No. 14 Public Transport - On the Buses

If, like me, you experience on a daily basis the displeasure that is public transport then you’ll already know where Jeffman’s coming from.

There are those less charitable than my good self that might say the problem with public transport is that they let the public use it…

Well. There was a time, in some long-forgotten and rose-tinted past, when buses were exciting. Yes, you read that right, exciting.

Now before you dismiss this as the half-cut ramblings of some toothless, retarded deviant with an unhealthy bus fetish, who bolstered by a Methuselah of rum has decided it’s time to make his very own public confession of a sordid  past of bus-based self abuse, allow me a moment to explain.

I refer, of course, to a time when my only concerns were for where the next sweet, bag of crisps, or fantastically yet very probably illegally coloured fizzy drink were coming from; as well as the more important things in life such as finding a good stick when up the park. Yes, I refer to when I was nay but a lad and the bus meant a trip to town; the big shops; and more specifically, big toy shops.

It is only as Jeffman looks back on those halcyon times through the sun visor of cynicism that age and bitter experience has perched atop my prematurely greying dome that I realise even then, in the days when West Midlands Travel buses were yellow and blue in colour, they were grotty, malodorous, and creating a siv where the ozone layer used to be, through thick, black exhaust emissions.

But nowadays they’re three times as bad.

Granted, the modern-day buses may no longer leave a thick film of soot across the windscreen of any car unfortunate enough to be trailing in its wake, but on the inside they’re on their collective arse.

Buses smell. Some worse than others, but they all smell. That’s what happens when you try and cram as many people into a confined space as is inhumanly possible.

You see, they put more seats on buses nowadays to allocate more paying passengers. This wouldn’t be such a bad thing if they’d increased the size of the bus, but no, as with pretty much everything else it’s a case of maximising profits over comfort and safety.

If you wish to enjoy anything remotely resembling a bit of legroom, you need to A) Be less than three foot in height; and B) (un)Lucky enough to get a seat in the first place. The only other option available is to stand for the entire journey – which is often the case – nestled against somebody else’s armpit and trying your best not to get thrown across the over-appreciative lap of some geriatric lothario of ambiguous se  xual preference, each time the driver clatters a kerb when cornering.

This results in a heady bouquet of sweat hanging permanently on the air during the months of summer, and the stench of flu and assorted bacteria when the weather turns cold. Why should Al-Qaeda employ a ‘dirty bomb’, when you’ve got the great British public coughing and sneezing over each other in the incubator of airborne viruses that is public transport? We’ll all be dead by Christmas 2009.

But that’s enough beating about the bush. Buses are dirty, litter-strewn, graffiti-riddled holes, like the foyer of a tower-block broken from its foundations and dumped on four wheels. In fact, I was on the top deck of the one yesterday morning that stank of piss. It was like a breath of fresh air…

But I digress.

It never starts to amaze me that one of the few places on Britain’s clean streets you won’t find a rat is on the buses. What with having to wade knee-deep through the litter to get a seat. But then, who needs rats when you’ve got Pikeys, Chavs, drunks, and nutters to contend with?

The Bus Drunk
Not that I’m adverse to the drunk on public transport. Lord knows, Jeffman’s been drunk on his fair share of buses down the years. How else is a hardened drinker to get home if he’s too pissed to walk? But it’s when one of those soap-shy, coffin-dodging paraffin lamps gets on the bus, baying at the moon, that an issue arises. Especially when I’m nursing a hangover of A-Bomb proportions.

These abusive drunks tend to be old men who should really know better, although the haggard, ruddy complexions they tend to sport like a boozy badge of honour does tend to put years on a man, and they might actually be in their late 20s.

Suffice to say, whatever the age they all stick to pretty much the same script. This involves sitting upstairs, or downstairs dependant on how deep the White Lightning has soaked into their legs – it’s is worth noting that the abusive drunk has no concept of the etiquette involved when it comes to bus-based bad behaviour, in that he’ll gladly wage his campaign of terror in full view of the driver as opposed to restricting it to the top deck.

They will by and large be equipped with one of the following: A can of Tennants Super, Special Brew, or similar super strength lager; a bottle of Frosty Jacks, White Strike, or some other rocket fuel parading as cheap, industrial strength white cider; or at a push, a bottle of something reddish in colour, which may either be sherry or red wine, although they rarely look to be quite the connoisseur. Their act will invariably consist of a lot of random shouting, swearing, and the occasional threat of violence against anybody the four inch radius their bog-eyed vision will stretch to.

But the bus drunk is simply one of many obstacles laid down to make the average bus journey as unpleasant as possible. Another is our old friend the Chav.

Chavs are pretty much despised by any right thinking individual that isn’t one. And rightly so. Hence Julie Birchall will fight their corner in what is a peculiar need of the middle classes to feel that they can empathise with the lower orders, just so long as they don’t move in next door. Remember: despised by right-thinking individuals.

But once again, I bounce off at a tangent and find myself reeling my often fevered mind back on-topic. Where was I?

Bus Chavs
Chavs. We’ve visited the chav before, so let’s not dwell too long on the subject; but anybody faced with the unfortunate prospect of using a bus will be well aware of the chav’s insistence on playing annoying music as loudly as possible on their phones, whilst sitting on the top deck and smoking herb. Have these retards never heard of earphones, or is it too technical an accomplishment to work out where to plug them in?

One interesting development in chav/ bus behaviour, are the reports Jeffman has received that often, when one chav disembarks taking with him his phone and godawful taste in music, it is has been observed that another, unassociated chav will then fire up their implement of torture. This suggests a certain etiquette, or a code of practice, amongst the chav fraternity regarding the playing of mobile phones in public.

Chav/ Bus Etiquette
Not one of Jeffman’s sources has been able to get actual evidence of any unwritten rules (chavs can’t write), so we can only speculate as to what they might entail. There is the suggestion of a first come, first served basis being the general protocol; but I’m more inclined to fancy a chav ranking system, similar to the army, and based around the amount of stripes on a chav’s tracksuit.

Which brings us finally to the bog-standard nutter, who seems to have found his perfect stage upon the buses of Great Britain… But Jasper Carrott has discussed this phenomenon far better than I ever could.

Idiots in Government
So the upshot is, the Government is desperate for us all to ditch the car and get on public transport. Yet if they were to ever leave the comfort of their chauffeur driven gas-guzzlers and set foot on a bus, even one of those blinkered, disreputable pirates would find it hard not to see why people won’t.

The buses are crammed to bursting point. The services rarely turn up, and on the rare occasions that they do it’s never on time. They smell, are dangerous (some routes more than others), and are in general not very nice places to be.

The problem with public transport is they let the public on it. Indeed.

Consider yourselves warned.

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