"Thanks". "Thank you". "Cheers". An appreciative raise of the hand. A thumbs up. It's not difficult to be well mannered. Unless you have no arms, the last 2 may be a bit difficult in that case. But then a nod of the head would do. It's so easy to show appreciation to someone who has helped you or served you or provided a service. Now some would argue that a good deed shouldn't be done for the gratitude and I agree to a certain extent, I don't do good deeds to be appreciated, I do it because I like to think I'm a helpful kinda guy. That doesn't mean I don't get pissed off when there isn't even a recognition from the recipient that I've done said good deed.
Take driving. The rules of the road say that if there is an obstruction is on your side of the road then you let the oncoming traffic through before going round the obstruction. Still, common courtesy should still allow a little gesture of thanks my way for doing so. Seriously, how hard is it to nod your head, raise a finger (not the middle one, that would take the piss) or mouth a "thank you" to the guy waiting, letting you through. It isn't hard, so why is the world full of selfish, rude, miserable fuckers that don't. Same applies at a junction. You let someone out and they drive off with a whiff of "About time, bastard" instead of "Thank you sir, have a nice day, may I suck your dick?". Perhaps not the last bit. The ability to show gratitude should be on the driving test. "In a moment I'm going to hit my pen on the dashboard and then I want you to say 'Thank you'". "Th-th-th-th-th-th-th-th-th-th-th-th-th-th-at girl has big ti-" - "That's a fail".
I was brought up to be good mannered. I am raising my children to be good mannered. It is important to me that my children show their gratitude to those that help them. It has been passed down to me by my parents, and passed to them from theirs. I imagine I'm not alone in getting this education from the senior members of the family (sorry mum!). So if people are usually taught manners from their elders, why then are old people so fucking rude? These people have taught their offspring and grandchildren about the importance of manners, well here's an idea - use them. If I hold a door open for you, say thank you, don't barge past me. If there is a queue of people at the bus stop don't push to the front of the queue, go outside the door, light a cigarette, then not smoke it until the bus arrives, put the cigarette out and be first on the bus. If I am in your way, say "excuse me" not "you're in my way". An old woman ran into me today with her granny trolley (the standard issue tartan affair they put potatoes and dog food in) as she thought she had the right to be where I was stood. No "excuse me", no "can I just get by?", nothing, just actual bodily harm with a carrier bag on wheels. And the look on her face when I said, sarcastically, "excuse me?", you'd think I'd offered to feed her to her own Yorkshire Terrier.
Anyone who works in a service industry will know what I mean about ungrateful customers. At the end of the day it's your job and you get paid to do it. Not a lot, but you get paid, so professional pride should make you want to do that job to the best of your ability without prejudice. However, in reality, if the person you're dealing with is a twat, be honest, you don't give them a thousand smile service, they're lucky if Bubba the porter doesn't spit in the soup. Or worse. "A little salty, sir?". That being said, good manners in the service industry work both ways, it isn't always the customer that's rude. I had an issue a few years ago with our broadband connection where the download speed was appallingly slow, so I rang customer services and spoke to a gentleman worked for a customer service outsourcing company in the Asian sub-continent. He suggested I take the cable connecting the PC to the router and turn it round plugging the end currently in the PC into the router and vice versa. The speed changed by about 0.02 Mbps. He then concluded that this proved the issue was with my setup and not to call their customer services again as I wouldn't be helped any further as I was just wasting their time. He then hung up. Before I could thank him.
Tuesday, 28 February 2012
Tuesday, 14 February 2012
Pets
5 cats, 1 dog, 1 hamster - The number of pets I've had in the last 10 years. 0 - The number I have now. Why? Because for some reason animals don't agree with me. Or should I say, I seem to obtain mentally ill animals as pets. A pet is a good thing, they provide company to the elderly, make ideal Christmas presents (don't believe the propaganda), and are a great way of saying "I'm sorry". Especially if the pet of choice can kill. On the whole, pets are expensive, mostly ungrateful and jump ship at the slightest whiff of a free meal, a bit like teenagers. Without getting all 'This is your Life', I'll share my animal experiences, which somehow sounds wrong.
