The Conservative Club (another oddball in military gear)

Rick and Libby climbed the stairs noisily, dumped their shopping in the aisle and sat at the front of the bus. They seemed oblivious to the world around them and in particular, the young man a few seats back, scribbling frantically in his notebook. Libby took the front seat, rummaged in her bag for a few seconds, pulled out a ball of wool and started knitting. Rick sat behind her.

"Ugh, Libs your neck just clicked," he said, and then began to massage her neck.

After spending six years commuting by train to London, for the next two months I'll be getting the bus. The transition is like crossing the Rubicon of sanity. The train, though not without its fair share of freaks, weirdos and gimp-grandchildren, provides a relatively normal experience in comparison to the mad house known as the bus.

An Indian man sat to their right. He was speaking on the phone very loudly, very fast. Libs shot him an irritated glance. She wore thick-lensed glasses, the lenses so thick her eyes appeared as tiny specks.

Rick was another one of those army fruitcakes, an overweight balding man clad entirely in camouflage gear. Frank Skinner once said that anyone wearing more than two badges is a nutter. Rick had more badges than a festival junkie.

"Leave me alone Rick," said Libs, "you're hurting me." "Yak, yak, yak," said the Indian man. "I'm not gonna hurt you Libs," assured Rick, with a touch of genuine disappointment in his voice. He reminded me of a disgruntled gorilla, not that I've ever seen one or for that matter would want to see one.

An old man got on the bus, we had to wait for a thousand years as he climbed slowly up the stairs. Two stops later he pressed the button, millennia flew by as the bus waited for him. He climbed down the stairs backwards. Slowly, painfully, his joints creaking (I imagine). The madness of it all, the effort he went through for a couple of minutes on the top deck.

Rick and Libs' shopping fell down the stairs as the bus turned a sharp corner. I was that close to bursting into wild, hearty laughter. Rick went after it, the moment was pure comedy. He could be heard scrambling about downstairs like a pig let loose in a grocery store. The rustling of plastic bags, the sound of tins rolling with the motion of the bus, the muffled curses as he stumbled about. When he finally returned all seemed forgotten, once again his hands found themselves on Libs' neck.

"How's this?" he asked. "Leave me alone, " she whined, her needles still clicking away.

I was fascinated by this mundane scene. Where were they going? A council estate? A working men's club? Down the newsagent to buy some lottery tickets? On route to buy a 300 inch plasma TV that they cannot afford? Who knows? I'm not one for stereotyping. They got off the bus and walked straight into a Conservative Club, of all places. If those guys are Tory we're all in trouble. The Indian chap watched this intently, he looked as surprised as I was. The world is a strange place.

I descended the stairs prepared for carnage, fully expecting to see broccoli scattered about, a dented tin of beans perhaps, or a puddle of milk by the priority seats. Nothing, just a suspicious-looking group of pensioners and a couple of schoolchildren. Rick, to his credit, had cleaned the whole lot up.

Asswipes, Smartasses, Blood and Buffaloes

The man opposite me was sitting in the aisle seat. The window seat next to him was vacant. He must have a good reason, I thought. You need a good reason to place yourself between the aisle and the other seat like that, especially on a commuter train. You'll have to get up to let someone in, then you'll have to get up to let them out. All this is a real pain in the backside, especially if it happens multiple times.

The train pulled into Hove, which is the most irritating stop on the line. The train is nearly full by the time it reaches Hove, and Hove is where a million people try and get on. They wait in impatient clusters on the platform. When the doors open they stampede on like a herd of crazy buffalo and fight for the remaining seats. Animals. If I get on a crowded train with hardly any free seats I always let the ladies take the seats. Proof that I'm a gentleman right? At Hove there is no such behaviour. I've seen total jerks barge ladies out of the way in order to nab a seat. Asswipes.

A desultory herd of buffalo charged down the aisle.

"Please may I sit there?" a female buffalo asked the gentleman opposite me, pointing at the vacant seat by the window.

"There's a stain," he explained, pointing at the seat. I knew there had to be a reason. I leaned over and sure enough there was a stain. It wasn't so much a stain, more of a bloody mess. I doubt it was blood, more likely it was ketchup, but it was red, wet and sticky, revolting, it looked like some gimp-grandchild had bitten into a hot dog and sprayed ketchup all over the seat.

"God Almighty!" she exclaimed, stiffened for a moment like a wildebeest surprised by a crocodile and then rushed towards another seat.

"Can I sit there?" asked a male buffalo.

"Sure," said the gentleman, "but it is stained." The buffalo insisted that he wanted the seat so the gentleman opposite me stood up and let him through. The buffalo almost sat down, saw the mess and then scampered off. The gentleman sat back down. The whole scene became even more comical.

Another buffalo asked if he could sit in the spare seat. Once again the gentleman said it was stained.

"Sorry?" asked the buffalo, leaning forward and cupping his ear.

"It's stained."

"Pardon?"

"IT'S STAINED!"

The buffalo inspected the seat, shook his head wearily and went and stood in the vestibule area, sulking in a pit of melodramatic despair. These buffaloes are depressive beasts. The gentleman opposite me grinned. If it was me I would have imploded. Getting up, sitting down, getting up, sitting down, repeatedly have to explain that the seat was a mess. He was taking all this remarkably well.

As ol' Clint once so wisely observed, there are two kinds of people in this world. I'd like to add to that. Some people use their initiative but the majority throw in the towel at the first opportunity. The forth buffalo used his initiative. He asked for the seat, chucked his paper down on it and sat on the paper. Smartass.