2008-02-12 - 4:39 a.m.

Waiting for a bus has to be one of the most undignified and miserable ways to pass the time. The stench of failure is overpowering. People who get the bus don’t know how to drive or have obvious mental deficiencies. The two traits are not entirely unrelated. Standing with these shuffling abominations to society is a soul-sucking experience. There are few group activities that I’d rather less be a part of; a Manic Street Preachers concert, maybe, or a gang rape. On the plus side, it’s rare for me to be the best-dressed person in a group. I achieve this sartorial superiority through the simple expedient of not wearing polyester trousers that are two inches too short, Velcro-fastened shoes, stained cagoules or hunting hats. OK, so I lied about the last one, but then I do like killing things and it’s important to wear the appropriate headgear. I draw the line at lumberjack shirts, though. Sometimes I even draw the line on lumberjack shirts, which is why I am banned from all branches of Millets.

Bus stations have none of the refinement of the larger train stations. They are damp, niggardly places that bristle with degenerates and panhandlers. I am rather taken with the notion, though, that I should give money to people just because they ask me for it without offering me any goods or services in return. Shit, why didn’t I think of that? Bus drivers, despite always being late, always somehow find time to have a cigarette and engage in witless banter with the usher, or whatever it is you call those redundant people who hang around and tell the driver how many passengers they have. Never is the paying customer told how late the bus will be. Never is a refund offered for services not rendered. Always will there be some lout to sit in the seat behind you listening to some dreadful din on an ipod. Sometimes the driver himself will participate in this selfish madness by leaving the radio on. His bus, his rules, I suppose, but consider for a moment the absurdity of a group of sleepy-eyed strangers being subjected to Queen’s We Will Rock You at 7.30am.

Many bus people have such short attention spans that a silent activity such as reading will not suffice to keep them entertained en route. No, apparently the only way to travel is by having happy hardcore or rap metal blasting into your eardrums at a volume that means nobody else on board is free from the cacophony. I’ve even seen people eating on the bus. Can you imagine that? We’re talking about a half-hour journey - how hungry do you have to be to want to have lunch on that foul, fetid conveyance? Do these nincompoops not realise that crisps are not only loud and disruptive but also horrifically odourous? The stench of B.O. and death is prevalent enough without adding the sulfurous note of artificial cheese flavourings to the stifling humidity that pervades these latter day tumbrels. Just hold on for a few moments and you can celebrate the food the way god intended: scarfing down reheated leftovers in front of the television. You can also forget about drinking alcohol on a bus – unlike train passengers, bus people are not considered sophisticated enough to drink without spazzing out and attacking the driver or something. Never mind that I have the right and the need to neck half a bottle of Glenmorangie just to prevent me from withdrawing my valuable hunting knife and putting those earwax-oozing, nylon-clad fuckups out of their collective misery.

It is for these reasons that I am learning to drive. The time has finally come for me to join the adult world and circumvent the masochistic ritual of public transport. I am 27 years old. I have neither property nor much hope of procreation, but damnit,I can at least drive. I used to take a certain smug pride in paying other people to chauffeur me around but the whole deal is just making me too angry these days. I despise the rudeness and stupidity of my fellow passengers. I’ll die happy if I never have to smalltalk with another taxi driver. I’m better than that. I still have some self-respect, which is remarkable seeing as I took a train home at 5am yesterday morning while contorted across the seats with my jacket over my head and possessing breath so toxic that it singed the conductor’s eyebrows.

In future I aim to take public transport only in such occasions that I am chemically inconvenienced to the point that driving my own vehicle would be liable to land me in jail or a coffin. I now have an avuncular driving instructor from whom I am learning the rules of the road. His talent for punning is limitless and is displayed in his catchhrapses 'just a little, not a lottle!' and 'Only pyschos go in the cycle lane!' Driving is a lot like taking drugs; scary at first, potentially lethal, compulsive, necessary. I don’t care how long it takes but I’m going to be a stellar driver. My passengers will marvel at my ability to reverse round corners on 2 wheels while gutting a halibut. I’ll be the most renowned getaway driver on the East Coast. East bound and down, I’m gonna be kind of the road. Stand aside, Clarkson, there’s a new sheriff in town.

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