The first pet my wife and I got was a cat called Tigger, the runt of a litter, a tiny little thing we got as a kitten that stayed with us long enough to cost us money in painkilling injections at the vets due to a dodgy hip, then ran away the day we moved house. We'd already lost our second cat, Simba, a couple of years earlier, he was a big fluffy tom cat that was very friendly, but he enjoyed hunting too much, brought us loads of (dead) gifts, then he ran away. We got a dog called Cassie, a loony Border Collie who didn't like being left alone so howled whenever she was, so we had to give her up as the neighbour who worked nights had an issue with sleep deprivation. She is still in the family, my cousin now looks after her. When Cassie left we decided to get another cat and adopted a black and white cat called Patch, but didn't think that was enough so we impulse-bought 2 kittens, as you do, when promoting our youth club at a community fayre and had a stand opposite the Cat Protection League. Somehow we ended up with Brandy and Smokey. We also got a hamster called Joseph (blame my daughter) who had a death wish - he liked to get out of his cage and run the feline gauntlet. He 'disappeared' one night, Patch was off his food for a day or two afterwards. The last 3 cats moved with us to the North East, stayed with us for 3-4 months before running away. I do take it personally.
I do take some comfort knowing that our choice of pets are relatively normal, some people have stupid pets. I can understand why people have dogs, cats, rodent, rabbits and fish as pets, they interact, they can be cuddled, stroked or watched and can help relaxation as part of a calorie controlled diet. Or is that Special K? Anyway, what I don't understand are people who get snakes or lizards or spiders as pets. They do fuck all. They don't move, they don't learn tricks, and in a lot of cases they scare people and can kill. Why bother? Why spend hundreds of pounds on a glass tank, lamps, temperature controls, insurance and anti-venom to watch a snake not move for days. The only excitement is if live food is introduced - not because of the feeding process but just to watch something happen in the glass box you've spent £300 on.
Then there's the vet. The robbing bastard. There are some people in the UK, people who never leave and think that Yorkshire puddings are 'foreigh muck', who wonder what it would be like in a country where health care is not free at the point of delivery like the NHS. To experience this, buy a pet, then for full effect, run it over and take it to the vet. After the plumbers headshake, it's the bad news. "Well, the operation will be £300, then there are 2 overnight stays at £40 a night...." £40 a night? To be locked in a cage? Actually, I once spent £40 to be locked in a .... not now. The kicker for me though is "It would be cruel to let it live, the best thing to do is have it put down. I'm sorry to have to inform you of this. That'll be £120 please." Why should we pay to have our pets killed by a specialised hitman? Especially when a hammer is much cheaper.
Speaking of animal death, I heard a woman telling some friends at the bus station about a friend of hers who had a dog which sadly passed away. I say sadly, for all I know the death of the dog may have been a blessing, it could have been seriously ill, or a banker. Any way, this lady was left with the dead dog and didn't know what to do with it (less options open to us here than there are in Korea) so rang the vet and said her dog had died. The vet quoted her (the use of the word 'quote' in this scenario made me laugh, like she's having her windows done) about £400 to take the dog, cremate it and then give her back the ashes. She decided to shop around (!!!) and ended up ringing the RSPCA who said they would do it for £100. The woman agreed and asked when they would be available to collect the dog, to which she was told she would have to get the dog to the RSPCA building herself. She hung up, wondering how she would get a dead dog to the pet crematorium without a car. Her friend suggested the bus. "How can I go on a bus with a dead dog?" At this point, as I was visualising the animal version of Weekend at Bernie's, I was snapped back to the story by the sentence "You've got that big suitcase you took to Cos, haven't you?". The Weekend at Bernie's idea would have been better. But, that's what the woman did, put the dog in the suitcase and dragged it to the bus stop as it was too heavy for her to carry. She was front of the queue and when the bus arrived she couldn't lift it up the stairs. A very helpful young man offered to help, went to pick up the suitcase and realising it weighed about the same as a dead dog in a suitcase asked what was in it. The woman panicked and came out the only reasonable explanation in a situation like this - "It's a computer". "Why is it so heavy?" she was asked by the man, struggling to lift it into the luggage bay at the front of the bus. "It's a very big and expensive computer, I'm giving it to a friend". The suitcase was left at the front of the bus and the woman went to sit with a friend she had seen at the back. Ten minutes later, she got to her stop, got to the front of the bus to get her case - and it had gone. Nicked. By the bloke who put it on the bus for her as he thought it contained a very heavy expensive computer.
