Ever wonder what happens when a seasoned taxi driver takes a seat on a city bus at night? Spoiler: It's not pretty. From fish suppers to bell abusers, this is the one ride even a veteran chauffeur can’t handle.
When a Taxi Driver Meets the Bus: A Ride You Can’t Unsee
If you’ve ever driven a city bus late at night, you’ll know there’s a cast of regulars who make the journey... interesting. You've got the usual crowd, shifty-eyed characters who never pay but somehow always have a meal in hand. Then there are the partiers, treating the bus like an afterparty on wheels. And of course, the lost souls, struggling to stay awake, only to wake up just after their stop.
But last night? Last night was something special. I had a rare breed aboard: a taxi driver on his night off. A man who’s spent decades chauffeuring drunks, philosophers, and blokes passionately explaining the offside rule at 3 a.m., and yet, somehow, he thought bus driving would be a walk in the park.
When he boarded, I could tell straight away he’d been on the lash. Not full-on steaming, but definitely well-marinated. You know the type: that particular looseness where the volume knob gets stuck on loud, and suddenly, every thought in your head must be shared with the world.
Clutching a fish supper and a single smoked sausage, he stomped aboard, surveyed the bus like a man stepping into enemy territory, and loudly declared:
"Fkn bus is actually on time for once! Didn’t even get a chance to eat this!"
Now, that was a crime in itself. A chippy, especially after a few drinks, is not just food; it’s a sacred ritual. It’s about hunching over, elbows out, guarding your meal like a goblin hoarding treasure. And this poor sod had been denied that pleasure because, for once, public transport had actually worked as intended.
Already, he wasn’t happy.
The Bell Begins Its Terror
He slumped into a seat, tore into his fish with the aggression of a man wronged by fate, and prepared to enjoy what little peace the night had left to offer him.
Then…
DING.
He chewed. Paused. Looked up, unimpressed.
DING. DING. DING-DING-DING.
His chewing slowed, then stopped altogether. His grip on the sausage tightened, like a man clutching the last life raft on the Titanic, white-knuckled, desperate, and with a hint of dread. It was as if that sausage held the last shred of sanity he had left, and if it slipped from his grasp, so would his entire belief in order and decorum.
I saw it happen in real time, the moment of realization. The flicker of understanding in his booze-glazed eyes.
“Ohhh, so this is what youse fkn deal with.”
Welcome to my world, mate.
The bell rang again.
“Some fkrs messing with the bell. How the fk you put up with this shite, I’ll never know.”
He turned to me, as if expecting some kind of sage wisdom. I gave him the weary nod of a man who had made peace with the chaos.
That was not the response he wanted.
The Boiling Point
My man took a deep breath.
DING.
That was it.
He slammed his fish supper onto his lap, sending a chip flying. With great difficulty, he wiped his hands on his jeans (RIP to those jeans) and turned in his seat.
“OI!”
Silence. Even the bus itself seemed to hold its breath.
“Which one of you daft wee dicks is pressing that bell for no fkn reason?”
One of the lads, clearly misjudging the situation, smirked.
“Relax, mate, it’s just a bell.”
Oh. Oh no.
Our hero slowly turned in his seat, sausage still in hand, and spoke with the bone-deep exhaustion of a man who had been dealing with muppets like this for his entire career.
“Just a bell?”
A pause.
“Lemme tell you something, son. I’ve been a taxi driver for TWENTY-FKN-FIVE YEARS. I’ve dealt with pished-up weirdos, argumentative couples, grown men crying over lost kebabs. Thought I’d seen it all.”
He gestured wildly at the bus.
“But THIS? This fkn NIGHTMARE? This fkn… absolute MADNESS?!”
The two lads were no longer laughing. They were now trapped, like deer staring down an oncoming lorry of pure, deep-fried rage.
“I spent my whole fkn career thinking ‘Oh, bus drivers have it cushy, no dafties spewing in their motors, no fighting about fkn ‘split fares,’ no idiots trying to pay in buttons.’”
He threw his hands up in wild disbelief.
“BUT YOU KNOW WHAT YOU DO HAVE?!”
Dramatic pause.
FKN. BELL. ABUSERS.
He turned to me again, shaking his head in a mixture of sympathy and disgust.
“I’d rather have some fkr spewing in my motor than deal with this shite every night.”
Now that was the highest form of respect a taxi driver could offer a bus driver.
Satisfied his lesson had been delivered, he settled back into his seat, picked up his sausage like a weapon of justice, and returned to his supper.
The bell remained silent for the rest of the journey.
The Farewell
As we approached his stop, I turned to him and, with a sly smile, said:
“Listen, mate, I don’t mean to be picky, but you might want to take your fish supper and smoked sausage off the bus next time. We don’t exactly roll out the red carpet for hot meals here.”
He blinked at me, then grinned like a man who’d just realised he’d been playing hopscotch on a landmine. The weight of his situation hit him like a tonne of bricks, and I swear I could see the exact moment he realised his life choices had led him to this very bus, with that very bell, and that very sausage in hand.
“Fair play, mate. It’s a fkn nightmare, alright. But at least I didn’t spill it on the seat like some rookie."
He paused for a moment and, with a half-joking, half-sincere air, added, “I’m a generous guy.”
I raised an eyebrow, then deadpanned, “You’re very generous with your opinion.”
He chuckled and, with one last look of admiration, said:
“Mate. Don’t know how you do it.”
Then, shaking his head in disbelief, he disappeared into the night, muttering one final, exhausted verdict on the matter:
“Fkn saint, you must be.”
And that, dear readers, is how a taxi driver finally understood the true horrors of the late late shift, and the subtle art of bus etiquette.
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