G
Guest
Guest
Dear Rapsons,
Once, when I was twelve years old, I was sick on a bus which may or may not have belonged to Rapsons or one of its subsidiary companies. It was an unintentional, one-off incident which I attribute equally to the stomach bug I was still in the process of recovering from and the fact that the driver had just taken a sharp bend at over 70 miles per hour. My mother, who was with me at the time, immediately set about cleaning up the mess to the point you would never have known the incident had ever taken place.
So why, Rapsons, some fourteen years later, do you still hold a grudge? Why, almost a decade and a half since the event took place, are you still trying to exact your revenge?! I was twelve, Rapsons - let it go!
What am I talking about? Allow me to explain...
At 17:11 on the 11th March 2004 I arrived at the bus stop outside the Co-op Supermarket in Caol, near Fort William, with a view to catching a bus into the town centre. My car was in the garage and I intended having a drink that night, which was why I was getting the bus instead of driving. I was due to meet someone at 7pm and decided I'd catch an early ride in and have time to grab something to eat before meeting them.
Silly, silly man.
When I arrived at the bus stop it was deserted. Being generous, then, I'm going to assume I missed the bus by just a single minute and that it departed the stop at 17:10.
It was a bitterly cold evening, so I decided to keep warm by standing inside the bus shelter. I must say, the "wind tunnel" design of this particular shelter was an interesting choice, and though the shelter itself isn't your direct responsibility, I feel it's only fair to point out that having ice cold gales whipping around them at upwards of 90 miles per hour while they wait for a bus that's running late doesn't do much for the customer's mood.
So there I stood. Waiting. Alone. Until a fellow passenger showed up at 17:42. She was a small woman - about five foot two or so - and either an old forty or a young fifty. She seemed pleasant enough. Unlike the shower of bastards who would soon join our vigil.
But I'm getting ahead of myself.
The newcomer informed me that the bus was due at 17:50, so though I'd been stood for over thirty minutes in the heart of an Arctic wind, I consoled myself with the fact that the bus would be along in just a shade under ten minutes.
By 18:00 myself, my tiny comrade, and the elderly gentleman who'd arrived just a few minutes before the bus was due were beginning to get concerned. Before I continue with the story, though, let me tell you a little about our latest guest star...
Mr Mints, as I came to call him, never having bothered to find out his real name, was around the same height as the woman who stood between us (who for simplicity's sake we shall call Bridget). Unlike Bridget, however, Mr Mints appeared to be over a hundred years old. Perhaps the best way to visualise him is to watch Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade on DVD and freeze frame it halfway between the point Belloc drinks from the false Grail and the point he explodes. The pasty, decaying abhoration you will have on screen - that's Mr Mints. And also a bit like Hollywood actor, Christopher Lloyd now I come to think of it.
Coincidentally, Christopher Lloyd starred in the popular American sitcom, "Taxi", which right about now was exactly what I'd wished I'd taken.
Mr Mints had stashed somewhere about his person an apparently vast and never-ending supply of Polos. Perhaps down to his great age, or perhaps down to some sort of genetic defect, Mr Mints was sadly unable to suck these eternal Polos and breathe at the same time. This meant that for approximately ten seconds the bus stop would be filled with the click-click-click of the mint hitting off Mr Mints' (presumably false) teeth, followed by around twenty seconds of panicked, frenzied gasping as the elderly gent fought to continue breathing and thereby stay alive. This cycle repeated over and over and over again. Click-click-click, wheeze-wheeze-wheeze. Very soon it started to get on my nerves. Bridget, however, appeared to remain blissfully unfazed.
By the time 18:11 came round and I'd reached the one hour milestone, three buses had passed in the opposite direction. Where they went I have no idea. I was under the impression that when they'd reached the end of the route a mile or so further on they turned around and came back. This would have brought them back my way. Contrary to the popular saying, however, I waited for an hour for a bus and none came along at once. I can only assume they decided to keep going. Perhaps they're out there somewhere even now, driving endlessly towards some distant horizon. I wish them well.
Just after 18:15 Mary and Wendy showed up. I call them Mary and Wendy because I have no idea what their actual names are, and as they both looked to be around ten years old I didn't particularly want to be seen to go over and ask them personal questions, so Mary and Wendy it is. I'm sure, in this day and age, you can understand my decision.
