busses
Giving your seat to elderly people on the bus (btw: why do they travel during rush hours - shuldn't they be at home drinking coffee / stroking their cat / reuniting with their long lost son / writing memoirs) is a nice habit. I usually do so - my parents were decent folk and brought me up decent. But every once in a while I can't be bothered to stand up. That's always a mistake. I've been:
-poked at
-commented ostensibly by a group of five nuns (particularly spooky)
-'accidentally' hit with an umbrella/flower pot
-sat upon
-traumatized in many over ways I can't remember. Because it was traumatic.
(Doctor Beat, Wed 4 Jun 2008, 20:22, 2 replies)

Not exactly public transport
Couple of weeks ago I got told to remove my transformers t-shirt at Heathrow Terminal 5 to get through airport security. Told so because he was carrying a gun according to the security guy.

Anyway, after posting about it on my blog, the story broke.

I got on page 15 of "The Sun" on Monday.

www.thesun.co.uk/sol/homepage/news/article1234193.ece

BBC heard about it, and sent over a film crew. The news article:

news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/england/london/7431640.stm

And the interview that aired at 6:30 pm in London:

www.youtube.com/watch?v=bx1-ebyXNMY

I got a pint out of it from the BBC. Which since it came from my license fees, tasted even better.

It even got as far that my Mum in Brisbane, Australia saw my picture on an early morning chat show talking about it.

So yeah, pretty crappy experience having to change my t-shirt at terminal 5, been interesting the fallout though.

Anyway, the worst experience is to come I'm sure, as I expect I've been put on a "black list" for extra special treatment next time I go through an airport, for showing what fools BAA are.

EDIT: BTW, the most amusing thing about the whole thing is reading comments on blogs/news sites around the world. They range from those giving grief to a 30 year old wearing a transformers t-shirt, to those arguing that it isn't Megatron, it's Optimus Prime.

My favourite comment so far "That's not a Brad, it's a Robert in disguise"
(Kaer, Wed 4 Jun 2008, 20:14, 15 replies)

We appear to have returned
And to celebrate, a story from some friends:

Some friends were once on the train down through England to see Metallica play in Milton Keynes. Why so many big bands play in Milton Keynes I don't know, but that's where they were headed anyway.

So about half way down through England, they are sitting on the train when all of a sudden it gets very noisy, and then the train starts to slow down. Slow down to a crawl.

So they eventually pull into the next station, and all go to get off the train, as apparently it is no longer in use. The reason?

One of the doors had blown out while the train was going at full speed. If someone had been walking past, they could well have got sucked out the door.

They then had to wait in the station for about 2 hours until another train turned up to get them.

They made it to the concert though, and it was amazing. I was jealous.
(PenguinOfDeath is Scottish, and most likely angry, Wed 4 Jun 2008, 19:58, 1 reply)

My worst transport story
was when I was riding in a tart's knickers. They went up and down nearly as often as this site!

Made me seasick :(
( Kroney, Wed 4 Jun 2008, 19:51, 4 replies)

Greece (or something)...
This was years ago when I still holidayed with my dad. The two most popular destinations were Greece and Morocco so chances are it was one of the two.

Anyway we had to get a stupidly under priced taxi from our hotel to the nearest town, about 5 miles away (the taxi cost somewhere in the region of 78p if I recall). On the first day we hailed a cab, stated our destination and were happily on our way when the driver suddenly swerved onto a dusty track, through some kind of plantation, and came to a stop outside a very 'rustic' cottage. Where he proceeded to make signaling sounds with a toy ray-gun.

Now, being the simple eight-year-old I was, I saw nothing wrong with this route. It later transpired that my dad shat himself (probably). Balaclava, AK-47 and "just take all the money!" perhaps spring to mind.
Anyway, turned out that all he was doing was swapping shifts with his brother. Or something..

(First post, by the way.)
(TheVeryReverand, Wed 4 Jun 2008, 2:12, Reply)

The Crazy Lady of GNER
Was on a train from London to Leeds with my fiancée just back from sunny Poland. We were sitting in the middle of the carriage, and the first thing we noticed was the rather loud conversation happening on the seats in front of us. 'Two ladies' seemed to be having a really loud but totally nonsensical conversation.