I still can't work out what's funnier, the thought of an old woman on a bus realising her dead dog has been stolen, but not being able to say the words "Someone has nicked my dead dog", or the look on the bloke's face when he opened the suitcase to find a dead dog. The woman tried to find it, the bus company checked the CCTV, she rang around Cash Converters and pawn shops (seriously) to see if anyone has come in with a suitcase asking for a price on the contents, then revealing a dead dog to a member of staff that, if that happened, would still be off sick now with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. The woman telling the story then ran to get her bus so I don't know whether she was reunited with her dog at the finish. But what I do know is that the cat eating the hamster was simpler and cheaper.
The first pet my wife and I got was a cat called Tigger, the runt of a litter, a tiny little thing we got as a kitten that stayed with us long enough to cost us money in painkilling injections at the vets due to a dodgy hip, then ran away the day we moved house. We'd already lost our second cat, Simba, a couple of years earlier, he was a big fluffy tom cat that was very friendly, but he enjoyed hunting too much, brought us loads of (dead) gifts, then he ran away. We got a dog called Cassie, a loony Border Collie who didn't like being left alone so howled whenever she was, so we had to give her up as the neighbour who worked nights had an issue with sleep deprivation. She is still in the family, my cousin now looks after her. When Cassie left we decided to get another cat and adopted a black and white cat called Patch, but didn't think that was enough so we impulse-bought 2 kittens, as you do, when promoting our youth club at a community fayre and had a stand opposite the Cat Protection League. Somehow we ended up with Brandy and Smokey. We also got a hamster called Joseph (blame my daughter) who had a death wish - he liked to get out of his cage and run the feline gauntlet. He 'disappeared' one night, Patch was off his food for a day or two afterwards. The last 3 cats moved with us to the North East, stayed with us for 3-4 months before running away. I do take it personally.
I do take some comfort knowing that our choice of pets are relatively normal, some people have stupid pets. I can understand why people have dogs, cats, rodent, rabbits and fish as pets, they interact, they can be cuddled, stroked or watched and can help relaxation as part of a calorie controlled diet. Or is that Special K? Anyway, what I don't understand are people who get snakes or lizards or spiders as pets. They do fuck all. They don't move, they don't learn tricks, and in a lot of cases they scare people and can kill. Why bother? Why spend hundreds of pounds on a glass tank, lamps, temperature controls, insurance and anti-venom to watch a snake not move for days. The only excitement is if live food is introduced - not because of the feeding process but just to watch something happen in the glass box you've spent £300 on.
Then there's the vet. The robbing bastard. There are some people in the UK, people who never leave and think that Yorkshire puddings are 'foreigh muck', who wonder what it would be like in a country where health care is not free at the point of delivery like the NHS. To experience this, buy a pet, then for full effect, run it over and take it to the vet. After the plumbers headshake, it's the bad news. "Well, the operation will be £300, then there are 2 overnight stays at £40 a night...." £40 a night? To be locked in a cage? Actually, I once spent £40 to be locked in a .... not now. The kicker for me though is "It would be cruel to let it live, the best thing to do is have it put down. I'm sorry to have to inform you of this. That'll be £120 please." Why should we pay to have our pets killed by a specialised hitman? Especially when a hammer is much cheaper.
