A Tale Of Two Buses.

“Born from two personal experiences.”

"A London Bus"

I wait for a bus on a chilly Friday evening, outside the O2 centre in London. I am alongside two friends waiting to travel home, after a showing of the opera Carmen... they offered me a spare ticket. The tube is down, and at this bus stop hoards of people stand rammed into a confined area, waiting to board the replacement bus service into Euston. They are the exact folk you would expect at a showing of Carmen; decked out in mink coats, Jimmy Choo shoes, watches costing more than the average car, and four figure dresses. They are bankers, lawyers, directors, executives, politicians, and I imagine the majority live in Knightsbridge. They look dignified, respectable, and very wealthy – at least in terms of money, anyway. A few minutes of waiting, and the bus arrives…

I am waiting for a bus outside Northolt Tube Station to Harrow, on a chilly late-afternoon; after a tiring day of jaunts and escapades I can scarcely recall. I am alone with hoards of many others, crammed in the small space, seeking the sanctity of home. This is an entirely different crowd, however. The people here do not travel via bus through choice, but poverty, situation, and a lack of other available options. They are manual workers, the unemployed, single mothers, immigrants, frail pensioners, and the like; a quintessential collection of those carved by the hard-natured stone of a brutal life. A few minutes of waiting, and the bus arrives…

On one of the buses, the crowd rush on like a pack of dirty animals; fighting to board a vehicle as if doing so will save them from a forthcoming apocalypse. Not a single person considers any other human around them as human; their main concern seems to involve shoving each other aside, in order to secure a prime seat. I am stuck in the middle of these vultures, and while able to bully my way on to a bus, where plenty of seats are available anyway, this is still one of the most hostile, aggressive, outwardly nasty crowds I can remember. I get onto the bus, and loudly discuss with a blunt humour to my friends, how these people are a bunch of disgraceful animals. Unsurprisingly, nobody picks up the courage to argue back - I was hoping they would.

With the other bus, however, everyone waits for the doors to open. They then quietly, slowly, and in a silent dignity, enter the packed bus, one by one. The weak are allowed in first, the elderly given space to make their way inside, and nobody fights, argues, or cause any affray. This bus is the polar opposite of the previous bus; where humanity was discarded for a comfy seat, this sees humanity considered by all and sundry. Once everyone manages to find a place on the bus – still jostling amongst each other inside so we are all comfortable, the door shuts, the engine starts, and the handbrake is released… this bus then makes it way to Harrow.

The moral of the story? Anyone who ever tells you the rich are dignified, and the poor are animals; have never travelled on a bus with either. And real animals, usually wear mink coats.

Lee.

The Paedophile Bomb.

Like many people, I suffer from a severe case of nausea, any time a story relating to rapists or child molesters passes by; it takes one extremely warped, cold hearted individual, to be able to commit either act, and I prefer to imagine they don’t exist. But exist they do.

Unlike many people, I do not believe they should face execution for their acts. The reason for this is two-fold. One, I feel death is a physical escape from the punishment of long periods in prison, they rightfully deserve. And two, I don’t believe a civilised society evolves through any forms of death by choice. Though I must admit, chopping off their weapons of pleasure is worth considering – if only just to stop them re-offending. All this being said, I do believe these sick fellas need to know just how awful it must feel, to the victims who suffer all manner of damage from their acts. So I have devised the idea of what I refer to as, “The Paedophile Bomb”. It works like this…

Each convicted criminal charged with either act, is placed in a padded cell, naked as the day they were born. A bomb (Much like the one pictured) is strapped tight around their bollocks, holding firm and covering their dignities – their physical dignity, any internal self-respect has long vanished. The overseeing warden explains the bomb strapped to them, is set to detonate at any random second within the next twenty-four hours; but the guilty man – much like the warden, will not know when, until when happens. 

All the guilty man can do is wait, alone in this padded cell. Every single second, waiting, in sheer fear, agony, and tortured by possibility and a ticking clock; knowing the bomb on his balls is going to explode any given moment – arriving in peace, leaving him in pieces. For the duration, he gets to experience the most intense, painful, shit scary fear he has ever felt – maybe, as a zillion thoughts run through his mind, even beginning to understand exactly what the life he fucked up may have felt like during his deed. This is a maybe, for he could be too dumb or deluded to realize; or even see himself as the victim, as these arseholes often do. 