This is nothing unusual you might think, but then things got a bit weird.

One of the presumed ladies kept getting up and loudly stomping up and down the carriage every two minutes. We are talking about the form of walking little 2 year olds do when attempting to sound like an elephant, placing each foot down in a stomp as heavily as possible.

After this had been going on for quite some time I happened to stand up to get something from my bag when I noticed that the other 'lady' from the conversation was no-where to be seen. However, only one person had kept getting up and stomping up and down the carriage. Instead of someone else there was simply a large pile of shopping bags on the second seat.

There was of course no second person and the happy stomper had in fact been having a rather loud and animated conversation with herself for the best part of the journey.

It gets better....

This pattern of loudly talking to herself and getting up and charging about the place continued for quite some time, and as you can guess everybody was looking at each other with the same thoughts in mind. I was held in check from voicing my opinion by the embarrassment of my fiancée. Amazingly everyone else in the carriage was too polite to do or say anything either, so we all just sat there quietly listening and watching this one woman show.

Eventually we pull into some random station in the middle of nowhere and a ticket lady happens to be in our carriage.

'Are we stopping here?' says Stomper in barely understandable English.

'Erm, yes', came the reply.

'OK, I'm just going out for a smoke then ' grunts Stomper.

'Well we're only here for about 2 minutes...' says ticket lady as patiently as possible.

'That's alright then just wait for me.' squeals Stompy

She proceeds to drag all of her rather large shopping bags (of which there were several) off the train in order to light up. Needless to say the train pulled away practically straight away, leaving her to whatever fate awaited her in some obscure part of the midlands.

Silence fell in our carriage for the very first time on the entire journey. Then, one young lad said quite eloquently and in a broad Northern accent exactly what we were all thinking:

'She was a fucking nutter!'

Length? About 200 miles
(Polish bstard, Wed 4 Jun 2008, 1:27, Reply)

Travelling from Swansea
As a student (yes scum of the earth etc) living in Swansea, I occasionally have to travel back home to Birmingham - usually to scrounge more money off the folks, or a gig. Both more often than not.
So first time going back home on my lonesome decided I'll travel back using National Express, probably be comfier than the train. Hop on the coach and grab a seat a few rows from the front behind the driver. Have my phone on listening to music, but relatively low and with earphones - as I am not a nob. So I can still hear the conversation between two old women and the coach driver when I hear him tell them:
"oh there's not a day goes by when I don't see traffic jams they're everyday *well obviously I think to myself, he's a driver nothing out of the ordinary there* oh and a hell of alot of car crashes nearly every day *again normalish motorway driving fine, okay I think to myself aslong as I'm no involved in the crash and I am one to rubberneck whenever theres a crash around* oh yeah I've seen a few decapitations in my days - heads clean off"
Now thats just something you do not want to hear before embarking on the three hour travel

On the same trip back home, was taking the train back from Birmingham New Street to my home town (aptly nicknamed The 'Ditch) sat listening to my mp3 player reading some studenty book which appears to make me look intelligent - but really that look of deep concentration and thought is infact utter confusion. Sat opposite a group of The Ditch's finest: ma-hoo-sive gold earrings, chewing gum with mouth open, hair pulled so tightly back and off to one side of their heads giving them permanent look of surprise *I'll never understand that look I really wont* blasting I believe it was "Soulja Boy" then start discussing locations within the UK
Skank 1: Wheres London then? I never know
Skank 2: It's just below Scotland 'ennit'
S1: So it goes Scotland, London, Birmingham?
S2: Yeah that's it

Ok paraphrasing but the conversation did go on for five minutes, when they realised neither of them knew were Dublin was

Okay not strictly relevant but I'm bored and work in 6 hours :(
(bryony*niamh kneecaps exist to be hit with clawhammers., Wed 4 Jun 2008, 1:00, 1 reply)

Sitting at the back of the bus on a cold day
Adjusting my boobs in a hopefully not too obvious way to make sure the nipples line up properly, I look up and lock eyes with a curious and slightly amused looking man. Oops. Not that subtle then.