Speaking of animal death, I heard a woman telling some friends at the bus station about a friend of hers who had a dog which sadly passed away. I say sadly, for all I know the death of the dog may have been a blessing, it could have been seriously ill, or a banker. Any way, this lady was left with the dead dog and didn't know what to do with it (less options open to us here than there are in Korea) so rang the vet and said her dog had died. The vet quoted her (the use of the word 'quote' in this scenario made me laugh, like she's having her windows done) about £400 to take the dog, cremate it and then give her back the ashes. She decided to shop around (!!!) and ended up ringing the RSPCA who said they would do it for £100. The woman agreed and asked when they would be available to collect the dog, to which she was told she would have to get the dog to the RSPCA building herself. She hung up, wondering how she would get a dead dog to the pet crematorium without a car. Her friend suggested the bus. "How can I go on a bus with a dead dog?" At this point, as I was visualising the animal version of Weekend at Bernie's, I was snapped back to the story by the sentence "You've got that big suitcase you took to Cos, haven't you?". The Weekend at Bernie's idea would have been better. But, that's what the woman did, put the dog in the suitcase and dragged it to the bus stop as it was too heavy for her to carry. She was front of the queue and when the bus arrived she couldn't lift it up the stairs. A very helpful young man offered to help, went to pick up the suitcase and realising it weighed about the same as a dead dog in a suitcase asked what was in it. The woman panicked and came out the only reasonable explanation in a situation like this - "It's a computer". "Why is it so heavy?" she was asked by the man, struggling to lift it into the luggage bay at the front of the bus. "It's a very big and expensive computer, I'm giving it to a friend". The suitcase was left at the front of the bus and the woman went to sit with a friend she had seen at the back. Ten minutes later, she got to her stop, got to the front of the bus to get her case - and it had gone. Nicked. By the bloke who put it on the bus for her as he thought it contained a very heavy expensive computer.
I still can't work out what's funnier, the thought of an old woman on a bus realising her dead dog has been stolen, but not being able to say the words "Someone has nicked my dead dog", or the look on the bloke's face when he opened the suitcase to find a dead dog. The woman tried to find it, the bus company checked the CCTV, she rang around Cash Converters and pawn shops (seriously) to see if anyone has come in with a suitcase asking for a price on the contents, then revealing a dead dog to a member of staff that, if that happened, would still be off sick now with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. The woman telling the story then ran to get her bus so I don't know whether she was reunited with her dog at the finish. But what I do know is that the cat eating the hamster was simpler and cheaper.
Friday, 21 October 2011
Health & Safety
Health and Safety is a good thing. Warnings are good if there is a genuine risk of danger. However as a nation we are being treated like idiots. There are some warnings that are useful, a classic is a "Beware of the dog" sign. Great. I know if I go in that area then there is a dog I need to be wary of. The plaque on the top of the food warmer section of the fryers in chip shops that says "Caution: Hot" is unnecessary. If I'm tall enough to touch that part of the equipment then I'm big enough, old enough, supposedly wise enough to realise that, since it is attached to the container of hot oil and is made of metal, it's a bit warm. The sign on the side of petrol pumps telling us they contain a flammable liquid is unnecessary. It's a petrol pump. It has petrol in it. Of course there is a flammable liquid in there, that's the whole point of it's existence. What next, warnings stamped on the heads of sharks saying "Warning: Contains Teeth"?
Did you know that a chainsaw has a moving blade that could chop off a body part? No? Neither did I, that was of course until I read the safety notice on the box of my chainsaw, suddenly I became a safer person, less likely to try and grab the spinning chain, or rest it on my leg whilst it is in motion. No, wait, I did know that, and do you know why? Because I've got a fucking brain in my nut. To be honest, if some numpty is stupid enough to grab the spinning blade of a chainsaw then frankly we are better off without them.
I was in a store in Guisborough, a small town not far from Middlesbrough, that was selling, amongst other things, cutlery. I had some time to kill so I was looking through the items and saw a children's cutlery set. A children's cutlery set, for those who don't know, consists of a small knife, which is about an inch in thickness, round as the top, has no sharp edge and can just about cut through mashed potato, a small fork, which has big rounded ends on the prongs so that a child couldn't stab themselves (or their food for that matter), and a small spoon that is really a mini spatula as it hasn't got a curved surface for things like soup or custard to gather on, they merely run over the side like when you spill a drink on a table. They are designed to be safe in the hands of babies and purposely shaped so they cannot cause an injury. Attached to the packaging was a sticker saying "WARNING! Do not sell to persons under the age of 18!". So, just to clarify that, a teenage mum can't buy that product, but their 1 year old child can use it to eat.
Of course, most of these warning signs are focused on safety. The health warnings are even more staggering. For example, bleach with a "Do not drink" warning on it. Why? It's bleach, I know not to drink it, because it's bleach. Are these companies really frightened of someone downing a bottle of Domestos and then saying "well, it didn't say on the bottle I couldn't drink it". It also doesn't say on the bottle "Not for anal use" but that doesn't mean I'm going to shove it up my arse for my own amusement. Not again, anyway. Hang on, that was toilet duck. Bloody angled neck.
