Two hours. Two bleedin’ hours to get home from work the other day. And why you may ask? The evening rush hour you might think? Well, I’m afraid not. There hasn’t really been a bad rush hour since someone called Sean Quinn or similar decided to run over the Celtic Tiger in his Bentley. Or something. I can’t recall who’s being blamed for the demise of our economy this week, I say we only accept the first answer we gave which was Fianna Fail.
“Was it the inefficiency of Dublin Bus?” I hear you subconsciously inquire? Once again, you bark up the wrong tree. I was waiting but a few minutes for my chariot home. Staked my preferred seat upstairs and turned up NEU! on the ipod to enjoy a whimsical German flavoured journey home.
So, what was it then? Well, we made the transition from Dame Street to Lord Edward Street before the bus pulled into a stop and decided to go no further. At first it was just like any bus stop routine; people got on, people got off. However, after that we didn’t move. Puzzled faces displayed the inquisitive nature of commuters when their journey breaks from the norm. Maybe the bus broke down? Nope, engine still running. Then came the lemmings complex that we all seem to do. “Who will go downstairs and ask first?” or “Will someone get frustrated and complete their journey on foot? If so, I will follow you like some Pied Piper.”
I wasn’t really arsed, I was enjoying my journey through 1970s German prog rock to care otherwise, knowing my actions would have little impact in the situation we were in. I knew I’d get home eventually, and the ingredients for my stir fry would still be in the fridge and press if I turn out to be a bit late. I put my faith in the fact that this was a temporary issue, nothing more.
In the end, the man next to me went downstairs and talked to the driver. He then stepped off the bus and lit up a fag. Still we waited. Then a few more joined him. Twenty minutes had now passed, and even I was getting a bit annoyed. It was an unusually warm evening.
I went downstairs and was going to get some fresh air and see if the next bus was far behind when a woman in front of me asked the driver what was going on. He told her that some tits upstairs didn’t pay their fare and that the guards had been called. I decided to go back upstairs and sit down. Others did too, and before long the story swept the upstairs of the bus like wildfire.
So, now the tits knew that they were the reason why the bus had been stopped, and that the Gardai were on their way. Did they move? Did they fuck. They sat there, and waited. Another ten minutes of opportune escape time went by before a Gardai Transit showed up, blues and twos flashing, air raid siren screaming. Still, no movement.
Upstairs they came, and pointed out the four tits and ordered them all off the bus. “Who sir? Me sir? No sir!” exclaimed one in a thick Rathkealeesque brogue. “Didn’t do naaathhhan sir.” said another. And with the drama complete, off we rolled on our much delayed journey home.
Silly billys. Not only did they delay around 70 people and slightly ruin all their evenings, they had ample opportunity to escape but they sat there, and waited. There really are some stupid people out there.