Pearoast time
This was not the fault of the airlines, but it did happen to involve air travel, so I suppose it applies.

I had been separated from my wife for over a year (not divorced yet, but separated) when it came time for my parents' 50th wedding anniversary. Mom decided that what she wanted for the occasion was to take everyone to Disneyworld for four days, and because she was feeling kindly, she invited my estranged along. (Yes, she asked me first, and I said I was okay with it, as the kids would want her there.)

So the night before I agreed to stay over at my former house and sleep on the couch, and use the kids' bathroom in the morning. As I was there and she really didn't want to be in my presence, the ex decided to go out to a bar with a friend.

The flight was leaving, as I recall, at about 7:30 in the mornng, which meant that we all had to get up extremely early. I made sure the kids were all packed the night before and got the suitcases in the car, so when I awoke all I had to do was shower and dress and get the kids moving. No problem- we all got up on time and I fed the kids, and we were all ready to get in the car by 6:15.

Except for the ex.

I had awakened her at the same time I got everyone else going, but it turned out that she had not packed yet. She also had not written out directions for the kid who was taking care of the animals, and was moving extra slowly due to a hangover. So after much chivvying I got her out the door at about 7:00.

The airport is more than half an hour away, if you drive as you should. I got us there at about 7:25.

When we went to check in, we were told that our flight had already left, but another would be going in about ten minutes. So I checked the luggage and sent everyone ahead to the gate while I got the tickets straightened around.

Just as the girl at the counter was finishing that up (and she was busting her ass to get it done fast, no complaints there), my son comes down to find me with a look of urgency in his eyes. "Dad, the plane's about to leave!"

"I know, I know! We've almost got the tickets!"

I got them from the girl and thanked her for her efforts, then took my son by the hand and ran through the airport to the gate. (This was early 2001, when you could still do that.) We ran through the metal detector without a hitch, to be confronted by the ex. Her face was red and her eyes bloodshot as she screamed at me, "Goddammit! We missed that one too!"

I spoke in a very low and terrible voice. "I will only say this once. The kids and I were ready to go 45 minutes before you were this morning. We would have made that first flight if you had gotten off your goddam ass and been ready last night instead of going out drinking. You want someone to blame? There's a bathroom right over there with a mirror in it." And I stalked off to the desk to find out about the next flight.

The guys at the counter had witnessed the entire exchange, and were very nice as they found seats on the next flight- two up front and three in the rear.

Does it end here? Hell no.

We arrived in Orlando, but our luggage was somewhere else at that moment. Dad greeted us at the airport, and I asked him to take the ex and the kids to the hotel while I got the luggage. So when I got the bags together I took the shuttle bus to Disney and got to the hotel, got the key to the room where the kids were staying and took the luggage there.

No one was there. Not a note, not a phone call on my mobile, nothing. No sign of anyone.

I had been up since 5:00, was tired, hungry, and out of patience. I left a note on the table to the effect that I was going to find myself some goddam food and go enjoy myself for a time, and if they wanted me they could call my phone and I might answer if I was calm enough by then. I then went to the nearest restaurant and got a sandwich and three beers, then went and rode the Tower of Terror twice before my phone rang.

So why had I not heard anything? Why wasn't there a note?

"We left word at the front desk where we were going. Didn't you get it?"

No I didn't, thank you very fucking much.

For my parents' sake, I was civil to one and all, even the ex, for the remainder of our trip. But I swear, I could have committed murder and gotten off if I told that story to any sane jury...

And yes, six years later I'm still highly annoyed.
( The Resident Loon Not a demographic. Do not measure., Thu 29 May 2008, 16:26, 1 reply)

why I hate the underground.
A guy offered me his seat.
I said it was okay.
He insisted, given 'my condition'.
What condition?
He insists that a pregnant woman shouldn't be made to stand.

I wasn't pregnant.
Just fat.
(Ryfelwr can't stop here... this is bat country, Thu 29 May 2008, 16:26, 4 replies)

Here goes....
I used to live in Dundee (was going to uni at the time) and as a result had to get a train down the country to visit home. This was one of these GNER dealies that ran from Aberdeen to London.

I'm sat in first class (I learned long ago that it was by and far the best way to do this trip, and it's cheap if you book far enough in advance) so was blissfully separated from the usual pissed up cunts that populate the other carriages.