At work this week we had a company do a "Live Well Work Well" session with us. The theory being if we improved our health then sickness levels would drop. I've been to a few of these in the past and found them quite informative. I've learned at these events that my blood pressure was a bit high and that I was very overweight. I also learned that smoking is bad for you, as is eating too much fast food, doing no exercise, and drinking excessively. All useful information that. However, this session was a bit different. The group had to stand up in a circle and imagine being stressed, then imagine what emotion was being felt at the time. The group leader then threw a ball at someone (putting pressure on them to catch it, thus increasing their stress levels), and then they had to share their emotion. Then we had to think of a long term health condition that could result if suffering from stress and the ball was thrown about again. The final thing in this activity was to think of an something that we did to relieve stress. Now, I can pretty much guarantee that 90% of people reading this are thinking of masturbation (I know I was at the time), but as I was around some people I didn't know I didn't think it was the right social setting to share that, so I opted for listening to music instead. Interestingly, most people suggested drinking as their relaxation activity, not very good for your health that.
The final activity was to do with BMI and waist measurement which involved a special tape measure with a BMI wheel on it. Using these measures I discovered I had the waist measurement of a small planet and the BMI of a rhino. Annoyingly all the people who said they drank to relieve stress were much skinnier and healthier looking than me. Perhaps drinking has some benefits after all, not that they'd put that on the label.
Did you know that a chainsaw has a moving blade that could chop off a body part? No? Neither did I, that was of course until I read the safety notice on the box of my chainsaw, suddenly I became a safer person, less likely to try and grab the spinning chain, or rest it on my leg whilst it is in motion. No, wait, I did know that, and do you know why? Because I've got a fucking brain in my nut. To be honest, if some numpty is stupid enough to grab the spinning blade of a chainsaw then frankly we are better off without them.
I was in a store in Guisborough, a small town not far from Middlesbrough, that was selling, amongst other things, cutlery. I had some time to kill so I was looking through the items and saw a children's cutlery set. A children's cutlery set, for those who don't know, consists of a small knife, which is about an inch in thickness, round as the top, has no sharp edge and can just about cut through mashed potato, a small fork, which has big rounded ends on the prongs so that a child couldn't stab themselves (or their food for that matter), and a small spoon that is really a mini spatula as it hasn't got a curved surface for things like soup or custard to gather on, they merely run over the side like when you spill a drink on a table. They are designed to be safe in the hands of babies and purposely shaped so they cannot cause an injury. Attached to the packaging was a sticker saying "WARNING! Do not sell to persons under the age of 18!". So, just to clarify that, a teenage mum can't buy that product, but their 1 year old child can use it to eat.
Of course, most of these warning signs are focused on safety. The health warnings are even more staggering. For example, bleach with a "Do not drink" warning on it. Why? It's bleach, I know not to drink it, because it's bleach. Are these companies really frightened of someone downing a bottle of Domestos and then saying "well, it didn't say on the bottle I couldn't drink it". It also doesn't say on the bottle "Not for anal use" but that doesn't mean I'm going to shove it up my arse for my own amusement. Not again, anyway. Hang on, that was toilet duck. Bloody angled neck.
At work this week we had a company do a "Live Well Work Well" session with us. The theory being if we improved our health then sickness levels would drop. I've been to a few of these in the past and found them quite informative. I've learned at these events that my blood pressure was a bit high and that I was very overweight. I also learned that smoking is bad for you, as is eating too much fast food, doing no exercise, and drinking excessively. All useful information that. However, this session was a bit different. The group had to stand up in a circle and imagine being stressed, then imagine what emotion was being felt at the time. The group leader then threw a ball at someone (putting pressure on them to catch it, thus increasing their stress levels), and then they had to share their emotion. Then we had to think of a long term health condition that could result if suffering from stress and the ball was thrown about again. The final thing in this activity was to think of an something that we did to relieve stress. Now, I can pretty much guarantee that 90% of people reading this are thinking of masturbation (I know I was at the time), but as I was around some people I didn't know I didn't think it was the right social setting to share that, so I opted for listening to music instead. Interestingly, most people suggested drinking as their relaxation activity, not very good for your health that.
