As I climbed the stairs I became vaguely aware of the slimy man captivated by my ass. Looking at this from a primitive perspective I took it as a compliment. However, when he propositioned me later it wasn't as amusing.
I took my place on the upper floor of this red double-deckered British novelty and sat right at the front. Peering over the top I felt like a king riding a very slightly bumpy roller-coaster. I surveyed my kingdom to the romantic tune of 'Frisky' played by the chavs at the back of the vehicle. They sang along, as if they were some heavenly choir gently narrating my evening. It was no 'songs of praise' that I might experience on a sunny Sunday afternoon in my local church, but it was peaceful none the less.
Suddenly the bus ground to a violent halt. Oh my, it was happening again, I looked around for a sense of reassurance from the other passengers, we were all in this together now. A woman was gently weeping into an empty Sam's Chicken box, whether this was because we both knew what was about to occur, or simply a tableau of her pathetic life, I simply did not know. I stood. I made my way over to the twisted staircase, wading through the ravaged chicken bones and piss stained floor. I peered over, only to inquire the full extent of the damage.
At the door way, there she was, dressed head to toe in tacky, fake Juicy Couture, and worst of all, she bared no ticket. Needless to say, the busman wasn't pleased. The vile 'woman' proceeded to bang violently on the thin slate of plastic that lay between her and her prey. "Let me on you fucking Paki", she squealed in a heartless, and rather non PC way.
The busman replied in words that I couldn't make out. Then the kicking began... one of her cohorts had began assisting her in committing minor atrocities worthy of an ASBO. I didn't know which primitive instinct to call on: fight or flight? I decided it was too late to run, I was through the looking glass now.
The villains began running up the stairs, one spotted me, "what you looking at?". This was it, my moment. Do I confront her poverty stricken ways? Do I pay for her ticket? Do I take pity on her and offer her the multiple McDonalds discount vouchers stored in my bag? Alas, I did none of these things, for I am a white, middle class haughty Jew. That, and I doubted whether she would understand the basic English in which I speak.
I returned to my place at the front of the bus, a seat which I initially deemed fit for a queen, now felt like the naughty chair. The bus didn't move for a few minutes, wherein I pretended to be captivated in a tattered copy of the Evening Standard. The cycle hire scheme is expanding into east London I hear...
She eventually threw herself of the bus in a fit of rage, not neglecting to give the bus driver a piece of her tiny mind, using the only sordid adjectives in her limited vocabulary.
The bus continued on its journey and I ended my trip safely. But we all know, the night bus will never be really safe...
FOLLOW ME ON TWITTER: myamedina
I took my place on the upper floor of this red double-deckered British novelty and sat right at the front. Peering over the top I felt like a king riding a very slightly bumpy roller-coaster. I surveyed my kingdom to the romantic tune of 'Frisky' played by the chavs at the back of the vehicle. They sang along, as if they were some heavenly choir gently narrating my evening. It was no 'songs of praise' that I might experience on a sunny Sunday afternoon in my local church, but it was peaceful none the less.
Suddenly the bus ground to a violent halt. Oh my, it was happening again, I looked around for a sense of reassurance from the other passengers, we were all in this together now. A woman was gently weeping into an empty Sam's Chicken box, whether this was because we both knew what was about to occur, or simply a tableau of her pathetic life, I simply did not know. I stood. I made my way over to the twisted staircase, wading through the ravaged chicken bones and piss stained floor. I peered over, only to inquire the full extent of the damage.
At the door way, there she was, dressed head to toe in tacky, fake Juicy Couture, and worst of all, she bared no ticket. Needless to say, the busman wasn't pleased. The vile 'woman' proceeded to bang violently on the thin slate of plastic that lay between her and her prey. "Let me on you fucking Paki", she squealed in a heartless, and rather non PC way.
The busman replied in words that I couldn't make out. Then the kicking began... one of her cohorts had began assisting her in committing minor atrocities worthy of an ASBO. I didn't know which primitive instinct to call on: fight or flight? I decided it was too late to run, I was through the looking glass now.
The villains began running up the stairs, one spotted me, "what you looking at?". This was it, my moment. Do I confront her poverty stricken ways? Do I pay for her ticket? Do I take pity on her and offer her the multiple McDonalds discount vouchers stored in my bag? Alas, I did none of these things, for I am a white, middle class haughty Jew. That, and I doubted whether she would understand the basic English in which I speak.
I returned to my place at the front of the bus, a seat which I initially deemed fit for a queen, now felt like the naughty chair. The bus didn't move for a few minutes, wherein I pretended to be captivated in a tattered copy of the Evening Standard. The cycle hire scheme is expanding into east London I hear...
She eventually threw herself of the bus in a fit of rage, not neglecting to give the bus driver a piece of her tiny mind, using the only sordid adjectives in her limited vocabulary.
The bus continued on its journey and I ended my trip safely. But we all know, the night bus will never be really safe...
FOLLOW ME ON TWITTER: myamedina
Great post, I really enjoyed your description of your night bus journey. I came to this page by accident through twitter but it's worked out well, keep up the good work!
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