London, what are your buses doing?

London bus drivers. Our Capitol’s bus drivers, along with our PCSOs, vaguely attractive nurses, and Boris Johnson, put up with an almost perpetual barrage of (usually unwarranted) abuse, taunts, and nuisance on a day to day basis. We've all seen their thousand-metre stares, those dull haunted eyes rending through the very fabric of time as you board the bus with your best "I'm not going to shout at you because I was brought up well; please acknowledge me" face. They ignore you; they look straight ahead, their unwavering faces fixed rigid like finely sculpted sarcophagi in Southwark council uniforms; if they can see you (which they can) it's through an extraordinary amplified use of their peripheral vision, not unlike Stevie Wonder's ability to read minds (which he definitely can do).

 

This guy is new...

I expect little sympathy from these hardboiled golems; their job is one where sympathy is rewarded with taken-liberties and capricious tantrums. They pick up drunken foul smelling effluence and deliver the uncooperative and ungrateful detritus to the dark corners and rancid warrens of London's suburbs. They take shit. This is why when bus driver courtesy does bloom, it's a truly marvellous spectacle- ebullient in its vibrancy.

It's a Monday night in the Capitol and I've had a few beers. I'm certainly not unsociably drunk but I probably wouldn't play giant Jenga or operate on a baby. I'm protracting out an earnest goodbye with an old friend outside Charing Cross tube station; it's close to midnight and reliable inexpensive transport is becoming spare and listless. I half-slur a final goodbye to my chum and turn to see my Number 12 bus tearing past Trafalgar Square and down towards Westminster. The Number 12 is my bus. Frustratingly, it is also one of those buses that exist in that cartoonish lampoon of appearing five at a time, then disappearing for hours on end. Missing that bus was not a risk I could afford to take if I wanted to avoid making uncooperative, if potentially quite clumsily-charming, conversation with revoltingly sanguine Olympic tourists.

I ‘did one’. I became at once one of those people who run very quickly down a busy London street and everyone thinks to themselves "Who runs in London? What a stupid twat." (or at least that's what I self-consciously assume whenever I am forced to run very quickly down a busy London street).

I reach the bus just before the doors close (forever?), my forehead beading with sweat and catching the leering fluorescent lighting like the sequined halter-top of a pre-pubescent Little Miss Bracknell, my breaths catching and rattling in my throat like change in an old man’s pocket. I dug out my Oyster card and waved it over the altar of St Take-Me-The-Fuck-Home. Red light. Red-lighted. I gawped at the bus driver, still pissing sweat out of my face. He stared straight ahead, unwavering, face fixed rigid- standard - gracefully ignoring my "I'm a nice person, do me favours because I’m well brought up" shit-eating grin. Having not had the chance to prepare an elaborate speech, I squinted slightly, shifted my weight to one foot, and proclaimed unmightily "Ummm... ahhhh…"

The bus driver stared straight ahead, unwavering, face fixed rigid, until he murmured: "Mate, I didn't see anything…" I've watched enough episodes of The Bill to know what that meant, this was working-class for “You have my discreet permission!” This was my green light, this was my 'Move past Go, collect your £200'! I managed to splutter out in an incredibly thick and inappropriately loud middle-class accent "You're a bloody gentleman mate, thank you so much!!"

I move to the back of the bus, still haemorrhaging sweat, and perform a textbook London commute (Goldmedal-standard bus-use).

Stopping at East Dulwich, I inelegantly navigate my way through the sorry carcasses that couldn't hack a small-hours Capitol night out and step outside, deep-throating the fresh air like a hungry fluffer. Fresh air all over my face and chin and a bit in my hair. Still mindful of the bus driver's favour and quite high on air, I turn round with my trademark shit-eating grin and throw him a grateful wave to say thanks. I don't think he clocks, or cares, or both, so I carry on walking up the road. Just then, as the bus passes me, I hear a beep and turn to see the bus driver flashing me a cheeky smile and a knowing wave. He was saying, without words, "George, you're alright, you are. You’re alright"
Mr Sanders, I have a delivery for you- it’s your faith in humanity. Sign here.

London, you're doing it right.