That was a good journey actually.
(reducedfatLOLcat, Wed 4 Jun 2008, 0:22, 2 replies)

the first time i visited my mother on the train since she moved down to Cheltenham
the journey there was pretty damn good for Virgin rail. though, just a tip, sitting backwards on a train for an hour and a half while it's getting dark trying to write psychology essays is never a good idea. anyways... journey there, fine. got met off the train at half 10 by mother, didn't have to sit with anyone, loud iPod perfectly keeping noises of loud chavs going home from birmingham, so, altogether, not bad.

journey home, however, not so great.
when you book your tickets online, you get yourself a little seat number, woohoo! so when i come to sit in my seat (thank you, mother, window seat) there is some guy sitting there. so, calmly i tell him that it's my seat, as it says on the little fucking LED screen above the bloody seat! stupid man. anywho, instead of, as i'd hoped, he'd fuck off and sit elsewhere so i could continue to write my essays, he sat beside me. not, sort of casually facing away from me, but facing me. breathing his vodka breath on me. ew. so i get my note book and pen out and just write, ignoring him, when he leans on me, stares down my top and when i give him dirty looks, slurs "what we got here then love?" in the direction of a half done essay, in a brummy drawl. so not only have i got some drunken brum guy fucking sleeping on me for the best part of an hour, he's also interested in my cleavage...fun fun fun. and, unfortunately, i'd left my iPod on the dresser at my mum's.

oh, and bus chavs with their music.
and bus indians on their way to temple who smoke weed. didn't understand that one, but it made me a little light headed lol


sorry for the rant...just dislike drunk guys who lean on me and stare at my boobs
( Kaydie hasn't been on here in ages, Tue 3 Jun 2008, 23:57, Reply)

Not mine, but my girlfriend's trip to cuba.
On a lovely bus ride to trinidad from havana, not only was the scheduled refreshment stop at a small cantina, where everything was overpriced and the driver took a cut of the extra money any white folk paid, the bus had to stop for an hour in the baking heat because there was a strange whining coming from the undercarriage. Great, thinks the missus, stuck alone on the empty coast of a country i've already been mugged in once, and fleeced twice!

A bit of hunting around underneath the bus, and general headscratching, cigarette smoking and lazing about, the driver decides to turn everyone out, and enjoy a day onthe beach- after all, this strange noise could be a precursor to a horrible accident- and apparently spares or new vehicles are a bitch to come about in Cuba.

Pulls the trunks from the roof, and the ladyfriend gets ready to document her long trek across the coast of cuba, when they open the cargo bay underneath, and they all discover that some country cuban bumpkin was transporting her pig, and a couple of chickens cross country.

A pig. Squealing under the bus. Chickens no doubt egging it on (ha, egging!).

Heh, Communists. Equality for everyone including livestock!

That is all.
(stevkay, Tue 3 Jun 2008, 23:46, Reply)

I don't understand Oyster cards
and they scare me slightly.

When I used to live in London you could simply buy a travelcard - can't you do that any more?
(Half of Stephen Fry's right buttock pissed on your dog on, Tue 3 Jun 2008, 23:28, 4 replies)

Cambodia and Bolivia
ok i was just about to write about the horrors of 35 degree heat, no suspension and roads made of rubble. Shiting yourself and throwing up on a coach due to dodgy pad thai from the Khaosan Road and then having cockroaches crawl out the walls, but to be honest its all really good fun. so i wont whinge
(an_aminal, Tue 3 Jun 2008, 23:07, Reply)

Near death experience in a taxi...
I remember the novelty of seeing people you knew from your school days, when we first started getting into nightclubs. I recall bumping into a couple of lads I recognised from the year above and was pleased when they acknowledged me in the taxi queue. They were real hard cases and often got expelled for fighting, so I was chuffed when we were all drunken mates together. Of course I'd share my cab with them, we were all going the same way. Then it all suddenly turned very sinister as soon as the driver hit the open road. One of them grabbed the poor guys neck and insisted he turn up the sound system full blast. Just as I thought things were getting a little bit out of hand, the other nutcase clamps his hands over the driver's eyes whilst shouting FASTER-LOUDER-FASTER right in his ear! I was sat in the front petrified, wondering whether or not it would be a good idea to grab the wheel and steer? But as I was off my face I just froze, thinking this is it, I'm going die in a taxi and nobody will survive to explain what really happened. But maybe that would have been for the best...

