Signs of Intelligence (Looking for)

Fun times. The great thing about this #BusJourneyFromHell is that no matter how bad you think you have seen it, something inevitably comes along that exceeds any previously held record. Take today for instance: sat in what I like to think of as my seat is a huge heffalump of a female, eating a poorly toasted bagel dripping margarine (she’s not the type for butter) and peanut butter thick enough to be used as plaster. She’s taking mouthfuls large enough to choke a horse. Joy unfettered.

She’s also wearing apple headphones. Not in her ears, but draped on her ample shoulders. From the tinny irritating hiss and din one is able to discern that she loves loud trash pop. So far I’ve been able to identify Barbie Girl by Aqua and what I am (sadly) reasonably certain is Oops I Did It Again by Britney Spears. Now I. I’m not judging the music per se but there’s a time and a place for this: the place is either a discotheque, a nightclub or a shoddy party on a council estate. And the time for it was last decade.

I’ve also been subject to a whiny brat this week whose parent exercised perfect control. Over their snapchat account. No apologies for the brat standing on my foot. No apologies for the brat kicking me across the seat. No apologies to anyone for this shocking behaviour. No apologies for the squalling, mewling Spawn whinging and generally carrying on like the spoilt brat it clearly was. No admonishment of said degenerate neonate of the “wait till I get you home” variety (or any kind, for that matter).

They tell you that it’s moments like this that remind you that you are alive. I have two things to say about that. One, who are they in their all prescient wisdom that determine things such as this? And two, I don’t need either of these examples to prove that I am alive, as I have enough crap to deal with outside of this environment to fucking know I’m alive, thank you very much!

To add to today’s celebration of life affirmation, I offer up the proof that my nose is capable of detecting subtle and alluring aromas, in the form of a member of the labouring trade. This fine individual was probably last introduced to a bar of soap several years ago at a party. They chatted for a while. He took her home. Didn’t get what he wanted out of the experience and probably now refers to her as a cheap sket. I wish he’d reconsider. There’s only so many insults a bar of soap can take. He smells like Newhaven. The whole of Newhaven, especially the Incinerator.

Now just so we’re clear on the subject here I don’t write this to elicit any sympathy from you, the reader. This is here for your edification, and to help you understand those less fortunate than ourselves. We can then look for them in the advert breaks on the cheaper satellite channels where some reasonably current thespian is eschewing the virtues of a charity that is there to help. He’s merely asking for a one-off donation of £7,157.56 or a regular monthly contribution of £853.12 which is so easy for you to set up. All you need to do is text the words DUPE ME RIGID to 67890 and your conscience will be assuaged. You will get regular updates (presumably via Snapchat), pictures of them stuffing their faces with ill conceived children and food ideas (such as Peanut Butter, Nutella and Prawn Toasted Bagel Salad in a Cob Loaf with a Double Cream and Thai Fish Sauce dressing with Deep Fried Mars Bars as a starter) along with lack of progress reports every 3 months.

Of course it is possible that I might be wrong.

They may be on the more expensive satellite channels too.

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