Everything is going smoothly, it looks like I'll be back home with enough time to hit the pub with my brother for a couple of pints when I get in. Then the gods of public transport decide that my satisfaction constituted blasphemy and set about ruining my journey.

The carriage goes dark red, followed by a sudden screeching of the brakes and the train comes to a stop. WTF?

Turns out some entrepreneurial soul decided that the best way to be remembered was to jump out in front of a speeding train and redecorate the first three compartments in 'hint of fucktard'.

It's amazing just how much of a person can be spread across a surface.

The train pulled in to a service depot a little way down the line (didn't want to pull into a station sporting the new paint scheme), a second train was called in to pick up all the passengers and carry on the journey down south. Four hour delay, and not just for us but every train on that line was delayed as well.

Managed to arrive at my destination five hours late (due to the disruptions caused by effectively 'losing' one of the trains), get picked up by my brother, relate my tale on the way home, brother slams on his brakes and stares at me like I've just killed a puppy with my bare hands.

Why the look, I hear you all ask?

The fact that instead of being traumatised by the sudden and (in retrospect) up-close and personal encounter with a suicide victim, I was pissed off.

No shame in it whatsoever, not even as I type this.

This guy wanted everyone to remember that he was unhappy with his life and so he decided to inconvenience myself and a great many other people (was around Christmas time so there were a lot of students returning along this line) by throwing himself in front of a speeding train. He delayed my journey, and the journeys of a few thousand people, simply because he had issues.

Fuck off I should care.

*breathes before the vein on the side of my head pops*

So there you have it, my trauma came when I realised that I had been present at the death of another human being, had even seen the results spray up across the window I was looking out of, and only being able to feel a sense of complete anger at them for inconveniencing me. I never even bothered to learn the cunts name, I felt that he would have won some sort of victory if I were to commit his name to my memory.

Length? He was spread along a decent amount of track like a human jam sandwich.

Postscript: I have issues with death as is anyway, feel a total disconnection to it in any shape or form, from total strangers to lovers to friends and family there is no difference in my attitude to loss (people always think it is because I'm 'being strong', truth is I just can't seem to feel anything and don't know what to do but stand around), so this may have affected my attitude to this persons demise somewhat. Still a cunt for doing what he did.
(UncleChuckles "Cthulhu fhtagn", Thu 29 May 2008, 16:24, 6 replies)

Our school bus...
Followed a strict route every day that took all those who lived a bit further out of town home. (as they usually do...)

On the odd occasion, our usual driver, a delightful old man named Ken who had an abundance of nasal and ear-al (?) hair and confessed to sleeping with his dogs (that's a different story however...) was off ill and the bus company sent a replacement.

This was were the fun began, 9 times out of 10 the new driver would not know the usual route. This left him asking an honest-looking student, usually my mate Luke.

Luke would always direct the driver down a long road that had sleeping policemen down it from start to finish.

The fun had when you're 13 years old sat on the top level of a double-decker bus going over 30 speed bumps at questionnable speed is amazing! Screams of probable delight from everyone on board...
(gin'll fix it, Thu 29 May 2008, 16:22, 3 replies)

Insider info
I've just taken the train driver's assesment test this morning. It's bloody tricky! In fact it's a bit of a nightmare!

Still, the money's good.
(Mr Steve is jobless and fancyfree!, Thu 29 May 2008, 16:21, 1 reply)

On the underground...
... in Barcelona.

There was a train at the platform, but not the one I wanted, so I was waiting for the next one.
There was a drunk homeless guy on the platform somewhere but I'd given up watching him in favour of studying the map of the underground system.
As the train started to pull out, I look up and realised the drunk had propped himself up by leaning against the back end of the now moving train. He did a strange sort of pirouette as his leaning spot disappeared from under him, and promptly fell straight onto the track.
I rushed over and, along with another passenger, pulled him up from the track seconds before the next train entered the station.

Shat. Myself.

Probably not as much as the homeless dude, but then I'm not sure he was 100% aware of what had happened.