The final activity was to do with BMI and waist measurement which involved a special tape measure with a BMI wheel on it. Using these measures I discovered I had the waist measurement of a small planet and the BMI of a rhino. Annoyingly all the people who said they drank to relieve stress were much skinnier and healthier looking than me. Perhaps drinking has some benefits after all, not that they'd put that on the label.
Saturday, 8 October 2011
Buses
Economics. The simple reason why I use the bus to get to work. £18 a week to travel to and from my job from home, compared to £20 just to park the car at work, before fuel costs, tyre wear, the cost of cleaning pedestrian blood off the bonnet etc.. It makes complete sense to use public transport on the basis of cost. However, using public transport has a hidden price: my sanity.
For starters, there's the bus driver. God. The man/woman who believe that because they can operate a ticket machine (or not, in some cases) they control the world, that all before them must bow down at their feet. I am sure that bus drivers are manufactured with a drawstring in the back that is pulled when a phrase is needed. things like "I don't stop there" or "£10? Sorry, I can't change that, it's too early". What? Too early? By that do you mean your brain hasn't woken up yet and you can't do subtraction? "If I change that I'll have no change left". So let me get this right, you don't want to give change out because you'll have no change left, well why have any in the first place if you're not going to use it? Why not make customers pay in chocolate or whisky miniatures or pies so you can keep your precious change to use when you play the Sega Rally games at service stations?
After that, bus drivers fall into two categories, the Steady Eddie and the rally driver. The Steady Eddie never goes above the speed limit, drives smooth and consistent and as a result makes you late in rush hour traffic. The rally driver travels everywhere at 60mph, drives past stops he's far too early for, then sits for 10 minutes at the side of the road so as not to be too early at the station. To the rally driver, the speed bump is not a traffic calming initiative, but a ramp to indulge their Red Bull X Fighter inner being that is dying to get out.
The minimum expectation of any driver by the passengers on board is that the driver knows the route. I have been on a bus where the driver stopped and asked the passengers for directions. I was on another bus where the driver started on the wrong route, stopped at a bus stop to be told by a woman waiting at the stand "You're in the wrong place, the X5 doesn't go this way".
The drivers, however aren't the worse thing about buses. The bus itself is a grotty little sweat box with the comfort level of a pit of snakes and the noise level of a OAP's television. The seats are stuffed with offal (well, they smell like they are), and are packed so close together that if you have legs, you need to remove them and leave them at the front before sitting down.
But even the bus isn't the worst thing about bus travel. I am. Me and every bugger else who sits or stands and is transported from A to B via Guatemala, whether it's on the route or not, inflicting little bits of our personality, or lack thereof, on our fellow passengers. Teenagers, leaving college for the day, who think it is acceptable to play shite on their mobile phones whilst talking about rimming Girls Aloud to the spot covered walking tampon they got on board with. Alpha males, tight tops, beer gut, wanking arm considerably larger that the tissue arm, carrying a bag from Sports Direct that probably has a sports bra in it so they can try and sneak into a women's only gym to try and coax some life into their steroid shrivelled nob. The worker, the backbone of the country, keeping the economy moving, however they are like a social leper in this environment because they aren't pushing a pram or eating a Greggs sausage roll. The young mother, barely out of her teens, pram, Primark bags, child twice as big as it should be eating a bag of crisps, other child running into the legs of fellow passengers and making grunting noises.
The worst offenders, in my opinion, the elderly. Don't get me wrong, I have a lot of respect for the elderly, they have somehow kept this nation working, fought for our liberties and won. However, if I have piles, or herpes, or rashes, or thrush, or incontinence trousers I keep it to myself. The elderly, they have the war mentality. "They blew up my coal bunker but they haven't beaten me yet". Stiff upper lip, standing up to the enemy and winning, showing they won't be beaten. The modern equivalent to this? "Well, the doctor says I have anal bleeding so Alf rubs cream into my bottom twice a day and I've never felt better". I DON'T CARE!!! I DON'T WANT TO KNOW!!! There is never an acceptable social situation to discuss your warts, I know this and they've been around longer than me. And how do I know they have been around longer than me? Because they tell me. All the time. "I'm 72 and I'm still here". I WISH I WASN'T!!! Seriously, well done, you're old, you look it, I can tell, don't patronise me by telling me your old, I'm not blind.
