Red and Yellow Buses

  When I first came to Brighton I had a little red car. Thankfully I didn’t have much to do with Brighton & Hove public transport. Back then I only had the pleasure of the university bus, the N25, on nights out. Waiting in those concrete bus shelters in the pissing rain for the N25 to take us back to Falmer whilst devouring cheesy chips from RFC, those were the days. When the bus finally turned up it was forty minutes of trying to keep tequila, vodka and cheesy chips down.
   When the little red car failed its MOT, I had to sell it to the scrap yard and join all the bus wankers on a permanent basis. It seems that no journey spent on the Brighton & Hove buses goes uneventfully. Yesterday I was refused on a bus for not having a valid ticket (although I did!), I had to argue with the driver for a good five minutes until he realised his power trip was not going to work on me! Last week I had to witness an eighteen-year-old chav and a drunk forty year old squaring up to one another. For five minutes they dished out all sorts of threats including the classic parent insults followed by: “What did you say about my mother?” The elderly and younger passengers looked on terrified while the bus driver hid in his hole and I contemplated whether it was my duty to settle the dispute.
    A few days ago now I think I saw my best display of madness in Brighton yet. It was pissing it down. I was stood outside the county hospital waiting for a bus, the only other person there was a young mother with her child in a pram (which Brighton has more than it’s fair share of!). A minute later a homeless looking man joined us. He suddenly started swearing, shouting, singing and kicking the air. Definitely off his rocker. I acted as a barrier between the smelly old man and the young child. The singing got so loud I decided I would rather stand in the rain. Two number 7’s turned up at the same time and the mum made a break for the second bus. I got stuck with the lunatic. I sat down on the bus whilst he paraded around the bottom of the bus, like it was his very own stage in the west-end, disturbing all the Brightonions off to the Mariana. The bus driver carried on the route ignoring the mental man causing a disturbance. When I stepped off the bus and watched it pull away, I could see him through the window doing a little twirl around the pole, and thought, well at least he’s happy.