Length? About 6 carriages I think.
(Air-conditioned BTW, why the fuck can't London have that?)
(UXB you said it man. Nobody fucks with the Jesus, Thu 29 May 2008, 16:20, 3 replies)

Picture the scene
I'm in Bristol, on a training course with a couple of colleagues. Now, Bristol's a fair way from Newcastle, and so we got the train down the day before and stayed overnight in a nice hotel next to the Clifton suspension bridge. Food is eaten, and much beer quaffed, we retire to our rooms and the next day attend the course, which lasted all of 3 hours... Oh, and I nearly got roped into auditions for Big Brother 3, which were being held at the hotel. I declined, naturally.

The train back was possibly the worst journey I've ever endured. I like train travel, I find it a nice way to unwind, unlike buses. But this time was just awful.

The train was a Virgin Cross Country service, but before the shiny new trains were rolled out. So we were sat on an old Intercity 125 model, in a carriage with no air con - because it was broken. The journey should have taken 5 hours. Instead, it took 7, due to various stoppages en route due to freight trains breaking down further up the track. Then at Birmingham, HE got on. A sloppy mess of a human being, wearing shabby clothes and utterly stinking of booze. He staggered up the carriage and plonked himself down a few seats behind us, then proceeded to mumble incoherently to himself for a bit.

After about an hour, the combination of the gentle rocking and swaying of the carriage, plus the god knows how much alcohol he had on board, conspired to join forces and we heard retching, followed by the dull, wet, pitter-pattering splosh of a man vomiting the entire contents of his body, including, I wouldn't be surprised, some of his major internal organs.

The lack of air con and the overpowering heat of a crammed carriage did their bit after about 90 seconds, and the smell of fresh sick suddenly punched me in the nose. It was all I could do to keep my own bile down. Moving carriages wasn't an option, as the train was completely packed out, even the vestibule areas. And so I tried my best to ignore the smell as best I could - without a lot of success.

The train staff's solution to this was to cover the steaming pile of sick with a towel. The perpetrator got off not long afterwards, a feat he achieved by falling out of the train door, rolling across the platform and down a flight of stairs. I wouldn't be at all surprised if he hadn't got a bloody clue where he was...

Some four hours later we finally pulled into Newcastle, with the smell of by now stale sick still invading our olfactory senses.

Quite the worst train journey, ever.
( Davros' Granddad a voice of calm reason in a world of spastics., Thu 29 May 2008, 16:18, 1 reply)

For all that can be said about Liverpool
(and will be, I expect), the public transport here is pretty good.

I could tell you a few "nightmare" journey stories involving random acts of violence, wee-smells, tramp fights (less fun than it sounds) and the persistent fog of weed on the top deck, instead I shall share some of the fun ones.

A couple of weeks ago, a chappie got on and started singing "Build Me Up Buttercup." By the time I got to my stop, the entire bus was singing and dancing along, including students, a postman, the driver, a couple of old biddies, some chav school children and a goth......oh yeah....and me.

On a different occassion
I got on a train to visit my parents for Christmas when my mum's present "split" open (a bottle of bacardi). I bought a couple of cans of coke and offered the slightly scruffy looking guy opposite me a drink.
We ended up chatting all the way to Nottingham, he had previously had mental health/drug problems and been homeless. He'd managed to get his life back on track and re-established contact with his family. He was on his way home to see his mum for the first time in 12 years. He was great, a true bringer of Christmas joy, it made my Christmas with my parents all the more special.

Public transport is not perfect by any means, but every day I get to play on DS, get free newspapers, chat with strangers, read books and generally get myself in a good frame of mind for work on the way there, and de-stress on the way back.

Public transport - YEY!
(Jugular, Thu 29 May 2008, 16:17, 4 replies)

This summarises my public transport experience.
To the tune of 'The Chattanooga choo-choo'.

Pardon me, boy
Is that the Chavanooga choo-choo?
It's a second rate line
The trains are never on time
I can afford
To board the Chavanooga choo-choo
On platform fourteen
Next to the ticket machine

You leave the Liverpool Street Station at a funeral crawl,
Sometimes it appears that you're not moving at all,
Skipping lunch was folly,
But what could be more jolly
Than a ninty pence Twix from the on-board trolley?

When you notice Romford showing on the display
Then you know that Shenfield's only one stop away.
Wait outside the station
With no explanation
Woo - woo Chelmsford, sometime today.