It turns out that the other nutter has his own barbers shop in town, gave that I wide berth too.

Scary, very scary.
(minky, Tue 3 Jun 2008, 22:48, Reply)

Fenalnd personal hygiene.
I live in a Fenland village, some way out from a Fenland city (OK, Peterborough). The bus station is always full of excitingly different types, most of whom are missing vital chromosomes. Or have extra ones, not normally found in mammals. The guy who walks very fast, muttering "I'll fukkin 'av yer" to the timetables. The Partially Sighted Clock Collector with The Personality Disorder (His description of himself.) The woman who stood in front of me and my daughter in the queue, and calmly shat herself. We caught a cab, but not before I pointed her out to the driver. His comment? "Bloody hell, that's the 4th time this year. I've got her social worker's number somewhere."

Best of all was the chav who went up to a tiny Asian woman and started screaming racist bullshit. He didn't see her son. Her 6'2", 250lb son. I didn't know it was possible to crush a lower jaw with your hands. He screamed a lot more, but you couldn't make out much.
(all my scars face forward possesses 2.5% of a hyperalloy combat chassis, Tue 3 Jun 2008, 22:06, 1 reply)

Not remotely topic related
My new employer has blocked b3ta and I'm generally too knackered in the evenings to bother, so it looks like goodbye until I either win the lottery or become a bestselling author.

You have no idea how traumatic it is having to work all day. It'll be the death of me, I'm sure.
(frankspencer, Tue 3 Jun 2008, 21:55, 13 replies)

London Underground, 1991
1991, just before the first gulf war land phase kicked off, 10 Downing street was mortared. That was the day that yours truly was discharged from Woolwich Military Hospital after having my knee and leg sewn back together (how was I hurt before the land war started? That would be me being in a forward OP over the naughty side of the border, and the US Fighter that came to "protect" us from the Iraqis that had seen us actually bombed the Land Rover with a Union Flag on, rather than the arab horde chasing us. "Hullo AWACS, Hullo AWACS, this is us. Can you ask the USAF to leave us alone, and we'll throw rocks until the Tornados get here").

Any road up, no transport available so I had to get the tube then the train. But what ho? Mortar attacks at street level mean the Underground is packed (me on crutches has to stand), then the fucker stops in a tunnel ... for ages.

Arse bisuits.

To really top it off, this arse with a seat leans over, taps me on the leg (cheers cunt) and asks if I'm back from the gulf. I tell him I am - the february sun tan, the "Saddam Busters" T shirt, and the brick shithouse look might have given it away. Did he offer me his seat? Did he fuck. Said the change in weather must be a bit of shock, then goes back to his Financial Times.

PS. It wasn't all that much of a change of weather actually. The desert gets -fuckº cold quicker than you put a jumper on, so take that, smart arse city feller.
(nobbyd is wanking furiously to industrial grade porn on, Tue 3 Jun 2008, 21:54, Reply)

Finding the 'Turd' Class Carriage
Repost from Shit Stories Part 2 - but anyway...

news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/england/6089042.stm

Don't know if anyone remembers this guy, but we certainly do. Imagine the horror of walking through a train to be confronted by a scene of abject horror. He'd taken what could only have been a monumental dump, then, using his hands, smeered it over seats, windows, doors.etc. It was even dripping from the light fixings.

The cleaners back at the depot were waiting for me dressed as a CSI fan convention, complete with portable respirators.

Just don't eat or drink anything that's made contact with a train seat...
( HSDriver was probably still at work on, Tue 3 Jun 2008, 21:50, Reply)

(Repeated) Vom on the 207.
Tottenham Court Road to Ealing (about an hour to go about 12 miles) 3am.

Usually full of happy drunks, and the occasional slightly threatening but generally not violent post-club skinheads.

THIS time, already nursing strangely premature hangover, I sit downstairs, near to someone passed out in the corner (not a strange occurance at that time of night).

Half way through the journey he starts shouting, still unconcious: 'Nooooo!' 'Nahhh!!', and proceeds to battle whatever the seat in front had manifested itself as in his nightmares. This carries on intermittently for about half an hour, then he returns to relative slumber.