For reasons that never quite became clear, Wendy had somehow become familiar with the Kiora orange juice advert from the 1980's featuring a cartoon Caribbean boy being followed along a beach by a variety of cartoon animals and a big fat woman with a bag of washing on her head. Or at least she had become familiar with one of the key lines of the advert's infuriatingly catchy jingle: "It's too orangey for crows!"
Egged on by a thoroughly amused Mary, Wendy repeated this line in a shrill, high voice approximately forty times a minute for the remainder of our time at the bus stop. After around ten minutes of this, Bridget smiled and said "Kids, eh?", while Mr Mints either mumbled something or fell victim to some kind of seizure. I'm still unclear as to which. Regardless, this seemed to be the only opinion they had on the frenzied assault which was being made on our eardrums by someone who wasn't even born when the advert was on TV. I'm by no means a violent man, but if I was, I'd dearly like to find the person who introduced Wendy to this tune and kill them with a knife.
Sometime between 18:30 and 18:35 a dog appeared. Her name was Sasha. I know this because that's what Mary called her. Unless Mary just makes up names when she doesn't know them too. While Wendy continued to insistently deny that crows were able to cope with the citrusy goodness of Kiora, Mary took to shouting "Talk, Sasha, Talk!" to the dog, who responded by barking loudly several times in quick succession. Whenever Sasha stopped her outburst, Mary - dear, sweet little Mary - would command her to "talk" again.
"That's clever," Bridget smiled at me.
No, Bridget, it wasn't clever. The dog wasn't actually talking. Had Sasha responded in English or some other major human language my opinion may have been radically different. But the dog was merely frightened and bewildered by Mary's bellowed commands, Bridget. The fact the dog - a fairly large Alsation - didn't react by simply swallowing Mary whole rather than by barking panickedly at her has subsequently made me doubt the very existence of God.
So there I stood in the freezing cold, having been now waiting for almost an hour and a half listening to A) an elderly man wrestling with death for the sake of a Polo, B) a ten year old relentlessly screaming a single line to the Kiora advertising jingle and C) a dog barking like it was being driven insane by rabies or something. Things were grim.
What happened next took things to a new level, however. As I stood there in that shelter wondering how my entire life could have so quickly gone so utterly wrong, the completely unexpected happened.
Mr Mints wet himself. I kid you not. He pissed his pants right there in the Goddamned bus stop. And what's more HE DIDN'T EVEN NOTICE!! He just stood there, gently steaming and sooking on his Polos. How do you deal with that situation? Do you say something? "Excuse me sir, you've emptied your bladder down the front of your trousers?" It's not, I'll admit, a scenario I've had to deal with in the past and one I was wholly unprepared for. In the end I said nothing. Bridget looked at me, smiled gently and said "awww, bless" like he was a baby who'd just said his first word or something. I was having serious doubt about Bridget by this point, let me tell you.
Two other buses passed in the opposite direction, a gang of teenagers turned up and started climbing on the bus shelter roof, and the stench of urine became nigh-on overpowering over the course of the next few minutes. I honestly thought that this was it. This was the point that the "he was so quiet, wouldn't say boo to a goose" neighbour became the blood-thirsty murderer on the six o'clock news. "Highland Shotgun Rampage Kills Ten" was the headline I could see on tomorrow's newspapers, and I was the star of the show.
Then, just before the killing spree kicked off and the screaming started, the bus arrived. The time on my ticket - which I still have - says 18:58. I'd been waiting at the bus stop - that hellish, Godforsaken bus stop - for one hour forty-nine minutes. When I finally got on the bus it was so packed I had to stand. There was a spare seat next to Mr Mints, but I was understandably reluctant to take it. I finally arrived for my 7pm meeting at 7:18, tired, hungry, and a forever changed man.
Why did you do this to me, Rapsons? How have I wronged you to make you treat me this way? Surely you haven't deliberately inserted a scheduling hole of almost two hours into your Thursday evening timetable? If so, I strongly suggest you sit down and have a rethink. If not I'd be asking my drivers some fairly serious questions. Perhaps "where did you all go?!?" would be a good one to start with.
Following on from my ordeal, I think some kind of compensation should be in order. As a token of your remorse I would like you to incorporate a written apology to me into your company logo in some way and display it on all your vehicles forever more. I feel it is the least you can do. If you would like some help wording this apology, please do not hesitate to let me know. I'll be only too glad to help.
I look forward to your reply.