There's gonna be
A load of townies at the station
Drinking Special Brew
They'll start threatening you

You'll see a drunken loafer with some scars on his neck
You'll see his little brother dressed in Burberry check
Then there's the ladies
With their tattoos and their babies
One of each colour - they're collecting the set.

So Chavanooga choo choo
Won't you choo-choo me home?
Chavanooga choo choo
Won't you choo-choo me home?

I firmly expect to see this appear on sickipedia under someone elses name within the month, like what happens to all my best jokes.
(davywavy, Thu 29 May 2008, 16:15, Reply)

Oh, and I also remember...
...getting on the train as a child of 5, to go to Manchester.

I got on with my aunt, all excited like, sat by the window and the found myself staring at the biggest lump nose-rubbish i have ever seen, both before and since.

It was about an inch from my face. That vision still crosses my mind each time a I get on a train now, and I'm 25.
( The Pollitt chooses to listen to Enya on, Thu 29 May 2008, 16:15, Reply)

With regard to...
The undesirables amongst our society who deem it necessary to play their shite music out of their "phat new nokia 6392110 xxxtreme edition":

Could a b3tan not set up a discretely named website detailing just how rude and annoying this habit is to the vast majority of the general public?

Then if each and every one of us takes note/prints out a sheet with the url on and, just before leaving bus/train/coach, hand the offender in question the slip with the url on to peruse at their own leisure?

Together we can solve it...
(gin'll fix it, Thu 29 May 2008, 16:14, 8 replies)

Not really traumatic... well maybe a little.
I was on the bus home from work one afternoon. Now back then, I worked on the outskits of Rotherham, but lived in the Doncaster suburbs. Naturally, this means the bus has to pass a few miles of open fields and small villages en route. Shortly after stopping on the outskirts of one such village, where your typical baseball cap-totting chappy gets on, the bus set off on its merry way, when suddenly some nutter in a full gorilla suit runs out of the bushes and straight at the bus with his arms flailing. The bus had already set off, and even if it hadn't, I wouldn't have let the guy on if I had a choice. As we pulled away, the simeonesque chappy stood at the side of the road yelling gibberish for a few minutes, and then ran back into the bushes, presumably to await his next 'victims'.

There was a few minutes of silence, then everyone just started laughing hysterically, and wondered what the hell was going through his mind.

I've never seen the monkey since.
(Virulent, Thu 29 May 2008, 16:13, Reply)

Years ago....
...back when i was on the young side of having a driving licence, I was forced to use Greater Manchesters public transport in order to get to and from work.

As I'm sure you can imagine, commuting was not my favourite time of day. It normally meant either having to deal with snotty, obnoxious school children in the morning or old people seemingly with limited time on this mortal coil, who had clearly just escaped from the local "Mental, but not mental enough to be locked up" hospital. Y'know the kind, conversations with themselves, random shouting, a complete lack of local knowledge meaning they'd argue with the poor driver for dropping them off 38 stops beyond their proposed destination. Urgh.

I used to scowl at people in cars, sitting there in their warmth with their radios on, not a care in the world. Bastards.

Anyway, one day I get on the bus home to be confronted with a near empty bus. It was, in terms of my life at the time, bliss. I waved my weekly pass at the driver and went and sat in down in one of the many many empty seats.

Then it happened. When the bus rolled up to the next stop, HE got on the bus. I could see quite clearly that not all of his dogs were barking. He was dressed in an outfit that showed less co-ordination that the results of Stevie Wonder dressing himself. He also had that vacant look about him, oh, and a tatty Asda bag with god knows what in it, possibly crack...or poo, who knows. Anyway, in spite of the bus being near empty, he sits right in front of me and faces the window tightly, like an excited child might while in the back of dad's Mondeo on the way to Blackpool. This worried me from the off, but then it started; his conversation. Via the reflections in the window, he was chatting to me, or at least to my reflection. Incoherant babble mostly, i obviously did my best to avoid making eye contact, but inavariably it kept happening, which seemed to anger the chap more.

The though had entered my head to move, but then if i did that he's have no reflection to talk to, which might upseAAAAARRRGGGHGHH GARB FNER RAGGGHHHH NOOOO ARRRGGHHH...

