Introducing Me And The Number 62 Bus

Hello, Donna here. Well, it's Monday in Scotland, so I thought I might just jump straight in. If I manage to do this right without mangling links etc it will be a bloody miracle. Anyway, here goes.

When Sarah said to me "Hey, how do you feel about following Jason Starr?" my first response was "But what about Restraining Orders and stuff like that?" Of course, she made it clear that she meant Blog-wise. I should have said no…I’m rubbish at saying no…I wish I’d said no. Now I have to follow such august August luminaries as Jason Starr, Alina Adams, Charlie Williams, Robert Ferrigno and M J Rose. Well, I’ll warn you now, unlike the aforementioned, I am neither a) interesting, b) entertaining, nor c) erudite. In fact, it will be a miracle if I can manage d) coherent.

These two days are going to be like the end of a great party. You’ve had a really good time – you’ve strutted your funky stuff to Soft Cell’s Tainted Love, enjoyed scintillating conversation, a delicious finger buffet, a rather cheeky Bulgarian Merlot, and a quick fumble in the broom cupboard with someone who took your phone number and is “really, really going to call you tomorrow, honest” – and now no-one wants to go home, because it’s been such a good evening. And then, in one fell swoop, Great Auntie Gertie vomits all over your shoes after downing one and a half bottles of cooking sherry, the hostess’ darling 6 year old son (who everyone has been passing from embrace to embrace) announces that the School Nit Nurse said that ‘Mummy might want to get some of that special shampoo’, and you realise that you’ve had the back of your skirt tucked into your knickers since you went to the loo 2 hours ago. Well folks – I am projectile vomiting Auntie Gertie, buttock exposing embarrassment, and head lice, all rolled into one.

So consider these two days a sort of extended commercial break. It’s your chance to go to the bathroom, make yourselves a cup of tea, and phone your bookie, before the proper people return on Wednesday. I am the blogging equivalent of Pearl and Dean.

I’ve promised Sarah that I shall try not to trash the place while she’s gone, but she’s locked up the valuables and marked the gin bottle anyway. Sarah has told me that I need to tell a bus story. Well, contrary to popular belief, Glasgow’s buses are not always a hotbed of lunacy. I travel on them twice a day and most of the time they’re relatively normal. So I don’t actually have any new bus stories, so I’m going to tell my favourite old one. People who know me will have been bored rigid with this one already. But, anyway, here it is after the jump (if I can work this thing correctly).

Now, Glasgow buses really come into their own at night. A few months ago we were out at a party and when we left it was impossible to get a taxi home as they were all taken. So we decided to wait for a bus. Now, this was a pretty bad idea anyway because after 10pm, Glasgow buses become an alternate universe where people talk to each other (but you wish they wouldn't) and where no matter which bus you get on, where you're going, or what time after 10pm it is, you'll always be treated to a rendition of My Way, somebody will be lying in the aisle snoring, and the air will be heady with the smell of fish and chips and beery belches.

Now, not only did we get on a bus after 10pm, but what we got was The Last Bus - a Glasgow experience that ranks only with typhoid on the list of Things To Be Avoided At All Costs. But there you go. We got on it. It was really crowded, so we had to stand up. And we immediately discovered a pitched battle going on between the front of the bus and the back of the bus. The main reason for this as we understood it (given that no-one was in the remotest bit comprehensible) was that someone at the back of the bus was ringing the bell over and over.

It was like The Sharks and The Jets. At the back of the bus was a group of neds in flammable shellsuits, and at the front was a group of elderly ladies who appeared to have put on sequins to go to the bingo. Both groups had been drinking heavily. Light the blue shellsuit and retire. I thought I'd stepped into a particularly Scottish version of West Side Story.

The air was thick with quaint anglo-saxon terminology - most of it, it has to be said coming from the elderly bingo-goers. Most of the insults I couldn't repeat here, but there's one which is a typically Glaswegian one which sounds innocuous but, when delivered with the right amount of sneering venom, is like a red rag to a bull "Hey you, ya tube". I'll leave you to imagine the rest. The neds were more or less restricting themselves to "You're not ma maw", "Naw, she's yer granny", and "Gie yersel' peace Methuselah" (this particular one was followed by a few moments silence as everyone digested the name, until someone piped up "Was Methuselah no' that baldy-heeded bampot who used tae play fer Dundee United?")

By this time, everyone on the bus had joined in the slanging match. The bloke standing (I use the term advisedly since he was swaying all over the place) next to us, was shouting over and over again at the top of his voice "Shut the fuck up ya wee nyaffs". I wasn't quite sure whether he was talking to The Neds or The Sequins and I don't think he did either. I, on the other hand, just wanted to sing "I feel pretty, Oh so pretty, I feel pretty and witty and gay, And I pity any girl who isn't me today", and then see the two halves of the bus break out into spontaneous dancing, or at the very least, stand up without staggering. Meanwhile, in all this madness, the phantom belldinger of old Glasgow town was still at it.