After the twenty four hours have passed, he remains in one piece. The bomb hasn’t gone off… It was never intended to. It was designed to induce fear - real fear, the kind that makes you literally shit yourself. After this, said scumbag is placed in his prison cell, and left to serve due time at Her Majesty’s Pleasure (does the Queen actually sit at home, feeling happy one in every hundred thousand people are in prison?) He likely won’t ever change who he is, but a few urban myth seeds planted deep in the criminal underworld - about how the bomb explodes second time around, and he may think twice; next time he considers screwing up some poor innocent life.  

The unfortunate reality, is rapists and child molesters will always exist; hidden in plain sight as the bowels of society. However, many societies will act different to them, according to the accepted truths of each civilisation, and one day bombs like these may be created; only ones intended to work. The idea of prison doesn’t please everyone, but I really don’t know what else can be done, with a subsection of the world who are perhaps terminally incurable. Maybe chopping off the old gonads, wouldn’t be such a bad idea after all...

Lee.

Glory Days.

"Only two hundred miles left to see our home club"

I enter the doors of my workplace, wearing the current England international football shirt, it is red. It’s early afternoon, and a few hours previous, England had exited the world cup due to a mixture of Brazilian flair and Japanese humidity; the match took place in Asia, making it an early AM Kick-Off in blighty. On arrival, Stuart – a Brummie with a love of obscure metal; the music, not the material, asks a throwaway question I recall with clarity; “Why are you still wearing that shirt? They are out?” My slightly hostile response was simple “So? I’m still English!”

There is a young man at the gym who regularly trains in his Arsenal home shirt. It doesn’t matter if on the previous evening they have won 8 – 0 against Middlesbrough, or just been dumped out the Champions league by AC Milan, he still wears that shirt. For this kid, the philosophy for Arsenal is the same as my own for England; win, lose, or draw, l remain a fan. I also support Barnet, (The area I was born in) who were recently relegated back to the annals of non-league football. Does this mean I am suddenly ashamed of the Bees? Of course not. Just because they get demoted, doesn’t change the way I see them. What kind of man would leave their partner, if she lost her job? If anything, it is times like these the clubs needs their fans more than ever. 

Over the last few weeks, I have noticed replica shirts of the German National side, Bayern Munich, and Borussia Dortmund, sprouting out of the blue. In all my years, I have seen perhaps less than a handful of German football shirts in my life in London – which is pretty minimal, considering the cosmopolitan nature of a seven million strong city. The trouble is, German football has entered a purple patch, and at this moment in time, is THE glamorous league to support. On a definitely related note, all the Barcelona and Real Madrid shirts I used to see all over the place – especially in Harrow, seem to have mysteriously vanished? I have not seen a Ronaldo seven shirt in weeks!

What I believe is there are two different types of football fan. The first are those who support a club or country, purely for their love of that side. For them, all the success, defeats, ecstasies and agonies, are all part of the journey. Much like a solid relationship, you love them when they stand, and in many ways, it reminds you how much you love them ever more, the times when they fall. Barnet’s relegation was sad, but it doesn’t make me want to go visit the Northampton club shop anytime soon. Of course, these fans would love their club to always win, but life cannot work like this all the time – so the stick around. They don’t dump Arsenal for Chelsea, they wait, they hope, they believe… in many ways, they love. 

The other fans are the ones I find both hilarious and tragic. This is the classic ‘glory fan’. The thirty-something Liverpool ‘supporter’ not from Merseyside. The twenty-something Manchester United ‘fan’, from London. Or the teenagers today, torn between Chelsea and Manchester City. These are those whose Manchester United or Bayern Munich shirt they wear today, would have been a Manchester City or Barcelona shirt instead – had a result or two gone in a different direction. Those who leech of success with no real love for the club they support, or shirt they wear; who want to be able to say “Look at me, I am a part of something successful”, while making no effort to achieve that success. They saturate fans, and encourage a flimsy, lazy attitude, to the time when the feeling of winning finally comes to a clubs existence. 

England as a national side, are nowhere near the team they were five years ago. Neither are Arsenal. Barnet are even worse. But it doesn’t matter. Real fans could never support any other club. I don’t care how good Lionel Messi is. And even if he scores a goal from shooting fire out of his arse, I still won’t wear a Barcelona shirt. Glory hunters follow whatever is leading the race of the times. Real fans may suffer the slings and arrows of defeat, but will be the only ones who can appreciate the success when it finally, finally arrives… they will also stick around, once the shine wears off. I salute them as fans… I salute them as people.

Lee.