What the fuck? He just bloody flipped, seemingly very angry with my reflection, which now looked like the face of a vegetarien in a slaughter house. I litterally froze with fear as this chap went nuclear within 3 feet of my young, so-far undamaged face. By this point it dawned on me that my reflection was only playing a small role in his fantasy, as it was his own reflection which was bearing the brunt of the abuse.

I saw my chance to escape the already about to stop bus, so i did just that. I ran down the middle of the bus, arms flailing like a madman. I breifly remember the drivers face, who i had left to deal with his 'passenger', it wasn't good.

I leapt from the bus and then ran the rest of the way home, and then i locked my door and spent the next hour tentatively peeking through the curtains, y'know, just in case.

I made my mum take me in for the rest of the week, and after that I walked as often as the weather would let me.

God, reading that back it, makes me realise how much I love my car.
( The Pollitt chooses to listen to Enya on, Thu 29 May 2008, 16:05, 1 reply)

erection misfuntion
in Liverpool city centre and because of parking issues I would frequently use the local train service - Merseyrail (or misery rail as its better known)

I remember this one time returning home, when I noticed the train had stopped at a station for a little longer than usual. Then the customary ‘we apologise for the inconvenience’ speech came across the speaker system. We were told we could take any replacement bus using our train ticket.

So I leave the station, and luckily there is a bus depot right next door – in Hamilton square. Its about 6:30am, and I discover the only bus service going to my destination starts at this depot, so I would have to endure a massive detour of a bus journey to get to my stop. Literally, my stop was about 3 stops from the other depot. A bus journey of about 90 minutes lay ahead.

So I begrudgingly get on the bus as it arrives, and take a seat right at the back where I could stretch my legs out…

The bus journey was actually quite nice and I found myself driving through areas I either hadn’t seen before or hadn’t visited very often recently. But then the tiredness kicked in. As it had been my first night shift, it meant I had been awake for about 24 hrs, my eyes were rolling, and with the gentle rocking of the driving I noticed my eyes were staying closed for longer and longer when I blinked.

The next thing I knew I was awoken going over a speed bump going through an estate an hour into my journey with just a short way to go. I had fallen asleep. Shit! I had drool falling down my left cheek, and felt very creased, I could even taste morning breath. My eyes were very dry and as I yawned and stretched I looked around me…

There was a distinct ‘atomsphere’ where I was sitting…I couldn’t work out what was causing it, then I felt it… and saw it… I was in sporting a huge erection, which through the soft fabric of Suit trousers was plane to see… fekking Morning glory!!

What made it even worse was the five school children all smartly dressed to the side of me staring… I slowly picked up my bag,put it on my lap and pretended to search for something inside. I wasn’t even turned on, I was frantically trying to think of none sexy thoughts. It was no use – it just wouldn’t go. Infact after about 10 mintues it started to ache.

And so I had to endure another 20 minutes of holding the bag on my lap, then trying to ‘tuck it under my belt’ as I got off the bus.

I decided not to use buses from then on.
(Dan dan dan They tik urh jerbs!!!, Thu 29 May 2008, 16:05, 1 reply)

Going to Prague in 1990
My parents were Czech refugees in 1969, so there was no way for us to travel there without a risk of arrest. But in 1989 came the Velvet Revolution and the borders were suddenly open to us. Unfortunately, we were completely skint at the time, and these were the days before £1 flights to Prague on ScumAir, so it took a fair bit of penny-pinching to find a cheap way out there. My mother came up with the solution: a flight to Frankfurt, followed by a train journey to Prague.

So let's begin with the outbound journey. The flight to Frankfurt was fine, but then it turned out that there wasn't a train to Prague for another six hours. We found that we could cut that down somewhat by changing at Nuremburg, so that gave us a chance to wander up and down that fair town shouting 'vere are ze rallies?', which passed the time a little.

The train to Prague left Nuremburg at about 11pm, and was an incredibly uncomfortable Communist affair, carefully designed with no soft seats where contraband might be hidden. At 1pm, just as we were drifting off to sleep, a guard came stomping down the corridor, yelling 'PassKontrolle' (spelling guessed at) and woke us all up again. We eventually arrived in Prague at 5am (and it was well worth it - 'tis a damn fine place, and it was a lot emptier then!)

