Do you know how much time is wasted waiting for buses? Yesterday I was on 2 bus journeys with the total journey time being around 12 minutes whilst the waiting time was at least treble that time. Usually I prefer the walk into town to exercise these big calves and to listen to my tunes at full blast without disapproving looks from elders and those with worse taste in music than myself but in a moment of energetic disillusionment I got carried away with flashdance. I cranked up my favourite tune in a bid to perfect my routine should I get so wasted at my party that I need to delight/disgust my guests with a performance and in doing so, the frenetic outburst caused me to wear my self and the soles of my feet out. This is the reason I had to lower myself to the degrading level of public transport. Do you know how much stuff I could have accomplished in the time I waited? I could have taught myself and a gang of 10 year olds how to insert a tampon correctly and comfortably. Or, I could have performed all the positions from ‘Masturbators Monthly’ till I was more than satisfied with the results but no, here I was sat, at various bus stops twiddling nothing but my thumbs. It’s not that I’m in a hurry to get through life or anything. I’m very rarely in a hurry to do anything, especially not get to work which was one of my bus destinations but there’s just nothing more dull than waiting for a bus. I guess listening to a conversation with no jobbie/fart/fanny content could be described as more boring in my immature eyes as could watching 5 minutes of Footballers Wives but these 2 situations aside, waiting for buses wins the top prize. It’s always such an anti climax when it does come. It’s not like you’ve got anything to look forward to once the over heated bus finally arrives, 20 minutes after it’s due when you’ve been soaked in the Aberdeen rain and cried yourself into a boredom coma. You watch old people disputing who is the most worthy cause for a seat, you listen to neds in Paul Smith shirts talking about their ‘traps’ in shite ned bars and you always miss your stop because you’ve become bored motionless. It’s on such occasions that you have to create your own entertainment. Such things can include letting go a ‘silent but violent’ in the densely thick queue and watching the reactions of those too polite to say anything but who will hold back their face to create multiple chins and then there are those who blame everyone in sight, secretly hoping it wasn’t their good self who slipped it out accidentally. Very few escape the finger of suspicion, from the posh gran who’s daughter’s car broke down and has been relegated to buses, to the simple person in velour who has not idea what these neds are talking about. The real fart dealer often goes undetected as who would think that Miss Fee, all innocent faced and smellin so sweetly would deliver such a stench? Another game I’m partial to is when all 50 people in the queue try to all pile on the bus at one time, try and injure as many people under the age of 35 as possible. ‘Injuring’ can take many forms, such as standing on the back of shoes so long Reeboks become lost in the fracas, scuffing the backs of ankles, elbowing any region of the body or just blatantly kicking whatever happens to be in front of you. All actions have desirable results as accusations are hurled, obscenities are yelled and physical fights break out and I just hang in the thicket and look downward at all the nasty tightly pulled trainers and join in with the old birds who tut and roll their eyes. Call me a sadist. Call me whatever you like. These people deserve it. They are always so desperate to push onto the bus, take up position in the back seat and scream abuse at everyone who doesn’t wear Burberry (fake or otherwise), smoke Lambert and Butler and listen to happy hardcore louder than I do Britney. They think it’s completely ok for them to criticise every passing person with much lewdness that should be reserved for my weblog only. It’s funny that the people who do this are always far uglier than their vulnerable victims who at least know how to wear dirty denim and can talk in an understandable accent and not use the words ‘fit’ and ‘ken’ in all seriousness. And so I go to walk into town and mutter comments to the school kids because I can.