Thinking, at this point 'I'm glad I'm not in whatever scary, brain-addled place he's at, someone else chunders all over the floor in front of me. Sits back, apparently calm and lucid, waits for 10 mins (and three stops) and DOES IT AGAIN.

You Vomit. You Get off. Simple as that.

Don't just carry on adding to your pool of sticky orange goo. That's. Not. Cool.
(The Clerk, Tue 3 Jun 2008, 21:42, Reply)

national express..
Last Easter, I wrote this.. and a nightmare it was, a bloody nightmare!

___________________________

Have you ever felt like you're in some shitty, low-budget indie short film? That's how I felt for five hours yesterday.

Now, normally National Express coaches from Leeds to London are absolutely fine. This one was not.

I clamber on at Leeds at 3pm, sit myself in the second row and am happy because noones sat next to me. Wave farewell to lovely friend.

Aaaaaanddddd... cue the latecomer who promptly shuffles into the seat next to me. Fantastiche, a fatty.

And off we roll! Luckily, I manage to sleep for an hour or so (3 nights of being out til 4am and getting up around 8-10am does this to you, kids!), until I am awoken by a hand on my leg. Yes, fatboy is touching my thigh. Urgh, no mate, let's not do that - I squidge myself against the window and pray he'll go away.

He doesn't. Instead, he decides he wants to sleep now, and decides my chest is a perfect pillow and that he will invade my personal space and flop all over me. Now, those of you who know me well, will know that I can be person-claustrophobic at the best of times - touching happens on my terms, and I can be funny with people being too close to me, even if they're people I love.. so this wanker decides it's a fantastic idea to keep me pinned against the window and keep *touching* me. ARGH.

Then the snow starts. We're around Nottingham, and it's blizzarding. This is when I feel someone grab the back of my head. I turn around - a baby. Clutching and pulling at my hair. Gurgling and dribbling at me. Oh god, please no. It's mum beams at me in an "Aww, isn't it cute, he likes you" fashion - I'm thinking "Urgh. Foul sprog".

Then the inevitable happens. Babies tend to make lots of noise. This one is no exception. It shouts and screams when it's happy, and bawls and yells when it's not. Then the one I had failed to notice in front of me did too. I sat there, staring out the window, trying to block out the noise and ignore fatman's hand on my knee.

This is when the chav sat opposite me starts playing music on his phone. Loudly. As if things couldn't get any worse, the large indian family all around me beging having a bit of a singsong. They have a fucking singalong, in a blizzard, on a motorway, in a coach, on Easter Sunday. They are singing Bollywood songs and I have officially lost the will to live.

I didn't have my mp3 player, or a book, and my phone wasn't working properly. I was contemplating if it was possible to kill yourself with a travel sized issue of Cosmo and a packet of salt and vinegar squares. Incidentally, I managed to make that packet of crisps last for 45 minutes whilst fatboy kept trying to slip his hand up my skirt.

4 hours later, we arrive at Golders Green coach station. And here is where the emotional bit comes in. There was a man stood there in the snow, and he had a lovely face. Not hot or owt, but just looked really friendly and excited that he was going to be seeing someone he'd missed. He shuffled over the the door of the coach, and stood there, waiting expecantly, with a huge excited beam on his face. You know when you've not seen someone you love for ages, and you know they're on their way, and you're waiting and you're so excited and it shows on your face? That was him. He watched every person get off the coach until noone else was coming. Still he stood there, waiting, watching, grinning. Then the doors closed and his happy face just crumbled, he hung his head, pulled up his collar and stepped back to find some shelter from the snow. Bought tears to my eyes that did, he just looked so crushed that his beloved person hadn't come off that coach.

I then froze my tits off walking in the snow from the coach station to the bus station. The end.
(mercary, Tue 3 Jun 2008, 21:41, Reply)

Some other poor sod's public transport nightmare...
I dread reading things like this, because I expect to see a story along the following lines:
"It was a pissing wet Sunday evening and I needed to get to Ibrox. So I asked a bloke standing at a bus stop chatting to his mate how to get there. 'Oh yeah', he said, 'get the 62 along to Partick, then hop on the Underground - it's two stops along, takes no time at all.' Except when I got there, the Underground was all locked up for the night..."

