Haud the Bus

I had been out with a pal and laughed an awful awful lot at a pretty funny (but slightly cheeky and inappropriate) story she telt me about a customer at her work (yes, I know, we’re going to hell in a handcart, first class ticket, one way trip, no returns—but sometimes, Ye Jist Cannae Help It…) and was still chuckling… Read more →

I looked at the clock and realised it was 8:49pm and thought, bugger it, better leave sharp because last week the 10 past bus was 6 minutes early and flew right by me as I walked to the road end, and I’d to chase it three stops while it teasingly idled at two different sets of traffic lights before finally… Read more →

This one morning on the bus the only seat available was next to ‘Slevering Sleeping Dude’. He wasn’t a particularly inviting travel companion given he was more or less spread over two seats with his tongue plastered to the window, but seeing as I’d been to Greggs for a butty and a cappuccino (for munching once I got off, not… Read more →

I’m on the 9 at the same time I often am, sitting in the same seat I usually sit in, and a lassie gets on at the same stop she often does, and sits opposite me where she always tends to sit down. And I look across because I notice that she’s had her hair cut and coloured. She clocks… Read more →

I jump on the number 9 as it’s wet and it’s wild and officially blawin a hoolie in Glasgow, and the bus shakes from side to side as the rain hammers and stunts and stoats aff the windaes. It’s so heavy in fact that it sounds like hailstanes, but it is in fact just Durty Big Fat Rain. We splash… Read more →

Despite running down Jamaica Street at full pelt after the bus sailed by me as I stood legitimately at the first stop on Union Street, I made it to the next bus stop right as the driver shut the doors, which in Glasgow these days constitutes ‘missing the bus’. The fact the bus sat there for another full minute after… Read more →

I’m on the number 3 and this auld wummin leans over me from the high seat behind me and says “Scuse me son, whit’s yer aftershave?”, and I tell her, and she says “Much d’it cost?”, and I tell her, and she says “Ooft. It’s no bad though, ye smell guid”, and I say thanks, and she says “If ah… Read more →

8:13am. There’s a man on the number 7 drinking a can of Stella while eating a macaroni pie for breakfast and singing Cheer Up Sleepy Jean between (and during) mouthfuls. He’s dressed in what I presume is his Christmas night out suit, it’s ripped at the elbows and he has a swollen face as though he’s been up the whole… Read more →

Overheard on the 7: Teen: Mam, can ah go tae that skill next year? Mum: How? Whit’s wrang wae your skill? Teen: Sarah’s movin tae that skill. Mum: Where ur we, like? Teen: Finnieston. Mum: Whit skill is it? Teen: The Gaelic wan. Mum: Naw. Definitely no. Teen: How no? Mum: Ah don’t believe in Gaelic. Teen: Ye whit? Mum:… Read more →

Thought I’d share a wee vintage post I first put up on Facebook in November 2012, precisely two years ago—an actual wee history/geography lesson I got that night on the number 38 to Spateston… Boy: (of about 7/8) “Mam, who built Adrian’s Wall?” Woman: “China.” Boy: “Was it?” Woman: “Aye. Ye can see it fae space.” Boy: “Really?” Woman: “Aye really.” Boy:… Read more →