Writerings

I doubt I’m ever going to do stand-up, but if I was, I have one story in my pocket that would work. It never fails to get laughs. This is that story.

This story happened recently, and by that I mean it happened pre-Covid. I was getting the bus to my parents one Saturday morning. By some miracle I had for once woken up early and feeling fresh. I got to the bus station early and with time to sit and wait on the bus. This being a Saturday morning, the bus was a little worse for wear from the night before. Curious stains lined most of the top deck.. The source was unmistakably the cans of cider strewn everywhere, my worry was whether they had been filtered through a hyperactive teenager first. Discounting many seats for their griminess, I took a seat by the window, three from the back. Just as it was about to depart (doing all those things buses do in foreplay like grunting and dry humping) there were yells from the station and the bus jerked back down prematurely. (There is a joke in here somewhere about coming early and busses always coming late, but sometimes punchlines, like the ending of Pulp Fiction, are best left to the audience’s imagination)

I couldn’t see their faces, but this couple seemed quite argumentative and the simple task of buying two tickets seemed to take an Age. Eventually, they came up to the top deck, swaying and cursing as the bus roughly pulled out.

They were either crusties or bohemians depending on your level of generosity. He looked like John Lennon if he really had ended up with no possessions (insert other elements of Imagine here) and had sourced his clothes third hand from a skip outside my grandad’s care home. His corduroy trousers had a rip in it exposing a scabby knee, while his three jackets were all different sizes (though the outer one wasn’t actually the largest)

She looked like Aisling Bea. Not even a fallen on hard times Aisling Bea, she actually did look quite a lot like her. I don’t want to suggest that Aisling Bea looks like a crack addict, but when this story gets adapted for film, there is a role for her. She was carrying a Tesco bag with two items, a box of Rice Krispies and a four-pack of K Cider. The breakfast of champions.

As they got upstairs they were deep in argument. It transpired that he had pocketed her ketamine in one of his many jackets’ many pockets. He argued that it was originally for safe-keeping and that he had since forgotten it was there. Given his pocket situation I was sympathetic. She thought otherwise though and claimed that he was always doing this. He was sneaky and crafty like that. It was why, she loudly claimed walking past me to the back of the bus, his friends all called him Slippy Pete. “Nah”, he countered, “they call me that because my hands are always wet”. Luckily they had walked past me and sat on the back seats at this point as his response left me eyes wide looking at the security camera to do my best Tim Canterbury face into. 

I love the bus, for all its faults, it is a great place to meet the characters from all walks of society. And I immediately knew I had hit the jackpot with his couple.

Their lives instantly sounded more interesting than mine. Some kind of party at a squat the night before. I was riveted in a way that TV cannot compete with. There was soon a revelation as well. In light of the night before, he decided that he should inform her that he had herpes, and that well, she probably did now as well.

Dun Dun.

I braced myself for a rip-roaring response from her, but she shrugged. She had it as well, in fact, she might have given it to him in the first place. The best damn Uno card I’ve ever seen played. There was no way he could get mad. It wasn’t a big deal she went onto explain, as herpes only really affected her immune system. Pretty big deal, my popcorn-eating internal monologue thought. Yeah, so it just means I can take less drugs and still get just as high as before. A piece of advice that in these belt-tightening times, we can all agree with. Take that Martin Lewis!

Me during most of this conversation.

It was at this point that they remembered Chekhov’s ketamine. Once recalled, they had to snort it instantly. They carefully cut out a line on the back seat just as the bus pulled around a roundabout and the entire line fell into the crack between the seats. Remember, dear reader, how grimy I said this bus was? This didn’t deter our intrepid passengers though. They simply rolled up the five pound note and went to snort it from its new resting place. Alas, the comfortable seats were longer than the rolled up note. After attempting to roll the fiver lengthways (curse these new polymer notes) they then asked me if I had any paper with me. This was their first direct interaction with me, and although I had been intently listening to their every word across the last 15 minutes, I had to act surprised when they meant me. Unfortunately, I was not carrying any paper with me. There was a solution though as they still had the box of Rice Krispies. Off ripped the heads of Snap, Crackle and Pops and they were plunged into the detritus below.

At this point, hunched over as they were, I knew I had to take a photo. As surreptitiously as I could, I eased my phone out of my pocket and snapped a couple of angles. I hope you can make out Pete’s scabby knee in the photo.

The rest of the journey passed without much incident, the ket calming them down presumably. (I think this is what ket does, I don’t know anything about drugs). I got off the bus and started walking to my parents’ house. Already thinking about how I would retell the story, I reached into my pocket to take another glance at the photo. Horror struck me. My wallet wasn’t in my pocket. I must have dislodged it when edging out my phone. I sprinted to my parents’ house and spurted out that I need to race after a bus. My mum gave me a lift as I tried to contact anyone from FirstBus (anyone who has interacted with them knows I was wasting my time). Thanks to the numerous bus lanes there was no chance of us catching the bus before it got to the bus station. I got there and did a little jig when I saw the grimy rustbucket I knew was my bus was still in the bay. I shouted lost-wallet at the driver and ran upstairs. All the stains and spills confirmed it was the same bus, but the wallet was gone. The driver shouted up at me. I ignored him, thinking about the pain of the lost wallet. Not that there was anything valuable in there, but that I really had admin, particularly, life admin. I could already see the conversations I was going to have with the DVLA. The driver shouted up again. Yeah, I should get off I thought. I walked down. “A wallet? One was handed in at reception” Joy.

I went to the reception and told the man at the desk that I’d lost my wallet. He then asked me to describe exactly what it (the most generic wallet possible) looked like. Eventually he gave it to me. I went back to my mum’s car relieved at this escapade and thinking that I shouldn’t judge people who snort ket on grimy bus seats. That was until I fully looked in the wallet. My driving license was there. My card for a free falafel with just one more stamp was there. But my light blue debit card was not. In its place was a piece of blue cardboard. A piece of blue cardboard from what I knew was a Rice Krispies box. I phoned my bank and after three attempts at recalling my memorable date blocked the card. They hadn’t managed to spend anything by that point and I was relieved. I’m not sure if this story really has an ending or a point to it. My mum said that losing my wallet was karma for taking the photo of the crusties snorting ket. It’s not exactly the Boy Who Cried Wolf, but it is a moral for modern times.