Maybe it’s my fault, but I find myself going insane on the 699 every single time I use it. I’ve written extensively in the past about why I tend to walk the unsteady bridge between level-headedness and downright madness when on busy public transport, but I’m finding myself increasingly enraged whilst on the University bus service. Specifically the University bus service.
My iPod finally decided to part ways with any sort of functionality over the Christmas break, and so I am left overhearing peoples’ conversations on the bus every time I use it. There is always, always, always a group of loud, love-thyself buffoons close enough to me to not only get my full attention, but allow me to hear every single word they spew out of their stupid-holes. Determined to irritate me with their banal chat, mindless joking and incessant laughter; they speak about (and I kid thee not) the following:
Shooting pigeons with an air rifle. Innocent fun and games, eh? I only heard a bit of this, but I do know they managed to hit one, and it didn’t do much, “cause they were only little bullets, you know?”. Why were you shooting pigeons with an air rifle?
How it’s funny that you always say that you play the guitar and the piano in French speaking examinations. “I mean, who actually plays the piano and the guitar?!”
The War on Terror. “Bollocks is it a war. It’s an everlasting battle we’ve been fighting since the dawn of time.” “Haha, that is well funny… That’s a soundbite, mate.” “What’s a soundbite?” “It’s just like a little sentence.” “Oh. I was only joking, anyway… It’s a rubbish war. It’s been going on for ages, that’s all. Can’t they hurry up or something? Just kill all the fuckers?”
Pole Dancing. About six girls were talking about these pole dancing lessons right behind me on the bus for the entire, twenty-minute journey. Actually, no they weren’t. They started off talking about pole dancing lessons before moving on to talking about how it might lead them to burn the insides of their legs (what?!), and how it’s actually all quite dangerous. They then naturally progressed to, “It would hurt when you’re having sex, those burns on your legs…”. Oh right, they would, would they? Oh well, at least they weren’t talking about…
The gory details of the contents of one’s used tampon. Fairly sure this is enough information. It’s not? Okay. “There were like, these little bits… I don’t know what they were.”
As you can see, a plethora of the oh so annoying, the unnervingly odd, and the vomit-inducing. And laughter is common to each and every one of the conversations. Yes, even that one.
The conversations I hate hearing most, though, are the ones that break up the speech with forced maniacal laughter. You must have heard it before. It’s not a polite chuckle at a poorly executed joke. No. It’s that strange, over the top attempt to make someone think they’re either funny, attractive, or… something else. Something that they are not. You could just tell someone that you enjoy their company, surely? Rather than laugh as if you’re being forced to at gunpoint, whilst at the same time being tickled in an ever so slightly too cheeky a way. The way that makes you laugh, but with a tinge of ‘get off me, seriously’. But it’s really ticklish so it actually seems like you’re loving it and want more. That laugh. It’s just abnormal, okay? Tagged with the held at gunpoint thing. You can imagine all that, right? It’s a horrible sound, anyway. Especially when it comes after the phrase, “Yeah, like my cock does!” (again, I kid thee not, it was the punchline to a joke that the utterer appeared to have just created as a response to the blandest bit of information about how “smoking and thinking about how sticky and dirty tar is makes you feel a bit… wrong.”).
I’m not saying that the entire student population is made up of total weirdos, I just know, first-hand that the louder ones are usually actually mental.
Or maybe I’m just desperately lonely on the bus, and my jealousy of their inclusiveness with one another drives me to fabricate wild stories that I believe myself to be true. Either way, though, I miss my iPod. So much.
Comments
I actually quite like listening to knobheads on the bus/train. Word on the exaggerated laughter though, really no need when listening to Charlie's tampon woes.
I think I retrospectively enjoy the ridiculousness of said forced laughter and so on, but I certainly remember just wishing most of them would just turn the volume down. All the way down.
It's almost like I feel like I'm having my personal space invaded... by noise. Incessant, annoying noise. But it's only when i'm on my own on the bus, really. And at the moment i'm on my own on the bus on the way to exams, so I'm not exactly in the best of moods as it is.
How funny, you sound just like one of my best friends who insists on ringing me every time he is on a bus load of lunatics on his way into University in Birmingham DESPITE the fact that it is usually at about 8am and I am really not a morning person. Have you tried the old ring-someone-you-wouldn't-otherwise-ring-to-kill-the-journey escape method?
I have actually. I rang my Mum once for that reason. Unfortunately, not only has my ipod failed me, my phone is on its last legs and won't stay on for longer than about 40 seconds whilst on a call. I think i need a gadget overhaul.
Good shout. Nothing worse than some loudmouth bellened loudly proving to everyone within a 50 foot radius exaclty why he's a loudmouth cunt by giving a blow by blow account of the most recent cuntish thing he's done while he's stupid gawping friends look on laughing and drooling. It'll inevitably be some stupid prick wearing Jack Wills "I'm a prick" joggers and one of those fucking shit floppy hats that look like big grey socks. The worst is when they aforementioned fashion abortion starts drawling on about how fucking wasted he got the night before and what a massive lad he is, when in reality he probably had 5 pints of fizzy piss at an absoloute cunt nest like The Brookhouse while he guffawed at his crap mates and their crap anecdotes about how they did something fucking shit, but they'll think it's good because they're fucking idiots. The self appointed bard of utter fucking shite will then boast about being sick into a gutter or not remembering being in the taxi home, because in his mind he's the best thing that's ever happened ever and he wants every poor fucker who can listen to know it. In reality he's a stupid prick whose grating voice is a conduit for the most infuriating shit that is possible to be spouted in the english language. These funboy nonces are a bigger threat to this country than terrorists, drugs and AIDS put together.
In summary, bring an Ipod.
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