running by bus at night a story
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Being a permanent resident of the UK with reasonable access to Things That Are Happening in the World, I rarely find myself agreeing with MPs. However, they've displayed a rare streak of genius by citing "not wanting to have to travel across London on night buses" as a reason to rent (and claim expenses for) property within walking distance of Westminster.
What they have realised is that a) night buses are uniformly awful, b) everyone thinks that night buses are uniformly awful and c) any right-thinking human would almost certainly stiff the taxpayer, and indeed members of their own family, for the financial wherewithal to rent in SW1 rather than brave the N29 to Wood Green in the wee small hours of a Saturday morning. (Nothing against Wood Green, apart from Wood Green itself.)
Living in south-east London, where no London Underground tunnel excavator dares to dig, I am familiar with the delights of the N176 and N63 night buses. My defining memory of the former is boarding one at about 1.30am and, as I mounted the stairs, finding myself walking upstream into a river of something warm and familiar-smelling. At the top of the stairs I found myself at the river's source – a smiling man merrily urinating down the stairs, having forgotten that you're not supposed to urinate on buses, and if you are going to urinate, you're meant to at least partially open your fly first. Another time, a gentleman stationed himself on the steps between decks on an almost deserted night bus, helpfully informing passengers that there was no room to sit upstairs. When a young man upstairs shouted down that we shouldn't listen and that there were plenty of empty seats, the gentleman stormed upstairs and threatened to slit his new nemesis's throat. And then left, charging off into oncoming traffic like Mel Gibson in Lethal Weapon. Except in East Dulwich.
I asked for other night bus horror stories and got many. "A very attractive woman chatted me up," recounts one friend, "and it was only when I got off that I realised she had been distracting me while her friend siphoned my chips into her bag." "I vomited into a McDonald's bag once," recounts another (I insist on keeping good company), "and it soaked through and burst into my lap just as a young woman climbed past me to sit down."
Basically, night buses are a nightmarish distillation of the horrors of modern Britain, humming with the stench of chicken bones and spilled WKD and the possibility of sexual harassment, violence and urination. As such, we should force MPs to travel on them. I said I agreed with them – thinking they should actually get their way is another matter entirely.
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What they have realised is that a) night buses are uniformly awful, b) everyone thinks that night buses are uniformly awful and c) any right-thinking human would almost certainly stiff the taxpayer, and indeed members of their own family, for the financial wherewithal to rent in SW1 rather than brave the N29 to Wood Green in the wee small hours of a Saturday morning. (Nothing against Wood Green, apart from Wood Green itself.)
Living in south-east London, where no London Underground tunnel excavator dares to dig, I am familiar with the delights of the N176 and N63 night buses. My defining memory of the former is boarding one at about 1.30am and, as I mounted the stairs, finding myself walking upstream into a river of something warm and familiar-smelling. At the top of the stairs I found myself at the river's source – a smiling man merrily urinating down the stairs, having forgotten that you're not supposed to urinate on buses, and if you are going to urinate, you're meant to at least partially open your fly first. Another time, a gentleman stationed himself on the steps between decks on an almost deserted night bus, helpfully informing passengers that there was no room to sit upstairs. When a young man upstairs shouted down that we shouldn't listen and that there were plenty of empty seats, the gentleman stormed upstairs and threatened to slit his new nemesis's throat. And then left, charging off into oncoming traffic like Mel Gibson in Lethal Weapon. Except in East Dulwich.
I asked for other night bus horror stories and got many. "A very attractive woman chatted me up," recounts one friend, "and it was only when I got off that I realised she had been distracting me while her friend siphoned my chips into her bag." "I vomited into a McDonald's bag once," recounts another (I insist on keeping good company), "and it soaked through and burst into my lap just as a young woman climbed past me to sit down."
Basically, night buses are a nightmarish distillation of the horrors of modern Britain, humming with the stench of chicken bones and spilled WKD and the possibility of sexual harassment, violence and urination. As such, we should force MPs to travel on them. I said I agreed with them – thinking they should actually get their way is another matter entirely.
pls add me brain list answer if helps you thanks
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