Then there's me. Fat, bald, wears a baseball cap with my work clothes to stop my head getting sun burnt, iPod on. I must be the strangest of the lot because when the bus is full, and there are very few seats left, the seats next to the young, the old, the young mothers and the Alpha males all get filled by their peers. Me? Well, people would rather stand in the aisles than sit next to me. What does that tell you?
For starters, there's the bus driver. God. The man/woman who believe that because they can operate a ticket machine (or not, in some cases) they control the world, that all before them must bow down at their feet. I am sure that bus drivers are manufactured with a drawstring in the back that is pulled when a phrase is needed. things like "I don't stop there" or "£10? Sorry, I can't change that, it's too early". What? Too early? By that do you mean your brain hasn't woken up yet and you can't do subtraction? "If I change that I'll have no change left". So let me get this right, you don't want to give change out because you'll have no change left, well why have any in the first place if you're not going to use it? Why not make customers pay in chocolate or whisky miniatures or pies so you can keep your precious change to use when you play the Sega Rally games at service stations?
After that, bus drivers fall into two categories, the Steady Eddie and the rally driver. The Steady Eddie never goes above the speed limit, drives smooth and consistent and as a result makes you late in rush hour traffic. The rally driver travels everywhere at 60mph, drives past stops he's far too early for, then sits for 10 minutes at the side of the road so as not to be too early at the station. To the rally driver, the speed bump is not a traffic calming initiative, but a ramp to indulge their Red Bull X Fighter inner being that is dying to get out.
The minimum expectation of any driver by the passengers on board is that the driver knows the route. I have been on a bus where the driver stopped and asked the passengers for directions. I was on another bus where the driver started on the wrong route, stopped at a bus stop to be told by a woman waiting at the stand "You're in the wrong place, the X5 doesn't go this way".
The drivers, however aren't the worse thing about buses. The bus itself is a grotty little sweat box with the comfort level of a pit of snakes and the noise level of a OAP's television. The seats are stuffed with offal (well, they smell like they are), and are packed so close together that if you have legs, you need to remove them and leave them at the front before sitting down.
But even the bus isn't the worst thing about bus travel. I am. Me and every bugger else who sits or stands and is transported from A to B via Guatemala, whether it's on the route or not, inflicting little bits of our personality, or lack thereof, on our fellow passengers. Teenagers, leaving college for the day, who think it is acceptable to play shite on their mobile phones whilst talking about rimming Girls Aloud to the spot covered walking tampon they got on board with. Alpha males, tight tops, beer gut, wanking arm considerably larger that the tissue arm, carrying a bag from Sports Direct that probably has a sports bra in it so they can try and sneak into a women's only gym to try and coax some life into their steroid shrivelled nob. The worker, the backbone of the country, keeping the economy moving, however they are like a social leper in this environment because they aren't pushing a pram or eating a Greggs sausage roll. The young mother, barely out of her teens, pram, Primark bags, child twice as big as it should be eating a bag of crisps, other child running into the legs of fellow passengers and making grunting noises.
The worst offenders, in my opinion, the elderly. Don't get me wrong, I have a lot of respect for the elderly, they have somehow kept this nation working, fought for our liberties and won. However, if I have piles, or herpes, or rashes, or thrush, or incontinence trousers I keep it to myself. The elderly, they have the war mentality. "They blew up my coal bunker but they haven't beaten me yet". Stiff upper lip, standing up to the enemy and winning, showing they won't be beaten. The modern equivalent to this? "Well, the doctor says I have anal bleeding so Alf rubs cream into my bottom twice a day and I've never felt better". I DON'T CARE!!! I DON'T WANT TO KNOW!!! There is never an acceptable social situation to discuss your warts, I know this and they've been around longer than me. And how do I know they have been around longer than me? Because they tell me. All the time. "I'm 72 and I'm still here". I WISH I WASN'T!!! Seriously, well done, you're old, you look it, I can tell, don't patronise me by telling me your old, I'm not blind.
Then there's me. Fat, bald, wears a baseball cap with my work clothes to stop my head getting sun burnt, iPod on. I must be the strangest of the lot because when the bus is full, and there are very few seats left, the seats next to the young, the old, the young mothers and the Alpha males all get filled by their peers. Me? Well, people would rather stand in the aisles than sit next to me. What does that tell you?
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