Ah, the joy of public transport! The untrammelled delight that fills me every day, knowing that I may encounter - weather depending - up to four exemplars of Dublin's legendary friendliness, the bus driver.
Don't get me wrong; I don't intend to tar all drivers with the same brush. Indeed, on a given journey, you've got at least a four in ten chance of meeting a genuine saint. Most of the time, however, you just meet bastards.
It took me a while, but I figured out what the problem is; they're the most pedantic people you'll ever meet. They've got this book somewhere - I'd love to see a copy - and it says that they don't have to stop for passengers under certain circumstances. Those circumstances include - but are not limited to - the following:
Of all of the above, by far the most common reason for the driver not stopping is the first one. They've mastered their techniques; next time you see someone running for the bus, waving frantically, look at the driver. Without fail, he'll studiously look out his side window, careful not to see anyone whatsoever on the left hand side of the bus. This habit seems to have become ingrained, however. Even if you're standing on the road, waving your arms, he'll still make sure to be able to claim that he didn't see you. There's a court case I'd love to see.
But lest you think I'm castigating all of Dublin Bus here, let me assure you otherwise. Indeed, Dublin Bus must be congratulated for its contribution to race relations in our fair city. How many times have I run for a bus, only to look behind and see a black face behind the wheel, only for my heart to soar. He'll stop!
Of course, Dublin has only in recent years become a multicultural city; and our brothers and sisters of various hues have only recently become common on our streets. And, indeed, in our busses. Maybe it's because they haven't been at the job so long that they still consider Dublin Bus to be a public service, but for whatever the reason, they've ensured that whenever a hapless commuter is running for a bus, he's been conditioned by now to welcome a driver of colour with a song in his heart, secure in the knowledge that he'll be treated politely, and not someone who's going to drive on by if, when he passes the stop, there's no-one there capable of reaching out and touching the pole with his nose.
Mind you, not that I can really blame the bastards. If I had to spend all of my working life dealing the the sort of drooling dolt that typically infests the busses, I'd hate all of humanity, too. As it is, I've got to travel with them, and they've managed to turn a bright-eyed lover of all mankind into a card-carrying misanthope.
Before the bus even arrives, there are opportunities aplenty to observe the stupidity and ignorance of your fellow man. Picture, if you will, a narrow path, with a bus stop at the kerb, and possibly with a bin beside it. The path is no more than a metre and a half wide, less with the bus stop. Where, I ask you to ponder, would be a good place to stand? At the kerb? Not a bit of it. Why stand out of the way when you can congregate with your fellow assholes against the wall, narrowing the gap considerably? For extra effect, if it's raining - or even if it's not - they'll probably be holding an umbrella, and cheerfully apologising to ever third passer by as they clutch at the socket where their right eye used to be.
Then, magically, the bus arrives. You sigh as some amoeba barges his way to the front of the queue, only to stop and shake out his umbrella on whomever happens to be nearby. Then he'll get on the bus, and start looking for change. This'll take a while, as the dolt tries to figure out how to get €1.65 out of the myriad small coins he's only now started fishing out of his fucking pockets. If he's not prattling on his mobile phone, he'll mutter the amount to the driver; otherwise, he'll chat merrily, not a word of acknowledgement of the existence of the driver. He'll just wait paitently for him to count all those 5cent coins, and trust that he gets the right change, if change there be. Well, it's a ticket rather than change, but you know what I mean.
So what comes next? A seat, perhaps? You'd think so. But a lot of these people aren't going far, so why go to all the trouble of walkin towards the seats? It's far easier to stand just inside the door, oblivious to the fact that you're blocking the access from both directions. You may be charitable, and assume that he's eschewing a seat out of consideration for the legions of obnoxious old biddies known throughout the world as Little Old Ladies. But if that were the case, surely our dipshit friend would move to the back of the fucking bus, thus helping those aforementioned biddies to reach their seats without negotiating past some lard-assed motherfucker?
So the bus goes on for a few minutes. Slowly, the bus fills up, and after a few minutes it's packed solid. At least, it is as far as the driver's concerned. To the six people upstairs, it's nearly empty. Sadly, though, because of a few drooling poltroons like our aforementioned dipshit, anyone who embarks finds a bunch of people standing, and every seat full. So he assumes that the upper saloon is full, too. After all, why bother checking? Surely someone else did?
Well, someone else didn't. Many's the time I've watched a bus sail past, its lower deck full and its upper nearly empty, all due to the driver's assumption that his passengers aren't braindead sheep without the wit to see if there are any seats available.
Of course, single deckers have their problems, too. In the case of the 123, for example, when the seats have all been taken the remaining passengers will congregate towards the front of the bus, once again luring the driver into a false sense of fullness.
If you're lucky enough to get a seat, you've got to beware of your co-sittee; pray you don't get a talker. People on the bus generally don't talk to strangers - an excellent policy when that stranger is me - but there's one exception; the whiner. All it takes is one deaf asshole with a walkman, one overly loud foreign student and they're off. But not until the offending party gets off, of course. Then you've got to listen to... well, I'm sure you know as well as I the sort of shite they can come out with.
So at last the time comes to disembark. Seething with resentment that the gene pool has reached such lows, you endeavour to leave the bus. If you're on the inside, you ask your fellow traveller to let you out. They rise... and move towards the front of the bus. Really. You'd think that chance would dictate they'd have a fifty per cent chance of moving backwards, and thus in a way that wouldn't impede your progress. But no. The stupidity of these mountebanks is so ingrained that they automatically step out in front of you, then mutter myriad sheepish apologies when you start the unnecessary struggle past them.
Freedom, at last! Assuming the driver doesn't decide to let you out through the middle doors. If he does, then you can be reasonably certain that some vacuous bint has decided that the alcove with the middle door is a perfect place to store a fold-up buggy. It fits snugly right below the sign that says - in pictograms, just so there's no doubt - "don't put your fucking luggage here, you stupid bastard". But they do, and so the doors won't open.
So up to the front of the bus we go, where we find out why the driver thought it was a good idea to open the middle doors. Yes, as you try to disembark, you encounter a steady stream of idiots, each of whom thought it would be a good idea to get on the bus before letting anyone off. Bastards.
So there you have it. There are legions of assholes infesting Dublin Bus that I've failed to mention; this diatribe is too long as it is. If you've taken umbrage at some of my words, it may be because I've described something you've done yourself in the past. If that's the case, then please: the next time you get onto a bus, remember that you're not the only fucking passenger.