It’s Friday night. No, it’s
not. It’s now Saturday morning, 3.30am to be precise. Sure, I went out on
Friday night but I’m coming home in a different time zone. I’m walking across
Trafalgar Square. I know I should get a taxi but I opt for the night bus. It’s
cheaper by about forty quid. Why I’m working at that kind of economic level I
don’t know. After all, my night out has already cost me a hundred and fifteen
quid. Maybe that’s why I’m doing it. Two pounds and forty pence on the bus;
forty-five in a taxi. Seems like a good idea.
There’s a crowd round the bus stop when I get there. Some checking the timetable, some stuffing the remnants of a burger into their faces, onions and red sauce hanging off their lips. Dining out in London. Behind me there’s a guy, his shirt hanging open to reveal a scrawny white chest, singing some incoherent ditty as he pisses up against the corner of a building. You’re in London man. Lord Nelson is looking at you. You got no respect? A dark puddle forms around his trainers and trickles away into the gutter like many a night on the tiles. I turn away. Ahead of me I see the shiny bright red of a Routemaster, its headlights beaming, a yellow glow of light spilling over the passengers on both decks. The crowd moves forward. No orderly queue here. I pay my money and look for a seat. Nothing. I head upstairs.
I squeeze onto a seat in the middle of the bus, next to a guy who’s lolling in some sort of fitful twitching sleep against the window, a can of coke perched perilously on his lap. It’s the only seat left on the top deck. I got no choice. Across the aisle two girls, their skirts riding high, are giggling about their night out while it is still fresh and the adrenaline is still coursing through them. It’s the only view worth looking at. The whole top deck is a clamour of chatter, random shouts and screams, alive and bustling. The bus lurches forward and then it begins.
There’s always one. The night bus entertainer. The bus clown. He walks forward from the back seat regaling the aisles with a song. I think it’s meant to be ‘Wonderwall.’ Maybe he thinks it is too. In his right hand there’s a can of Fosters. His left hand is slapping the handrails. It’s not meant to be a percussion accompaniment. It’s just him trying to keep his balance. I just want to get home. I find myself thinking in a kind of New York trash talk. Don’t know why. I’m from Wimbledon. Must be that last JD and coke. Sit down muva. It’s hometime. We don’t need it. Party’s done here. He carries on. Clearly he doesn’t do telepathy. Some of the bus crowd are getting into it. That only encourages him. He starts to shimmy like he’s on X-factor. Maybe he should be. He’s got no talent. He does a spin at the top end of the bus and starts a return strut. He reaches the seats opposite me where the two ‘ladies’ are sitting and decides to serenade them.
'I done bleeve dat anybahdee feels the way a do aboucha now...'
The girls are giggling. The ping of the bus bell brings the bus to a slow halt. Not slow enough for the cabaret guy. The stopping motion causes him to lurch back. He over compensates by lurching forward. His Fosters can is in perfect sync. A slop of beer pitches from the can and hits me right in the face. Surprise rather than anger causes me to jump up.
‘Hey, mate. Watch what you’re doing with that friggin beer will you.’
He turns towards me, his eyes trying to focus, his lips pursed in the way a drunk’s lips do when the brain is forming a sentence but the tongue is unable to articulate the thought within the same time frame.‘Whasureproblem?’ was what came out.
My problem? I had Foster’s lager trickling down my chin. I’d had that before but normally I’d paid for it first. Yeah, what is my problem I asked myself? Maybe it was the fact that I was stuck on the night bus with a crowd of people whose collective IQ had now dipped below imbecile level. Perhaps if the X-factor wannabee got off the bus at that point it may have zoomed up to moron category. Still, it was my fault. I had wanted to save forty quid and now I was getting the benefit. Cheap fares and full on, up front, participatory entertainment.
I glanced around. The ‘bus’ was looking at me. I was on Mastermind and needed to answer the question. The two girls opposite turned their painted faces in my direction. My inquisitor swayed around an upright hand rail like some nightmarish pole dancer.
‘My problem,’ I began, ‘is that if the round is on you, I’d sooner a JD and coke. All beered out tonight.’
Humour. Maybe that would diffuse the thing. Maybe make me look cool too. I waited. The two girls giggled. ‘Wonderwall’ screwed up his face, his eyes momentarily turning into slits. His brain had shut down several departments. The synapses that normally fire up the neurons to operate sight had bid goodnight. Instead a substitute stepped in. His brow creased several times, up and down like an accordion, until the upward motion opened the two unfocussed slits.
Who knows what his next words of wisdom were to be. The bus lurched away from the stop causing him to tilt backwards. With his hand still holding the upright rail, his impetus swung him around to face the front of the bus. As it did, his head caught the rail just above the bridge of his nose. It was the perfect knockout. He pitched forward and landed on his face, the Fosters can hitting the deck and rolling straight under his body. The two girls screamed. The rest of the bus whooped and cheered. I sat back down in my seat. Next to me my ‘travelling companion’ remained oblivious, wrapped up in the comatose sleep of a battle bus drunk.
