The bus. Easily the worst form of transport short of walking somewhere. Even then walking has the upper hand on bus travel in every department besides speed. Let’s start in the morning. I step on the bus wanting to pay with a twenty, though this phenomenon has even been known to occur with a tenner. I ask to travel to my destination and the bus driver spots the note in my hand, looking at it like I’ve tried to pay with a dead orphan. “Haven’t got change for that mate”. Why the fuck not?! It’s early and the bus is empty so I’m guessing he hasn’t had to dole it out to all his other passengers. The more likely story is that the cunt left with no change. You’re running a service based around the exchange of money for transport. Why don’t you have any fucking change?! Why am I meant to go running around gathering change to do Stagecoach a favour? I thought they were meant to be providing a service to me? Why don’t they have change? Is it merely to try and deter attempted robberies? Keep it up with this lack of change and I’ll put a blade in your face for free, you cunt! Regardless, the driver’s nowadays sit in their little perspex safety pod so i don’t see the event unfolding. So an hour later I get on the next instalment of my bus having walked to the nearest shop to buy something I don’t want so I can break my note. I get on without any trouble because I’m playing the game. By now it’s nearing time for the alcohol licences to spark into action so I have the obligatory tramp stinking out the entire bus with a scent that suggests he’s spent that last few months brewing in a bath tub of his own piss. My nostrils burn like I’ve just inhaled a vat of acid. A shit start to the day and I dread what public transport has in store for me on the return journey. So the time comes and my bus is at the station, ten minutes walk away from my work and nine minutes after I finish. As usual I rush the whole way and usually manage to catch it. Today is one of those days. Unfortunately, today is also one of those days when i catch a dickhead at the wheel. One of those who is looking to juice every bit of worth out of this menial service position his life has climaxed in. Approaching the door as it closes, I tap on the glass indicating that I’d like to board, even flashing my return ticket to ensure he understands the minimal nature of my request. A shrug of his shoulders and a look of disdain on his face, suggests he wishes there was something he could do but unfortunately if he were to open the door, not only would he lose his job but he would be subjected to a live performance of the Stagecoach hierarchy wearing his slaughtered wife and children as cock socks. Of course on the days I arrive in more that suitable time, I’m left standing by while he shoots the shit with the half-wit who empties the bins and scrubs the shit stains off the toilets at the station. This charade eats into the minutes after departure time with no apparent worry for the sensitivity of his family’s cold, dead orifices. It’s a warm summer evening by now. I eventually take my seat on the bus. Pass the driver, do not collect an apology. My chauffeur has opened every window on the bus to circulate some fresh air without the chill penetrating his cabin. I travel through the bitter winter with no sign of a heating system to give me, the passenger, some comfort for my money, yet now that summer is upon us and Scotland has reached it’s mediocre heights in heat of 20 degrees the driver has prescribed me an ice cold breeze. Fuck Stagecoach and their wank stain employees! I want my drivers licence back and I’m never speeding again.

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