As he got on the 62 and we waited for the 205, I nodded an affable silent farewell and looked at the clock on my phone. 17:53. Oh cock. There was no way the poor sod was going to get there in time to catch the Underground, which shuts at 6pm on a Sunday.

I'm really really sorry.

Length? 30 feet, for the normal Dennis Dart...
(gordonjcp, Tue 3 Jun 2008, 21:31, 1 reply)

First ever train journey in London.
Back in the early 90s, my friend and I caught the train to go to a bonfire night party. My friend sat next to the window while I had the aisle seat. The carriage we were in had about six people dotted about including a rough looking crow who sat at the other end of the carriage, facing us and swigging from her can of spesh.

As soon as the crow saw me, she stood up, caned right over to the other aisle seat next to me and sat sideways so that she was facing my right hand side. The stench was incredible: amonia and shit wafting from her crotch as she sat with her legs open, stale sweat, smoke and damp from the rest of her. Face black with dirt, hair matted and teeth like discarded matchsticks. She leaned over, punched me in the arm, spat warm green phlegm on my face that preceeded to fall down at glacial speed and started to shout at me. The only words I could decipher were fxxx and cxxx.

The spitting, punching and ranting lasted 15 minutes. Being mildly concerned for my safety, I looked sideways at my mate who had become fixated with the rubber seal on the window. The remaining occupants of the carriage had buggered off as soon as the first 'fxxx' was heard. The train stopped at Brixton and the crow got off, not without a final punch, spit and fxxx to my face. She staggered off the train and whilst gaining momentum for a final two-fingered gesture at me, tripped herself up and fell like a sack of shit on the platform. Fair play though she still kept her half empty spesh can upright in her hand.

Surprisingly I didn't snog anyone that night. Can't think why.
( pottybeaver is neither a potty nor a beaver, Tue 3 Jun 2008, 21:25, 1 reply)

I'll slot this one in here...
Although not strictly public transport, it does involve international borders...

Over the years I've spent a fair amount of time travelling between the UK and the Czech republic.

Overland.

26-ish hours straight on a chartered bus full of wannabe rock stars and groupies, and that in itself has led to some pretty interesting experiences.

However, the one that sticks prominently in the mind is this; Coming out of CZ into Germany, which was always a trial (now you just sail through...), early hours of the morning having finished a gig several hours previously (finish the pint, load the gear, get on board).
We'd been waiting at the border for a while as we paid the various bribes when we noticed the interest being paid to the next coach over.

It's heading into Germany and appears to be full of young, teenage girls.

Curious...

It looked like the border guards suspicions were aroused (steady) too because all the girls were ordered off the bus and the hold was opened up and the contents pulled out on to the tarmac.

They had presumably been asked to prove that they weren't evil human traffickers, carting these girls to some sordid brothel somewhere which meant they were going to have to back up their cover story.

Which is how we, after a week of rock and roll excess, just beginning to sober up, ended up at 3 in the morning at a bleak international crossing point in the middle of nowhere, being treated to a full marching band and majorette display, complete with pom-poms and baton twirling.

Happy times...
( IHaveABadFeelingAboutThis most likely working from home on, Tue 3 Jun 2008, 20:50, Reply)

Loud music
WHY do people play music out loud on trains and buses?

OK, we get you're really fucking hard because you're flouting the rules and irritating people and subjecting them to your particular taste in music.

But if you know you do this and you're reading this -

You're an idiot. You look and sound like an idiot. The only reason you like to play this music out loud is not to show the rest of the world how great it is but to reaffirm your insecurity in your own personal tastes. You are weak. Now grow a spine, put in some earphones AND SHUT THE FUCK UP!

And breathe...
(badfox1 wonders who he's played by this episode on, Tue 3 Jun 2008, 20:36, 1 reply)

never again...
First post, so here goes...

I work for a large musical instrument manufacturer and a perk of the job is that I get to go to the music trade shows. As a musician myself, I always really enjoy these shows. I can sometimes take my mates with me and get them into the show using passes purloined from other people at work.