As I slumped back into my seat and contemplated twenty five more stops to go, I began to see the value of forty quid.
There’s a crowd round the bus stop when I get there. Some checking the timetable, some stuffing the remnants of a burger into their faces, onions and red sauce hanging off their lips. Dining out in London. Behind me there’s a guy, his shirt hanging open to reveal a scrawny white chest, singing some incoherent ditty as he pisses up against the corner of a building. You’re in London man. Lord Nelson is looking at you. You got no respect? A dark puddle forms around his trainers and trickles away into the gutter like many a night on the tiles. I turn away. Ahead of me I see the shiny bright red of a Routemaster, its headlights beaming, a yellow glow of light spilling over the passengers on both decks. The crowd moves forward. No orderly queue here. I pay my money and look for a seat. Nothing. I head upstairs.
I squeeze onto a seat in the middle of the bus, next to a guy who’s lolling in some sort of fitful twitching sleep against the window, a can of coke perched perilously on his lap. It’s the only seat left on the top deck. I got no choice. Across the aisle two girls, their skirts riding high, are giggling about their night out while it is still fresh and the adrenaline is still coursing through them. It’s the only view worth looking at. The whole top deck is a clamour of chatter, random shouts and screams, alive and bustling. The bus lurches forward and then it begins.
There’s always one. The night bus entertainer. The bus clown. He walks forward from the back seat regaling the aisles with a song. I think it’s meant to be ‘Wonderwall.’ Maybe he thinks it is too. In his right hand there’s a can of Fosters. His left hand is slapping the handrails. It’s not meant to be a percussion accompaniment. It’s just him trying to keep his balance. I just want to get home. I find myself thinking in a kind of New York trash talk. Don’t know why. I’m from Wimbledon. Must be that last JD and coke. Sit down muva. It’s hometime. We don’t need it. Party’s done here. He carries on. Clearly he doesn’t do telepathy. Some of the bus crowd are getting into it. That only encourages him. He starts to shimmy like he’s on X-factor. Maybe he should be. He’s got no talent. He does a spin at the top end of the bus and starts a return strut. He reaches the seats opposite me where the two ‘ladies’ are sitting and decides to serenade them.
'I done bleeve dat anybahdee feels the way a do aboucha now...'
The girls are giggling. The ping of the bus bell brings the bus to a slow halt. Not slow enough for the cabaret guy. The stopping motion causes him to lurch back. He over compensates by lurching forward. His Fosters can is in perfect sync. A slop of beer pitches from the can and hits me right in the face. Surprise rather than anger causes me to jump up.
‘Hey, mate. Watch what you’re doing with that friggin beer will you.’
He turns towards me, his eyes trying to focus, his lips pursed in the way a drunk’s lips do when the brain is forming a sentence but the tongue is unable to articulate the thought within the same time frame.‘Whasureproblem?’ was what came out.
My problem? I had Foster’s lager trickling down my chin. I’d had that before but normally I’d paid for it first. Yeah, what is my problem I asked myself? Maybe it was the fact that I was stuck on the night bus with a crowd of people whose collective IQ had now dipped below imbecile level. Perhaps if the X-factor wannabee got off the bus at that point it may have zoomed up to moron category. Still, it was my fault. I had wanted to save forty quid and now I was getting the benefit. Cheap fares and full on, up front, participatory entertainment.
I glanced around. The ‘bus’ was looking at me. I was on Mastermind and needed to answer the question. The two girls opposite turned their painted faces in my direction. My inquisitor swayed around an upright hand rail like some nightmarish pole dancer.
‘My problem,’ I began, ‘is that if the round is on you, I’d sooner a JD and coke. All beered out tonight.’
Humour. Maybe that would diffuse the thing. Maybe make me look cool too. I waited. The two girls giggled. ‘Wonderwall’ screwed up his face, his eyes momentarily turning into slits. His brain had shut down several departments. The synapses that normally fire up the neurons to operate sight had bid goodnight. Instead a substitute stepped in. His brow creased several times, up and down like an accordion, until the upward motion opened the two unfocussed slits.
Who knows what his next words of wisdom were to be. The bus lurched away from the stop causing him to tilt backwards. With his hand still holding the upright rail, his impetus swung him around to face the front of the bus. As it did, his head caught the rail just above the bridge of his nose. It was the perfect knockout. He pitched forward and landed on his face, the Fosters can hitting the deck and rolling straight under his body. The two girls screamed. The rest of the bus whooped and cheered. I sat back down in my seat. Next to me my ‘travelling companion’ remained oblivious, wrapped up in the comatose sleep of a battle bus drunk.
As I slumped back into my seat and contemplated twenty five more stops to go, I began to see the value of forty quid.
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