Bus Trilogy: The final instalment
on Nov 06 in General by DanIn the mid nineties a drunk 18 year old needing a cheap way to get back to Holmfirth at 11pm on a Friday night had two choices: the 312 bus or the 313.
The 312, while marginally quicker, was the more edgy of the two. The passengers always seemed more aggressive and confrontational somehow. I hold a theory that this is due to the villages it served: namely the comedically titled Netherthong and Thongs Bridge. The villages’ unfortunate association with ladies undergarments causes its residents to have a subconscious chip on their shoulder (or rather a string up their arse crack). This seething bitterness is quietly and discreetly repressed during their normal life, but after imbibing alcohol the populace of both the Thongs lose there previous self control and become angry embittered louts spoiling for a fight.
Â
The 313’s route on the other hand didn’t pass through any places named after trashy lingerie, and as a result was much more civilised in atmosphere. Which isn’t to say that things didn’t get a little rambunctious of course; but it was a jovial and genial rambunctiousness that was most pleasant to be a part of. Good natured banter, happy camaraderie, and drunken singing were the order of the day.Â
On those beer fueled journeys home we used to invent a variety of games to pass the time. My personal favorite was the “see how many screws you can remove from the bus†competition. Like some kind of giant game of kerplunk we had to take out as many as we could without making the bus structurally unsound. In retrospect it perhaps was not the most civic minded of games, but to our 18 year old drink fuddled minds it appeared the height of sophisticated wit.
Â
Things were not all fun and frolics however. I quickly found that after a night on the beer it takes my bladder approximately forty minutes to reach bursting point. Unfortunately it took the 313 bus approximately fifty five minutes to reach my home. These two facts did not make for the most comfortable of bus journeys at times. In fact there were frequently occasions when it all got too much and I had to get off a couple of miles before my stop in order that I could relieve myself in a handy bush. It was on one of these emergency pit stops that the infamous talking tree episode took place. I’m not sure if it is good blogiquette to quote from your own blog, but I’ll be buggered if I’m typing it all out again:
One particular night we came across a three foot high wall with a hollow tree on the other side. Thinking I was perhaps the wittiest person in the entire world I vaulted the wall and jumped down into the centre of the tree. Only to find out that although the wall was 3 feet high on one side, it was 8 feet high on the other and I was now trapped inside the tree. The walls of the tree were slippery with rot and the opening at the top was about a foot beyond my reach.
My calls for help were met by my drunken and hysterical friends shouting “oh look, a talking treeâ€. Very amusing I’m sure. Visions of the front page headline of the local newspaper proclaiming “Drunken pillock rescued by fire brigade from a tree, parents very disappointed indeed†swam before my eyes.
Eventually I managed to get out, bizarrely enough via my equally idiotic friend jumping down there with me and letting me climb on his shoulders. I will leave you to ponder on how he managed to get out himself, some mysteries are better left unrevealed.
From: Well thats another fine mess, 25th October 2006
Â
Just as it was common to get off the bus too early, it was also possible to get off too late. Generally this was the result of you falling asleep and your swines of friends deliberately not waking you and craftily sneaking off the bus while you slumbered. I think Ali held the record with a nap that took him right to the final stop and a long five mile walk home.
Ah, Happy days.
And now I learn that the powers that be have deemed that the 313 bus route is to be discontinued. And, although that decision will have no effect on my current life whatsoever, the news of it’s passing makes me a just little sad that the new generations of drunken idiots will never know its joys. Perhaps I should get in touch with National Heritage and see if I can get a preservation order placed on it.
Related posts:
- Well that’s another fine mess…
- Forget the caffe latte, screw the raspberry iced tea
- Friday night at the bus station
- World War III, the final battle. Part 2
- We’re home
« « “At the end of the road turn right”| Free Rice » »
Unrelated to your delightful story, Dan, I just wanted to tell you and Kerry that I love the autumn pictures of your family. It almost makes me like falling leaves, and yet, not.
Wait a minute. You drank when you were 18? Shocking! I, myself, was always too busy with bible study and assisting the elderly to do any partying.
I have to go read to the orphans now, and later I’ll be down at the animal shelter praying over the ugly dogs so that they may be adopted too.
It’s a sad day indeed. Perhaps a pint is in order.
I just read that and laughed out loud (not having heard the talking tree story before). I don’t think I’ve ever done anything as remotely funny as that when drunk (more stupid? probably).