The return journey was even worse. This time it was just me and my brother, and the connections were even less helpful. It turned out that the only option was to leave at midnight (yes, with another 5am border crossing), and then to spend twelve hours at Frankfurt airport. My grandparents packed us off with a packed lunch and all the German money they could find, and this is how it was that the two of us had to spend twelve hours in Frankfurt airport with nothing but ten German marks and a bag of macaroons.

And the final irony? My mother was misinformed: the journey was much more expensive than a direct flight would have been.
( flatfrog Staring vacantly into space, Thu 29 May 2008, 16:04, 2 replies)

I
Live in west Belfast, its more or less the skelmersdale or shameless of Belfast. I remember going down to school years back on the bus, it was awfull, we had the 'Millies' which is basically the west Belfast version of a chavy girl.
The Millies would take over the buses every morning filling the bus with smoke and harassing anyone who looked like they had done their homework the night before. They tortured everyone. One fuck was never waiting on the other, Millie speak basically consisted of- 'oh mummy luck at his fuckin hair oh Jesus I'm skundered for him' awfull experience. And if anyone dared talk or look at the Millies you would get a threat basically saying 'my big bror will knack your ballix in' which translates into my big brother will knock your bollocks in. I recently started working in a job were i thought, 'yes i will travel on the bus everyday to save me the taxi fare'. Big mistake, the Millies are still out in full force every morning, only this time their like uber Millies, there are thousands of them crammed on the bus everyday and their like a bunch of fucking seagulls fighting for a slice of bread. DEATH TO MILLIES. By the way millies refer to mill workers, dont know why
(conzo21, Thu 29 May 2008, 16:03, 5 replies)

Single ticket please... No, I'm not coming back...
Using 3 different London Underground lines every day, I know a fair bit about travel trauma.

However, one question has always bothered me:

Why, when people choose to end their lives by jumping in front of a train, do they choose to do it during the fucking rush hour?

That's just selfish. I sympathise that they may not be happy, but couldn't they wait 'til half past seven?

/hull
( Devil_In_Tights the *real* DiT!, Thu 29 May 2008, 16:03, 4 replies)

Transparent puke
It was about seven years ago. I'd had an evening out and about for the first time since having a really, really unpleasant stomach infection - you know, the sort that produces elegant arcs of green projectile vomit, whilst your mum screams at you to 'AIM FOR THE TOILET!!!!' because you can't make your mind up which end it's shooting out of faster.

I took a long time to get over it, and spent weeks not wanting to eat anything at all, not even the obligatory tinned tomato soup that seems to be in the cupboard every time you're ill. Finally having been able to stomach a full meal, I went out shopping with some mates. Yay!

The trip was good, I bought Christmas presents, had nice ice cream and just generally enjoyed myself. Feeling good, I boarded a Superoute 66 to go home.

A couple of stops later, an old high school friend gets on the bus with a guy who looks really, really unwell. Greener than a diseased tramp's mimsy, his eyes are rolling in his head and he keeps moaning in a not at all arousing way. I can't take my eyes off this guy, because now I have Teh Fear of puking again. With my own stomach acid memories still burnt in my mind and the back of my throat, I silently pray that he's not going to blow chunks.

As we get closer and closer to home, I think we're in the clear. Dumbass. The guy gets up and staggers to the front of the bus, still doing an impressive Dead Rising impression, and starts to beg the bus driver to let him off. The stop is literally ten yards away, but the bus has had to stop at a junction, and clearly the guy isn't going to make it.

The bus driver doesn't let him off.

Instead, he unleashes the contents of his stomach right in the entranceway of the bus. It was all there - the splashing sounds, the smell, the quiet sobbing of someone whose food has taken the emergency exit. The worst bit? It was either that the guy's puke was completely transparent, like he'd vommed some vile acid water, or that the bus driver didn't stop and clear up the tidal wave of barf at the entrance, and carried on merrily driving around. The water chunder splashed up and down the bus, around people's shoes and bags. Unsuspecting new passengers walked in the watery lake by the door and traipsed it up and down the aisle. And still the bus driver didn't clean the stuff up.

Me? well, I managed to hold back my own contribution (I regretted that ice cream), and using skills that a scrawny parkour wannabe could only dream of, I didn't get the stuff all over my shoes.

