A fur-coated lady and a mince-soaked man collide in the aftermath of a Six Nations showdown, where rugby fans, awkward encounters, and bus rides blur the lines between class and chaos. Sometimes, public transport is the real game-changer.
Rugby Fans, Odd Encounters, and a Bus Ride Like No Other
The Six Nations had the city in a grip tighter than a front-row scrum. Every street, every pub, every half-sensible surface had been draped in flags, Scottish, Welsh, Irish, French, English, and Italian.
The air was thick with a heady mix of lager fumes, competitive banter, and the unmistakable scent of match-day excitement.
And, as always, the bus bore witness to it all.
Saturday evening, post-match. The streets teemed with fans spilling out of bars, high on the thrill of victory or numbed by the sting of defeat. The bus was doing what it does best, bringing together a collection of souls who, in any other setting, might never share the same air.
She boarded first.
A vision of wealth, draped in a fur coat so voluminous I half-expected it to need its own seat. She moved with the practised air of someone accustomed to private cars and priority service, her manicured hand gripping the pole with mild distaste. The sort of passenger who rarely takes the bus, but when she does, she does so with the bemused curiosity of an anthropologist on an urban safari.
Then came him.
If scent could tackle, this man had just flattened the entire front row. His clothes bore the battle scars of what could only be described as a domestic catastrophe. Stained, crumpled, and carrying an odour that suggested a crime had been committed against good hygiene. He clocked my raised eyebrow and, unprompted, launched into an explanation that I can only assume he had been rehearsing since stepping into public view.
Me niece’s dog, he sighed. Ate two pounds of mince. Couldn’t hold it. Let it all go. All over me.
He gestured to the dark splashes of horror on his jumper.
"Still," he added, as though this might redeem the situation, "at least it weren’t solid."
The woman in the fur coat audibly gasped.
Now, I’ve seen a lot on my bus, but nothing quite like the silent battle of endurance that followed. The way she angled her nose skyward, as if sheer willpower could filter the air. The way he, blissfully oblivious, spread himself out with the relaxed sprawl of a man who had accepted his fate.
For a few stops, they sat in a delicate balance, her, the pinnacle of refinement; him, the unfortunate victim of a digestive disaster by proxy.
Then, something shifted.
Maybe it was the shared laughter at a passing group of fans still singing their way through the highs and lows of the match. Maybe it was the levelling power of public transport, where social status matters less than who’s got the last available seat.
Whatever it was, by the time we neared the city centre, they were chatting. Not just exchanging polite nods, but full conversation. She asked about his niece’s dog (recovering, thankfully). He commented on her coat ("Bet that’s warm, that"). She, rather unexpectedly, agreed to hold her breath and take a selfie with him, for the sheer novelty of the occasion.
And for that brief, fleeting moment, the bus became more than just a mode of transport. It became a leveller, a unifier. A place where rugby fans, fur coats, and mince-soaked jumpers could all exist in the same space, bound together by the beautiful, bizarre magic of match day.
As he got off, he turned back and grinned at me.
See? Rugby brings people together!"
The woman simply shook her head, but there was a smile behind it.
And as I pulled away from the stop, I couldn’t help but think, he wasn’t wrong.
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