Start at the seaside, end up in Granton, yer basically drivin a guided tour o civilisation slidin intae the pan. The bus? Yer steel coffin. The punters? Every shade ae chaos humanity’s goat tae offer.
Eastfield Terminus. Shite wee car park wi gulls perched like debt collectors. Engine’s chuggin, yer heid’s poundin, first shift ae the day an ye’re wonderin whit excuse ye could cook up tae just vanish. But naw. Ye’re strapped in. This is yer penance, lad. Bus 19. A journey fae calm tae carnage, wi’ every stop a new horror show.
Eastfield tae Porty High Street
Pull oot Eastfield, creep doon Seaview Terrace. Big posh houses, curtains twitchin, some guy in pyjamas smokin a cig wi’ his dug starin ye doon like it kens yer sins. Joppa Road’s tighter than a miser’s erse. Every parked motor’s a potential write-off. Ormelie, Abercorn, middle-class misery oozin fae the stonework. They still clamber oan, actin like ye’re chauffeur tae their Pilates class.
Then Portobello High Street hits ye like a brick tae the skull. School weans runnin feral, dug shite everywhere, folk wi surfboards thinkin the bus is a f***in’ Uber. Ye want tae blast the horn till their ears bleed, but ye dae yer best saint act, haudin the wheel steady, smilin like a corpse.
Porty tae Craigentinny
Inchview Terrace tae Wakefield, road’s pure patched up like a junkie’s veins, every bump rattles yer teeth. Craigentinny Road, motor after motor double-parked, ye’re weavin through like a snake wi’ nae legs. At the crossroads, the lights are red forever. Yer brain starts wanderin, “If ah just floored it, whit’s the worst that happens?”
Loaning Road, Restalrig, punters shoutin “Driver! Ah pressed the bell!” even though ye huvnae even passed their stop yet. Weans playin button bashing Olympics. Auld yin staggers aff the seat, nearly faceplants. Yer instinct says: leave him, survival ae the fittest. But naw. Company policy, innit.
Restalrig tae Leith Walk
Marionville Road. Fitba days? Forget it. Full ae lads wi’ carry-oot bags, singin the same shite song they’ve sung since Thatcher. London Road’s nae better, vans parked like they’ve been abandoned durin a zombie apocalypse. Brunton Place tae Leopold? Aw cyclists weavin like suicidal midges, taxis cuttin ye up like it’s the Indy 500.
Then ye roll tae Leith Walk. And aye, that’s yer sanity gone. Folk crossin roads starin at their phones, dafties steppin aff kerbs like lemmings. Ye keep hittin the brake, heart poundin, teeth grindin. By Leith Street ye’re greetin inside, sweatin oot yer last hope.
City Centre Madness
Princes Street’s where ye give up on life. Suitcases, tourists, auld wifies wae trollies, aw dartin across the road like they’re playin Frogger. Half ae them come oan an ask if ye go tae f***in’ Stirling Castle. Mate, dae ah look like National Express?
Shandwick, Hope Street, Queensferry, endless jam. Punters coughin in yer face, breathin Subway sandwiches an Red Bull fumes. Randolph Place tae Drumsheugh, posh twats wi’ laptops an iced lattes, sneerin like yer dirt, but still arguin aboot their £2.20 fare. Randolph Cliff? Ye’re prayin for the bridge tae collapse an end it aw.
Dean Bridge tae Crewe Toll
Dean Bridge, keep her dead straight or ye’ll scalp some poor sod’s mirror. Orchard Brae’s a river ae hospital traffic, nurses in zombie walk, motors nosin oot like they’re invincible. Crewe Road South tae the Toll, that roundabout’s Satan’s playpen. Three lanes, nae rules, pure bedlam. One wrong move an yer obituary’s writ.
Inside the bus it’s no better, prams, bawlin bairns, some jakey arguin wi his reflection in the windae. By the Toll yer heid’s buzzin wi voices that arenae even real.
Crewe Road tae Granton Square
Crewe Road North, Boswall Parkway, grey high flats loomin, air heavy wae chip fat an burnt clutch. Boswall Loan tae Granton Crescent, punters shoutin across the aisle like they’re in a pub. Half ae them stink ae hash, the rest dae that thing where they eye ye like ye’re their probation officer.
Pilton Drive North tae West Granton Road. Yer last push. Road feels endless, like ye’re drivin through molasses. Then, Granton Square. End ae the line. Bus empty, crisp packets flyin roon like tumbleweed, yer heid hummin. Deep breath. Handbrake. Job done. Till ye huv tae turn roon an dae the same f***in thing again.
That’s Bus 19. East tae West, posh tae schemes, yer heid tae the wall. Ye dinnae drive it. It drives ye. Learn the corners, ken the chaos, keep breathin. Cos the Square’s no the end, it’s just the halfway point in this cruel bastard ae a loop.
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Meta Description: Survival guide tae Edinburgh’s Bus 19: fae seaside tae schemes, nae filter, nae mercy, just chaos on wheels.
Keywords: edinburgh bus 19, eastfield to granton, bus route learning, edinburgh bus chaos, leith walk, portobello high street, crewe toll, granton square, scottish slang, bus driver humour
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