I didn't eat my dinner that night, though.
(Bondvillain2k, Thu 29 May 2008, 16:02, Reply)

For anyone familiar with Glasgow
Some of my worst public transport experiences have been due to the football fans round here, particularly those in the vicinity of Ibrox. No offence to anyone of that persuasion, it's just my bus route!

Particular favourites have included being the only sober and non-singing person on the bus, and my stop coinciding with a rather rousing chorus of "the bouncy", which, for anyone who hasn't yet had the pleasure, simply involves all participants jumping up and down and rocking the bus from side to side. Not the most graceful exit from a bus that I've ever made!

And then just last week I was lucky enough to enjoy a sing-off, in best sunday school picnic, front-v-back stylee. Being stuck in the middle between some Rangers fans at the back and the Celtic ones at the front made for quite a nervous journey, waiting to see which particular sectarian chant would be enough to provoke violence. Fortunately they all waited until they got off the bus to chase each other, depriving me of ringside seats for the bloodshed.
(Moniker, Thu 29 May 2008, 16:01, 1 reply)

In regards to Kaol's bass....
I took a bass on the tube the other day, but unfortunately I didn't have a gig bag so it was just poking out of my holdall (straight up in the air). Now the headstock on said bass looks like this: farm4.static.flickr.com/3292/2328125327_d9e5311a7f.jpg

Now for everyone who gets the tube - think of those twats who dive throught the doors at the last minute and delay the train by making the door re-open...

So i'm stood on a busy train (i.e. only enough space for my two feet) with the point end of the bass angled towards the doors and mr 'I like to jump on at the last minute' dived in and missed having his eye socket cruelly penetrated by about 3mm. I laughed. He looked a little scared. I hope he learnt a lesson. If not, I urge us all to take pointy but un-prohibited items into the tube for this very reason.
(neocaligatio, Thu 29 May 2008, 15:59, 5 replies)

Stockwell Tube Station
I was getting a tube from Stockwell and the next thing I knew I'd been shot in the head....more than once I think.

I am now dead.

Love,
Jean Charles de Menezes
( SpikeyPickle wishes he was mabazaritchie, Thu 29 May 2008, 15:58, 3 replies)

Missing trains.
I'm going to keep this brief.

Once upon a time a 'friend' of mine went on the train to that big London in order to meet someone she had got to know through a website. This website was entirely made up of very odd folk - most of whom were to be found in the UK but some even lived further afield, like Norfolk.

After chatting for a long while my 'friend' decided to meet this person - mainly because they were planning to do a car-share on an impending trip to meet up with other strange interweb folk.

The day arrived. A return ticket was purchased, the train was caught. 'Friend' made her was to the Tate Modern. In time the website person turned up.

They drank coffee. They looked at art.

More importantly they went to the pub.


And time passed.


They made their farewells and both returned to their railway stations.

They discovered they had both missed their last train.

They were stuck. In London. Overnight. With each other.

A hotel room was sought and found.

They were adult about their situation.

He was a gentleman.

They caught their trains the following afternoon.

The End.
( chickenlady b3ta's very own Elizabeth Taylor, Thu 29 May 2008, 15:58, 16 replies)

anyone ever
had the trauma of meeting the religious nutter with the megaphone who use to frequent the underground? I have - twice

also on the no.73 a few years ago, I was forced to break up a fight between some eastern european guy and the black conductor, who were willing to fight to the death over a disputed bus ticket

London has this effect on people
(The Goat www.cuttingthroughthematrix.com, Thu 29 May 2008, 15:56, 6 replies)

Intesting reading
About 8:30 on a warm Saturday morning I staggered onto a tube in Farringdon after a nights clubbing.

Feeling a little worse for wear and mild hallucinating I sat down and settled in for the journey home. Shortly after taking my seat a normal looking guy sat down next to me opened a magazine and began to read. I thought this was perfectly normal and continued to look the other way out the window. My suspicions only started when I noticed some of the weird looks I was getting. A woman nearby even got up and walked away.

Out of the corner of my eye I could see the chap next to me enthusiastically flicking through his magazine and mumbling to himself. Not particularly wanting to find out what was going on I turned my head to look at him, only to be confronted with a copy of "Hot Cocks Magazine". He took this as invitation to show me his favourite pages, which mainly comprised close up shots of rather angry looking men having anal sex.