The bus stopped and I looked out of the window. Hang on, this wasn't a scheduled bus stop. This was the police station. Excellent. Of all the crimes being committed all over Glasgow last night, we were in the middle of probably the most heinous. I can just see the headlines this morning "Glasgow Revellers in Bus Bell Drama".

Two policemen got on the bus (looking slightly bemused as the driver said "Someone's ringing the bell.") They made their way to the back of the bus to choruses of "Hey pal, someone back there's drunk in charge of a bell" and "Are ye no gonnae arrest that barstit fae farting in ma chips?" A man next to us who'd been pretty quiet up until then was carefully watching proceedings. The police were talking to the young neds, when this bloke shouted out "It's no the young team - it's that fat, grey-heeded erse in the yellow top. I've been watching him." Of course, everyone turned round to look at the culprit. It was so funny. By this time, the whole bus was in an uproar. Except me. I was mouthing the words to "Gee Officer Krupke" and thinking that the choreography in this scene was really crap. The only other person who was quiet in this whole mess was the grey heeded erse in the yellow top. He was sitting there looking positively angelic, as though butter wouldn't melt in his mouth. To look at him, you would never think that war had broken out around him and he was just about to be torn limb from limb.

Eventually, the police left without getting to the bottom of what had happened (well, that will screw up their crime figures won't it?) and the bus carried on its way - this time with a police escort - two police cars - one in front and one behind. What a gay cavalcade. By the time we got off the bus, sporadic fisticuffs had broken out in isolated pockets of the bus. However, on the optimistic side, one of The Sequins had made her way to the back of the bus and was now sitting on the knee of one of The Neds. Ah - true love will always find a way ...Tonight. Tonight. Won't be just any night.....

Donna

Comments

[Aldo]

Donna,
Welcome! So Westside story in Glasgow and restraining orders. I will glued to this blog for all the updates.
And I send you some proper booze to cure what ailes ya.

[M o I]

I am projectile vomiting Auntie Gertie, buttock exposing embarrassment, and head lice, all rolled into one

And you are thoroughly delightful. Enjoyed the bus story v much, and look forward to more dispatches from Glasgow.

[Mary]

Aw, come one, Donna. Fess up and tell 'em a Raz story! Drag the old boy out of the dungeon one last time, won't you?

[Donna]

Goodness - thank you Aldo, MoI and Mary - I thought everyone would just take a couple of days off and there would be no-one roaming the backblogs during my tenure. Thanks for your comments. And Aldo, a large Southern Comfort and lemonade would be lovely - thanks :o)
Donna

[Bryon]

For a boring, dull, incoherent person with no good stories to tell, that was one of the most entertaining introductions I've read on here so far. Best of the luck during your time.

[John Rickards]

The whole thing's had me chuckling for a good few minutes now, from the vomiting aunt to the "farting in my chips" remark. Very funny. :-D

[Jim Winter]

When I grew up, I lived on the fringes of the Cleveland suburbs, well beyond the reach of the RTA. (Too bad, because I really would have liked riding the train in the morning.)

So when I moved to Cincinnati, the Metro was my introduction to life in the heart of the urban expanse.

I'm proud to say that the bus is responsible for meeting my first wino, my first accidental wandering into a gay bar (I ran to the nearest sportsbar, only a block in the other direction the next night), and that most embarrassing of situations - Mass transit in the wrong direction. Did you know if you get on the wrong bus, you could end up 30 miles opposite where you intended to be?

Never had a Westside Story incident, though I did almost ride a bus over the edge of a bluff on Harrison Avenue (which belongs more in Denver than the Midwest.)

Glasgow has bus service after 10 PM?

[Donna]

Thanks Byron and John :o) I have LOADS of Glasgow bus stories, but that one's my favourite.

Jim - yes indeed - in central Glasgow buses run all through the night (rather like open sores). Highly not recommended. You're better off with a Glasgow taxi driver (all except the one who got out of his cab and head-butted (or, as we lovingly call it here - gave him a 'Glasgow Kiss') a motorcyclist when I was in his taxi one night. The motorcyclist and I thought this was a very foolhardy thing to do, given the motorcyclist's big black shiny helmet.)

The town where my parents live, on the other hand, buses stop at 5pm. But then there's nothing to do after 5pm. Except go line-dancing (on't get me started)...

Donna

[Mary]

Donn you are doing great, just as expected. Can't wait for the rest of the week.

Mary

[Kathy K]

Hi Donna
Love the 62 Bus stories. I could read them all day but I have to work. :( I will definately be checking back for more. :) They are even funnier the second, third and fourth times. LOL

Kathy K

[mad_m]

West side story ,huh? "When you're a get, you're a get all the waaayyy..." Only on public transit:)-M

[Brendan]

I have never been to Scotland, could you let me know about some good places to go.

-Brendan