A couple of years ago I took a couple of mates to the British Music Fair at the NEC. A friend from work suggested we take the train. He'd been earlier in the week and said how quick and easy it had been on the train. "only took 40 minutes, drops you off right at the NEC, piece of piss" etc.

So we took the train.

First 20 minutes were fine. Then the train began to slow down and eventually ground to a halt.

We waited......

and waited......

eventually we began to move again, but very slowly. The rest of the journey continued at a snails pace, with frequent stops and took about 2 hours before we finally got to the NEC. Fuck knows what the problem was, there were no announcements over the train tannoy and no apology.

That was just the outbound journey, the return was worse....!

On the way back, the train was absolutely packed. Crowded, stuffy and smelly. We set off.

Not long into the journey we stopped again.....

And we waited again......

This time for about 20 minutes. Eventually a guard came walking down the train and was asking people if anyone was an engineer! The train had developed a problem with its windscreen wipers, and the driver and guard on board were unable to fix it. If it couldnt be fixed we would all have to get off at the next stop and wait for the next train. So after more waiting around, the train limped off to the next station (which was Rugby if I recall correctly) where we had to wait around even more, before getting onto the next train, which was already packed and now had several hundred more people trying to get on. Obviously they had not been able to repair the windscreen wiper. Oh, and it wasnt even fucking raining!

It was while we were waiting for this last train that I pointed out to one of my mates the pass that he had been wearing all day on a lanyard around his neck. This was a laminated pass with a name written on it in marker pen. Except that I had rubbed out the original name and written a different name on it.

For that whole day, everyone who met my mate Joe thought his name was Gaylord Bender!

Im evil.
(Lionel Tiger, Tue 3 Jun 2008, 20:25, Reply)

Pissed Geordies
WHY am I asked to turn down my iPod when there are constantly gangs of really loud common scum as muck pissed illeterate Geordies making life hell for the other passengers?

Seriously, it's like a Jeremy Kyle Show on wheels - I have learned such a lot about the sex lives of screaming harpies with bad haircuts and very little intelligence, as well as the entire words to Amarillo (funny they know this off by heart, as most of them wouldn't be able to even start Spot The Dog).

WE KNOW YOU'RE GEORDIES - STOP REMINDING US!!
(badfox1 wonders who he's played by this episode on, Tue 3 Jun 2008, 20:23, Reply)

I'd rather walk than get on the bus
I walked 4 and 1/2 miles from work to my house and still got home before the bus drove past!
( SkUG >_O i got a couple of stitches in my eyeball... ow, Tue 3 Jun 2008, 20:14, Reply)

Over-friendly tramp...
Bundled onto the Victoria line one morning, when I noticed a seat free. Given that the carriage was pretty crowded, I should have realised that it was too good to be true.

So, I sat down and three seconds later the stench hit me. The guy I was sitting next to stank. He was absolutely rancid.

And then he started leaning into me, as he tried to get something out of his pocket. And leaning some more, still digging in his pocket.

Then he leaned his head on my shoulder, still digging, still digging rhythmically... oh no... oh bloody hell... the truth dawns...

so I'm sitting on the Victoria Line, with a tramp resting his head on my shoulder whilst he had a wank.

and what did I do about it? I'm a Londoner. I simply pretended it wasn't happening. I wasn't going to move, I'd got a seat for god's sake!
( biscuitbiscuit is in ur garden, watering ur plantz, Tue 3 Jun 2008, 20:14, Reply)

Oh so many
I suggested this ages ago and no-one seemed to pay any attention? But hey, it's not like I'm going to go and set fire to some servers or anything in retaliation....

Anyway, I hate public transport in pretty much all it's guises. An interesting exception was when I was on a plane last year, which was the first time in a decade that I had been on a plane. I was actually like an excited little schoolboy, giggling as we went down the runway taking off. Planes are awesome.

Really awesome.

