I knew exactly what he was thinking, but he still persisted in ignoring me, so I stormed past the front of the bus like a bull that’d just snagged his wedding tackle on the crossbar of his Rally Chopper, and just before I crossed the road I glared at the operator menacingly. I even had time to flick though London Transport’s book of ‘How to Piss off a Passenger’.
On page nineteen, appendix iiii, it states: if a driver makes no eye contact with a passenger at any time they don’t exist! As luck would have it, the temporary lights held up the queue of traffic that bus was sitting in for over five minutes, giving me more than enough time to reach the next stop. I light up a cigarette and waited in a smug repose for my quarry to pull up.
He rounded the corner and cruised towards me – change in hand and smiling inwardly I hailed once more. Bastard sailed right passed me again! I uttered many expletives in the direction of the vanishing bus, mostly beginning with the letters C, F, W and B, but overall I’d say it was the C word that gained the most attention! I was so incensed I took his number, it was a 67! I thought, fuck this for a game of soldiers, I’ll write a stiff letter to London Transport’s complaints department, but I couldn’t find a shop that sold stiff paper!
A swearing fit lasting way past the 60 second mark ensued; and I began cursing again when I notice that some arse had placed yet another decommissioned sign at the very top of the second bus stop. When I realised how far away the next bus stop was I blew my stack for a third time, I mean I went absolutely ape-shit. I kicked the shelter, the bin that no one uses, the seating arrangement and finally the bus stop itself, mainly because it had the words, ‘bus stop’ on it!
As is always is the case when you’re mid-thrombi, I’d lost the focus of my surroundings, and it wasn’t until I turned round to light up the obligatory stress fag that I realised I was standing about 10 feet from a primary school. My explosive outburst had neatly coincided with chucking out time and the playground was full of children, parents and an entourage of teachers.
Heads, small and large, began turning in my direction as motherly hands cupped their little cherub’s ears. Oooops! Still in full fuming mode; I power-walked the 500 yards to next stop. I know it was that far because I counted every one of my steps. There was some good news, however, as I stomped my way between the two waiting zones not one single red lorry passed me. I arrived at the next stop and joined a group of hopeful travellers who, by the looks of it, had suffered a similar transport fate.
Looking for a positive angle, I consoled myself with the fact that at least it had stopped raining. In fact, the weather conditions were quite the reverse. There was so much ultra violet light flying about I couldn’t see bloody thing when I looked back up the road behind me.
Thanks to just the right amount of surface water, left from the downpour earlier, there was a wash of dazzling sunlight, and it was bouncing off the tarmac in the road, the pavement, every window in the street, and off of the slate tiles of the houses too. You couldn’t even see the general through traffic it just appeared out of what can only be described as Haringey’s first Stargate.
Twenty minutes or more had passed, and there was still no sign of a bus, but, when a few of the passengers at the head of the queue adopted the posture of a Meer Kat’s lookout, it caused a stir of hope; I even made a grab for my fare. It was the kiss of death. What pulled up? The only other bus on the route, and it didn’t go anywhere near where I wanted to go! I was so happy for the crowd that got on the bus!
A newer set of minutes past and another 341 snaked its way up to the stop and, in the space of the next 10 minutes, two more went by. There was no doubt about it – I was starting to take this personally! I knew I was, because my fare was starting to melt in my hand!
Out of the blue, and in the midst of a cloud of hatred of bus drivers all over the world, came a stirring amongst the remaining crowd. It could mean only one thing, the approach of another red lorry. After a group hug and swift prayer I flicked my fag butt to the kerb and looked up and there it was – a beautiful bright shiny 67.
A group of Christians in the queue broke into a chorus of, “When Jesus walked,” and prayer mats bedecked the pavement but the rejoicing was short lived. Yes it was a forward moving 67 and yes there were passengers within. It didn’t have a, ‘sorry out of service’, sign on it and no, it wasn’t about to break down.
If I didn’t know better, I’d say you waiting for the ‘but’ aren’t you? Well, here it comes. All of the upbeat emotions, which included relief, were slashed to ribbons when a cockney Asian driver opened the bus doors and shouted out, “Oi, oi saveloy, everybody off. The bus terminates ‘ere.”
Tambourines, triangles, pan pipes and sheet music all hit the deck in unison. I’ve never felt anger spread so quickly amongst a small group of people before; I mean you could actually see the waves of hate washing over the bus.
Here’s just a sample of what the crowd thought of the driver and his informative speech, after standing around for over an hour. “C**t, c**t, c**t, c**t, c**t, c**t, c**t, poo, blast and…, buff-oon.” Well seven of our party were nuns after all! I’d left the head clinic with hope in my heart, and glee in my knees, at the thought of a swift return home, as it was I managed to scrape home two an a half hours later! After a day of recuperation, I wrote my letter of complaint and it read…
Dear Transport Minister,
Could you please take the entire London Transport system and stick it up your dirt box or, at the very least, use the bloody shambles to find out how ineffective it is when you actually need to get from A to B in the same day.
Yours, sincerely hacked-off of Tottenham
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