Regards,
Baz@rr
Once, when I was twelve years old, I was sick on a bus which may or may not have belonged to Rapsons or one of its subsidiary companies. It was an unintentional, one-off incident which I attribute equally to the stomach bug I was still in the process of recovering from and the fact that the driver had just taken a sharp bend at over 70 miles per hour. My mother, who was with me at the time, immediately set about cleaning up the mess to the point you would never have known the incident had ever taken place.
So why, Rapsons, some fourteen years later, do you still hold a grudge? Why, almost a decade and a half since the event took place, are you still trying to exact your revenge?! I was twelve, Rapsons - let it go!
What am I talking about? Allow me to explain...
At 17:11 on the 11th March 2004 I arrived at the bus stop outside the Co-op Supermarket in Caol, near Fort William, with a view to catching a bus into the town centre. My car was in the garage and I intended having a drink that night, which was why I was getting the bus instead of driving. I was due to meet someone at 7pm and decided I'd catch an early ride in and have time to grab something to eat before meeting them.
Silly, silly man.
When I arrived at the bus stop it was deserted. Being generous, then, I'm going to assume I missed the bus by just a single minute and that it departed the stop at 17:10.
It was a bitterly cold evening, so I decided to keep warm by standing inside the bus shelter. I must say, the "wind tunnel" design of this particular shelter was an interesting choice, and though the shelter itself isn't your direct responsibility, I feel it's only fair to point out that having ice cold gales whipping around them at upwards of 90 miles per hour while they wait for a bus that's running late doesn't do much for the customer's mood.
So there I stood. Waiting. Alone. Until a fellow passenger showed up at 17:42. She was a small woman - about five foot two or so - and either an old forty or a young fifty. She seemed pleasant enough. Unlike the shower of bastards who would soon join our vigil.
But I'm getting ahead of myself.
The newcomer informed me that the bus was due at 17:50, so though I'd been stood for over thirty minutes in the heart of an Arctic wind, I consoled myself with the fact that the bus would be along in just a shade under ten minutes.
By 18:00 myself, my tiny comrade, and the elderly gentleman who'd arrived just a few minutes before the bus was due were beginning to get concerned. Before I continue with the story, though, let me tell you a little about our latest guest star...
Mr Mints, as I came to call him, never having bothered to find out his real name, was around the same height as the woman who stood between us (who for simplicity's sake we shall call Bridget). Unlike Bridget, however, Mr Mints appeared to be over a hundred years old. Perhaps the best way to visualise him is to watch Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade on DVD and freeze frame it halfway between the point Belloc drinks from the false Grail and the point he explodes. The pasty, decaying abhoration you will have on screen - that's Mr Mints. And also a bit like Hollywood actor, Christopher Lloyd now I come to think of it.
Coincidentally, Christopher Lloyd starred in the popular American sitcom, "Taxi", which right about now was exactly what I'd wished I'd taken.
Mr Mints had stashed somewhere about his person an apparently vast and never-ending supply of Polos. Perhaps down to his great age, or perhaps down to some sort of genetic defect, Mr Mints was sadly unable to suck these eternal Polos and breathe at the same time. This meant that for approximately ten seconds the bus stop would be filled with the click-click-click of the mint hitting off Mr Mints' (presumably false) teeth, followed by around twenty seconds of panicked, frenzied gasping as the elderly gent fought to continue breathing and thereby stay alive. This cycle repeated over and over and over again. Click-click-click, wheeze-wheeze-wheeze. Very soon it started to get on my nerves. Bridget, however, appeared to remain blissfully unfazed.
By the time 18:11 came round and I'd reached the one hour milestone, three buses had passed in the opposite direction. Where they went I have no idea. I was under the impression that when they'd reached the end of the route a mile or so further on they turned around and came back. This would have brought them back my way. Contrary to the popular saying, however, I waited for an hour for a bus and none came along at once. I can only assume they decided to keep going. Perhaps they're out there somewhere even now, driving endlessly towards some distant horizon. I wish them well.
Just after 18:15 Mary and Wendy showed up. I call them Mary and Wendy because I have no idea what their actual names are, and as they both looked to be around ten years old I didn't particularly want to be seen to go over and ask them personal questions, so Mary and Wendy it is. I'm sure, in this day and age, you can understand my decision.