So lets start with buses:
1) The bus driver audibly scowling at me one day when I only had a five pound note and dared to get on the bus with it. Seeing as it was that, or walk for about an hour in the pouring rain, I chose the bus.
If it had been dry, I bet he would have made me walk.
2) Old people. Especially one particular old man who often seems to be on the bus into town, and sits near the front on one of the sideways seats. He seems to enjoy taunting people with his walking stick, blocking the aisle, then unblocking it, then blocking it again just as someone tries to get passed. Tubeface.
3) The nedz, with the crap music on the stolen phones. Is the music good? No. Do I want to hear it? Once again, no. I would like few things more than to through them through the windscreen of the moving bus so they then got run over by it.

Trains:
4/D) The drunk guy at 9am who wouldn't stop asking me about my backpack. "Wow, that's a really nice backpack. Is that a 50 litre?"
Yes. Yes it is. I presume you got that from the fact that is says '50 litres' in reasonably large letters across the front.
He scared me quite a lot, and I thought he was going to steal my bag at the next stop.
He was drinking Buckfast. Classy.
5/E/v) The kids who have been previously mentioned here. I wanted to hurt them more than Bert wants to hurt Ernie.
76) People who sit right opposite me at tables, meaning that I have no legroom. The train is mostly empty, there are lots of seats. They could sit diagonally opposite me at the table, but oh no, they must sit opposite me, meaning I can't feel my legs for the entire journey. Just as well really, or I would kick them.

So what have we learned from this? I hate public transport. Hate it lots.

Sorry for my massive length.
(PenguinOfDeath is Scottish, and most likely angry, Tue 3 Jun 2008, 20:12, Reply)

I was the trauma...
I have only been driving for 8 months so have spent many, many years using public transport. This was quite traumatic in itself because I appear to have a sign on my forehead that says, "crazies, sit here". Even when I'm reading/on my laptop/have headphones on, I clearly have a face that says, "I want you to talk drivel at me for the whole journey. Come on down! It's a free for all!" And there was that time some random Janner sat opposite me and offered me several cans of Fosters.

However, this has just come screaming back to me. Just to set the scene, I was 17, just finished my AS Levels and had gone to ahouse party across the water (of the Tamar, sadly) at the house of a girl I had worked with. I'd been drunk when out before, but I think this may have been my first proper wasted house party. At one stage I was thrown to the floor by a girl I didn't even know, my top pulled up, salt poured on my stomach and a slice of lemon rammed in my mouth as this girl proceded to do a tequila slammer with me as her Debbie McGee salt-lemon-holder. So that should give you a fair idea of what was consumed the night before.

After leaving quite swiftly (we'd broken the toilet seat by having some drunken sex on it - which we'd paid for but were slightly embarassed by) we got a taxi home. Next morning we had to get the bus to college to get our results. Now, in those days hangovers rarely consisted of headaches, mainly just feeling vomity for a while. I woke up feeling fairly ok so we got dressed and went to wait for a bus. The bus that turned up was unfortunately a rickety old double decker that smelt as though a tramp has ass rubbed all the seats several times. It was a 30 minute journey that was picking up several old ladies and a few mothers with children at each stop. The bile was rising in my stomach with each turn the bus made and I was getting a horrible feeling that I wouldn't make it off the us before I was sick. We were about 5 minutes from our stop when my mouth started watering uncontrollably and I knew that my time was up. Up game what was mostly alcohol I assume cos there was no colour to it. But I had no tissue so I was sat trying to catch it with my hands. Cue lots of stares from other passengers, I expect they wanted to know what some chav in a hoody with greasy hair and red eyes was doing wretching and vomiting on a public bus.

So hey ho, I guess my years of attracting crazies after this was just bus-karma for quite possibly traumatising some small children. Ooops!
( El Lazarus is calm now, Ish,, Tue 3 Jun 2008, 20:05, 2 replies)

dog lady
i get the bus home from college everyday and because i live in the middle of nowhere it takes a good hour or so to get home.
...and every-bloody-day dog lady hops on, well shes too fat to hop so i suppose she rolls onto the bus,
me and my sister christened her with this nickname as she brings her rat dog on with her every-bastard-day,
i swear if u dont give this dog enough attention the other halfwits residing on the bus CRUCIFY you.
for fucks sake its a dog.

my sister also quoted a line from shameless the other week without thinking first

"if you're on a bus and over 30, your life's a fucking mess"

oh it was priceless
(hollyannivy, Tue 3 Jun 2008, 19:59, Reply)