not a violent man* because the way I felt at that moment, I could have ripped him apart (see * again). Instead, I turned up the volume on my mp3 player (through headphones, you ignorant cunt. DO YOU SEE? HEADPHONES!) and tried to ignore him, all the while exchanging rolls of the eyes with the other passengers.

He then started coming on to the girls that were there, this was after he'd polished off the 3rd can of Stella. Fortunately for them they got off at the next stop, as did half the train thus freeing up lots of seats. There was then a beautiful moment when he looked left and right as he chose where on the train to go for a seat, and everyone waited until he'd chosen - then went the other way. What an utter prick he was.**

It took me almost 9 hours to get home, on 3 trains, and I don't think I've ever felt so sorry for myself when I eventually got home.

She's going out with her ex again. Brilliant.



*actually he's lucky he looked mental and would probably have murdered me which is actually why I didn't do anything

** there was one moment of light relief however, when he was flicking through his 'choons', from fiddy, to eminem, to some dancy bollocks, and then to The Reflex by Duran Duran!!
(Zutroy started without you, Fri 30 May 2008, 11:03, Reply)

An elevator is public transport right?
Why are people so fucking stupid when using Lifts. Im not off topic. A lift is a public transportation device like any other.

Like today for instance. I go to get in the lift, and a guy walks out. "Ooops sorry!" he realises he's not on his floor. He was going to Floor 12 and I was on Floor 1. How fucking stupid do you have to be to realise that youve only been in the lift 5 seconds so you cant possibly be at the top floor already!?

And then theres those that get in the lift when its heading the wrong way. Look up before you go in it has a big fucking green arrow pointing where its going. I was going from floor 1 to ground (the stairs were being cleaned so were closed) and theres this big business jessy in there whos wanting floor 6. Except we're going down. And hes groaning that the lift is going the wrong way. Then makes a remark at me "We have stairs you know!" and I simply turned round and said "And yup theres a fucking big green arrow pointing which way the lift is going too!" What a fuckwit!

Its no wonder I have a fear of flying when there are so many bafoons out there that cant even operate a simple lift.
(Miggyman, Fri 30 May 2008, 10:59, Reply)

Malawi to Arusha via Dar es Salaam
1992 - being a traveller of limited means and an unerring belief that I was indestructable, had managed to hitch hike from Cape Town and had made it, without too much of a problem as far as the northern border of Malawi. One or two little incidents along the way (like being shot at in a hostel in Harare - they were blanks, but the gentleman had not thought to appraise me of this fact before hand, I thought; 'Splendid'), not something that I had wanted to worry my mother about at the time...

I digress..... I was heading towards a job as a ranger at the Ngorororororo (sic) crater and needed to get there asap. Fastest and most cost effective method was a local bus. Humm, cheap certainly, and wonderfully unencumbered with the ravages of any form of luxury (such as padded seats or toilets) - still 36hrs, how bad could this be?

To paraphrase Spike Milligan; I boarded the bur a fit, friendly, 24 year old... and got off, 2 days later, a crippled, stinking wreak of about 70.

It was hell, I managed to bag a back row seat, not being aware that it was allocated seating... No problem, I'll happily move. Not good! I was squeezed between a rather full-figured lady and her noxious goat and an equally large, but rather dapper, elderly gentleman who was on his way to an Aids convention in Nairobi (Not relevant, just an interesting bloke)

Obviously I was not in a position to blend inconspiciously in to the background, so I became the best thing to point at (gets a little trying after a few hours)

The toilet problem was not an issue for me - bunged up good and proper, also somewhat dehydrated; however the same could not be said for some of my fellow passengers, some of whom took to relieving themselves in the stairwell whilst the bus was in motion (so to speak). Guess where my revised seating position was.... Deep, deep joy was felt by all.

sleep was out of the question, also as we had joined the bus early in the morning so I had no chance to buy any shillings, only had US currency (fine for larger cities, not the roadside truck stops we visited) - so not refreshments for me (I had a can of beans in my pack). Could'nt actually move without disturbing my fellow passengers and their pets.

However, we arrived, I collected my kit from the roof and made contact with the company I was going to work for... Then began to feel unwell, really unwell - temperature of 105, seeing things. Malaria is not very nice.

I will forever be thankful that I didn't go down with it 24hrs earlier.

Ended up flying home a couple of weeks later, 5 days in St Pancras tropical diseases unit where they discovered that I had bilharzia as well, which was nice
(conanow, Fri 30 May 2008, 10:55, Reply)