For reasons that never quite became clear, Wendy had somehow become familiar with the Kiora orange juice advert from the 1980's featuring a cartoon Caribbean boy being followed along a beach by a variety of cartoon animals and a big fat woman with a bag of washing on her head. Or at least she had become familiar with one of the key lines of the advert's infuriatingly catchy jingle: "It's too orangey for crows!"
Egged on by a thoroughly amused Mary, Wendy repeated this line in a shrill, high voice approximately forty times a minute for the remainder of our time at the bus stop. After around ten minutes of this, Bridget smiled and said "Kids, eh?", while Mr Mints either mumbled something or fell victim to some kind of seizure. I'm still unclear as to which. Regardless, this seemed to be the only opinion they had on the frenzied assault which was being made on our eardrums by someone who wasn't even born when the advert was on TV. I'm by no means a violent man, but if I was, I'd dearly like to find the person who introduced Wendy to this tune and kill them with a knife.
Sometime between 18:30 and 18:35 a dog appeared. Her name was Sasha. I know this because that's what Mary called her. Unless Mary just makes up names when she doesn't know them too. While Wendy continued to insistently deny that crows were able to cope with the citrusy goodness of Kiora, Mary took to shouting "Talk, Sasha, Talk!" to the dog, who responded by barking loudly several times in quick succession. Whenever Sasha stopped her outburst, Mary - dear, sweet little Mary - would command her to "talk" again.
"That's clever," Bridget smiled at me.
No, Bridget, it wasn't clever. The dog wasn't actually talking. Had Sasha responded in English or some other major human language my opinion may have been radically different. But the dog was merely frightened and bewildered by Mary's bellowed commands, Bridget. The fact the dog - a fairly large Alsation - didn't react by simply swallowing Mary whole rather than by barking panickedly at her has subsequently made me doubt the very existence of God.
So there I stood in the freezing cold, having been now waiting for almost an hour and a half listening to A) an elderly man wrestling with death for the sake of a Polo, B) a ten year old relentlessly screaming a single line to the Kiora advertising jingle and C) a dog barking like it was being driven insane by rabies or something. Things were grim.
What happened next took things to a new level, however. As I stood there in that shelter wondering how my entire life could have so quickly gone so utterly wrong, the completely unexpected happened.
Mr Mints wet himself. I kid you not. He pissed his pants right there in the Goddamned bus stop. And what's more HE DIDN'T EVEN NOTICE!! He just stood there, gently steaming and sooking on his Polos. How do you deal with that situation? Do you say something? "Excuse me sir, you've emptied your bladder down the front of your trousers?" It's not, I'll admit, a scenario I've had to deal with in the past and one I was wholly unprepared for. In the end I said nothing. Bridget looked at me, smiled gently and said "awww, bless" like he was a baby who'd just said his first word or something. I was having serious doubt about Bridget by this point, let me tell you.
Two other buses passed in the opposite direction, a gang of teenagers turned up and started climbing on the bus shelter roof, and the stench of urine became nigh-on overpowering over the course of the next few minutes. I honestly thought that this was it. This was the point that the "he was so quiet, wouldn't say boo to a goose" neighbour became the blood-thirsty murderer on the six o'clock news. "Highland Shotgun Rampage Kills Ten" was the headline I could see on tomorrow's newspapers, and I was the star of the show.
Then, just before the killing spree kicked off and the screaming started, the bus arrived. The time on my ticket - which I still have - says 18:58. I'd been waiting at the bus stop - that hellish, Godforsaken bus stop - for one hour forty-nine minutes. When I finally got on the bus it was so packed I had to stand. There was a spare seat next to Mr Mints, but I was understandably reluctant to take it. I finally arrived for my 7pm meeting at 7:18, tired, hungry, and a forever changed man.
Why did you do this to me, Rapsons? How have I wronged you to make you treat me this way? Surely you haven't deliberately inserted a scheduling hole of almost two hours into your Thursday evening timetable? If so, I strongly suggest you sit down and have a rethink. If not I'd be asking my drivers some fairly serious questions. Perhaps "where did you all go?!?" would be a good one to start with.
Following on from my ordeal, I think some kind of compensation should be in order. As a token of your remorse I would like you to incorporate a written apology to me into your company logo in some way and display it on all your vehicles forever more. I feel it is the least you can do. If you would like some help wording this apology, please do not hesitate to let me know. I'll be only too glad to help.
I look forward to your reply.
Regards,
Baz@rr
