Sheffield Shit-kickers


In the last 2 days I have witnessed male anger from unexpected sources, manifested on or at the number 88 bus.

"You eat the last Werther's and I'll fuck you up, kidda"

Yesterday, I was waiting at the busstop outside Republic (with window displays to slit your wrists to). An 82 came along. Then an 88. I didn’t want to rub shins with ruffians (the curse of long legs on buses built by midgets), so I opted for the 82.

A sweet old grandad type was at the front of the queue for the 88. The bus driver seemed to not want to open the door.

“OPEN THE FUCKING DOORS YOU PRICK!” he yelled, his surprisingly loud voice echoing down the street.

Thank God I chose this bus, I thought. Even the innocent are corrupted on Stagecoach.

Today, I had to brave an 82 packed with schoolkids on their way to freedom. I had to stand next to a jolly rasta who kept me entertained by singing a medley of reggae hits with little or no tune to get in the way of my enjoyment. After some of the kids had got off, he took his massive beanied head and went and found a seat near the back. Bear in mind that they are sat at opposite ends of the bus.

“Bus stops at Arundel Gate” called the driver in his calm FYI voice.

“YA FUCKIN WHAT MAN??!!!” tuneless rasta bellows

“The bus stops on Arundel Gate”

“WATDAFUCK MAN? IT SAID ECCLESFIELD ON DA FRONT MAN! YOU GOIN ECCLESFIELD MON!”

“No, just to Arundel Gate. It says that on the front”

“WATDAFUCKMON?? IT SAID ECCLESFIELD ALRIGHT?! YOU JUST HAVE CHANGED IT MAN COZ I GOT IN IT AND IT SAID ECCLESFIELD AND I IS GOING TO ECCLESFIELD MAN”

“No, we stop at Arundel Gate”

“SHUT YA FUCKIN FACE MAN! SHUT YA BUM (!!)”

“you should look at what it says before you get on”

“DON’T YOU TELL ME WHAT TO DO, JUST FUCKIN DRIVE MAN, YOU’RE A BAD DRIVER AND I DONT GIVE A SHIT WHAT YOU SAY!”

“I’m just telling you that this bus is not going to Ecclesfield…” etc etc ad nauseum

An old lady pushed her way to the front. ‘Shouting like that, it’s disgusting!” she mumbled

“Shut ya face woman get back to——(couldn’t hear this bit despite straining but it was rather discouraging)”

So let’s hear it for Sheffield Buses- the last rampart of neanderthal man…here’s an informative slideshow of Sheffield buses with a tasteful soundtrack of Ellie ‘flash in the pan’ Goulding:

 

I had a stroke, but you couldn’t reach


Here is a faithful record of the unfaithful dream that I had last night:

Our house was haunted. The sound of stiletto heels echoed down the hallway floorboards and I ran after them into the kitchen. But there was nothing.

"Oh Oh you're in trouble with Esther"

I became very scared, but then got distracted by finding a picture disc 12 inch by Shampoo from 2011. “Wow, they’ve reformed” I thought.

"How dare you surpass your 15 year love for me!"

Back to the goosepimples. I realised as I became more and more terrified that I was completely and utterly and clinically madly in love with a girl who wasn’t Esther. I felt a yearning like a koala for its favourite tree, or a chip’s desire to lie with mushy peas, or a sloth’s desperation for an extension on their essay. Intense.

Every atom of my being was involved in this sweaty lust and longing. Each pore became a mouth singing  ‘I love her I love her I love her’ like a million-strong microscopic boyband. Oh God, this feeling was worse than running out of pudding or some hellish comedown or even a year of Monday mornings lining up like happy slappers forever.

"Quick- she's falling in love"

I had the intellectual runs. Hot thoughts were spurting out of me like: She is the only person I’ve ever loved, the only person who makes me suffer a rapid succession of micro-strokes when I see her, starting in my eye and radiating down past my penis and into the ground.

But I can’t have her. I was mad with sadness, I started to melt like a microwaved snowman and I woke up with my face screwed into the pillow, tears mixing with the usual slobber in a pool that stuck my features into the expression of misery they felt.

Then I had to go to work and like with all dreams, the feeling faded and I found a packet of wine gums in my pocket and felt a bit better. Also my student told me about his visit to the Sistine chapel to see Leonardo Di Caprio’s paintings, which I greatly enjoyed. If only that was true.

But like my dream, it’s an impossible thing and I can’t waste my life wishing it into existence. And it’s a fatal mistake to take dreams as reality, as Marion Cotillard found in Inception

Faces I Want to Slap


Saturday, saturday, what a day. Not.

Still no call from Kristen. I will have to call out the repairmen, there must be a fault with the line stopping her from getting through.

While I wait, I compose a list of people whose faces are so annoying I want to slap them resoundingly. The bigger the picture, the more slappable the face:

Peter Beale. I wonder if his hair would even move?

"Horatio from CSI Miami. He might actually express some emotion if he is bitch slapped"

 

"Thinking about it, the whole rubber faced cast gets on my wick"

"I'd get them in a double-twonk"

"Shut the fuck up"

"Ellen Page even slaps her own face it's so annoying"

“Precocious, Moi?”

"Need someone to play God?"

DEFINITELY to be continued!!

 

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