Being British I stupidly sat there and did nothing (not wanting to make a scene of course)until he started spitting on his hands to "lube them up" as he put it. I quickly got off at the first available stop. I never thought getting off the tube in Willesden would be so pleasant.
(Errorist, Thu 29 May 2008, 15:54, Reply)

For The Weewitch
.
A hearse is public transport so this counts.

A while ago I was asked to help as a pall-bearer for the bloke who wrote the "Hokey-Cokey". It was an old fashioned funeral - the kind where the stiff is layed out on the bed until it's time for the planting.

Everyone had come in, paid their respects and now it was time to take him to be buried. So we lifted the lid off the coffin and four of us tried to put him in.

Well, we got the left leg in and then the trouble started........



Cheers

What?
( Legless Mister Stabby - shanks for the memory, Thu 29 May 2008, 15:46, 3 replies)

My (former) East German ladyfriend says
she was once on a tram in Halle Saale when a 40+ yr old fellow pressed himself up against her and began frotting more wildly than John Travolta with disco fever. Her co-trammers turned away. She politely offered the fellow an elbow with which to be fucking off but he prevailed so the lady protesteth not too much and turned and offered him a kick in the balls to consider. The fellow stopped, turned away and descended at the next available opportunity. "Has that ever happened to you in Ireland?" I asked. "No" she says, "but thats usually cos you're smelly and drunk". Ah yes, young love!
(bazmorningstar efil4nat3b, Thu 29 May 2008, 15:45, Reply)

It sort of fits, I guess...
I was coming off the train at Euston after getting back from Manchester, I always walk fast and then run down the escalator as the queue builds up very fast. I'm running the escalator and infront of me is a father-son duo, I'm guessing. I just see a bald head with grey sides and a full of head of hair which looked like it belonged to a 20/25 year old. I lean forward and says "generally, we keep to the left if we're not walking" to the younger of the pair, on the right.

It's not until he looks round bewildered that I notice he had downs syndrome. His dad looks at me, says something to his son and then he moves over. I've never ran down any stairs or escalators so fast in my life.

*ashamed*
(Belgaer is, Thu 29 May 2008, 15:44, 11 replies)

Romanian Railways
I'd just finished cycling from England to the Black Sea (he says smugly) and needed to get from Constanta to Bucharest to fly home. I won't say anything about the nightmare of queuing for a ticket at Constanta's railway station: suffice to say the Romanians make the Italians look like a model of order and restraint when it comes to queuing etiquette.

No, the problem was getting my bike on the train. The chap at the ticket office swore on his mother's life that it would be "No problem, no problem" taking my bike on board. So I sauntered up the platform, started to heave my bike up the massive step to the train, only to have a guard run over shouting "NO! NO! Is BIG problem!"

"But the man said no problem" I countered.

"Is BIG problem."

I thought about this. If I missed the train, I'd miss my flight. And it was Swiss Air, so you can imagine how many bars of Nazi gold this flight had cost me. Hmm...

"Baksheesh?" I asked. And so a few Deutsche Marks later I was allowed on the train. But as the guard was a corrupt bumhole I had to go somewhere I wouldn't be seen, so he directed be to the very back of the train. I ended up in the vestibule next to the rearmost set of doors. Not so bad, I thought. No seat, but it's only for a few hours.

It was only when we set off that I learnt an important fact about this train: the doors on either side of this vestibule didn't lock. Not only that, but they didn't like staying closed either. Every time the train went round the slightest bend, one of the doors would fly open, unleashing a swirling vortex that tried to snatch me and all my goods out of the carriage. I had to climb half out of the carriage, face blasted by the wind, and lean down the side of the train to grab the door handle with questing fingertips. It was like a crappy action film, with me hanging from the side of the train as we went over sheer cliff edges, saved from falling to my death only by the feeble strength of my hands. And as soon as I closed one door, the other flew open and it all started again. All the fucking way to Bucharest.

Still, it was less stressful than commuting on First Great Western's Chav Express as I do now.
( Olembe Refuses to write in this space, Thu 29 May 2008, 15:43, Reply)