A strange mistake -

A strange mistake -

I was walking to the bus stop. According to my watch, I had 5 minutes before the bus would arrive.

100 metres from it, I saw the fucker pull away. I went into a rage. The next was in an hour’s time. I had an almost full bottle of scotch in my hand. (I took sips from it to cure a depression of bus rage.)

I threw it straight into the side of the bus as it went gleefully past me.

Now I was doubly cross. No bus and no whisky. I sat on the bench which was covered in foul graffiti and chewing gum and contemplated my fate and the lack of life in my life.

An old woman hobbled up and sat down besides me, carrying her possessions in two plastic bags. The demented, daft bint was humming that song by Phil Collins – Just Another Day in Paradise.

She said to me – ‘Good morning.’

Hardly, gave her a quick smack around the chops and rummaged in her bags in hope of finding some tipple to sooth my shattered nerves. Just loads of boxes wrapped in some daft Happy Birthday paper. Ripped into a couple to find only socks and ties, when – suddenly -

My bus rocked up - two minutes late or 58 minutes early. I was confused. It seems the other bus was not my bus and the old hag missed her bus, as she was sleeping on the bench from a blow to the head.

I took the old ladies bags so as to help her and myself. Luckily for me…

On the bus I continued to rummage, throwing useless crap out the window at passers by. One of the  boxes, addressed to ‘Dear Dad’ – bingo – I hit the jackpot. A 45 pound worth of pure single malt.

Man, did I have a thirst by now and sank the lot in one shot. (I am a Rhodie – Man of Men.) Fucked the empty out and managed to brain some idiot walking a chiyaou ya rat dog thing that yowled as its master hit the deck with split head, and feeling frisky looked around at my fellow passengers.

Since I had done some pillaging and had Viking blood in my veins – I fancied some raping. I stood up and screamed- ‘Who wants to be raped?’

The bus stopped at the next stop – as they do. Everyone got off. Including the driver. Well. What a pisser. I had, at least seven stops before my destination - the Job Centre. Not that I needed a job but need some daft bint to sign into my book the bullshit I had written.

What do you do? What do you do?

I repeat myself – WHAT DO YOU DO?

Easy – I am a Rhodie, (is this sketch of day are you? As in Déjà vu?). I leaped behind the steering wheel, ploughed my way through some annoying pedestrians and hit the office bang on time.

Sadly the woman who was to write my bullshit off was now dead.

(Written from Wordsworth prison after having a book thrown at me.)


The End of my life as I know it.