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Friday, 20 January 2012


Eu costumava saber Português, mas agora eu não conheço nenhum.
Hello, good evening, and welcome to another edition of YOU COULDN'T MAKE IT UP! I'm your host, Kumquat Salvation, here once again to regale you with tales of my recent exploits amongst society. Ladies and gentlemen, every word of what follows is true, except for the bits I made up. Prepare yourselves for fact so fantastical it renders most contemporary fiction as exciting as a wet banana. SHIT!

I often find myself knee-deep in every aspect of class, be it upper, middle, or lower-middle, whilst out on the street. In order to better acquaint myself with how ordinary people live their miserable lives, I like to mingle with the Great Unwashed on public transport. BALLS!

That's right, folks: tonight's edition looks at the humble bus, and the people who use it. Recently, as in yesterday, I happened to catch the number 4 service from Ashby High Street to the town centre, in Scunthorpe. Not a route I've travelled often before, but after yesterday's excitement I may well endeavour to make it a regular occurrence. BUM!

Once I'd safely ensconced myself upon a relatively comfortable seat, we were away. It was then an older gentleman, perhaps 65 years of age, sat himself behind a younger woman that he clearly knew. After exchanging genial pleasantries, he began to bombard her with the most slapdash trivia. To-wit: "Rizzle Kicks are number three in the charts right now," he said. His friend was clearly uninterested and replied "I can't say I really pay attention to that sort of thing." His next tack was to point out "You know me, I like to keep track of the strange, the bizarre, the grotesque." My own personal thought was "I don't believe Rizzle Kicks fall into any of those categories" but I kept my well-educated mouth shut. In any case, the man then asked his friend if she'd seen the film Antichrist. I for one wasn't at all surprised when she answered in the negative. Unfortunately for her, this answer served only to prompt the man to fill her brain with a torrent of specific information, such as the actors, the director, mention of certain themes explored within the film, and so forth. "It's the most depressing film I have ever seen," he concluded. You don't want to watch it, but you can't look away." I found his succinct review lacking in conviction, as the man clearly had no desire to look away whilst watching. One suspects he rather enjoyed the female flesh on show during the film's runtime. PISS!

At was at this point my attention was diverted by the arrival on the bus of a young woman. She was moderately attractive, but what caught my eye was her deformed claw-hand. It was little more than a large thumb and elongated finger. I stopped paying attention to HER when I realised the woman behind me was talking about rats in a supermarket's warehouse. However, I hadn't paid attention to the appearance of this particular woman and thus was surprised when she got off the bus, and it turned out to be a man with a woman's voice! COCK!

As I mentioned earlier, that was yesterday. Today's sojourn on public transport involved a different bus (the number 6) and a distinct surfeit of interesting individuals. However, there was a young gentleman who asked the bus driver "It all right if I get off here, mate?" Except the poor youngster neglected to realise that the bus had stopped in the middle of the road, at traffic lights. The driver politely informed him that he would have to wait until they reached the next stop, which was only around the corner. GUFF!

The last piece of news involving my time spent on a bus today features the same number (6) but a later journey - just this very eve, in fact. It also involves the return of a man whom I have had the displeasure of journeying with before (but only in the sense that he has been on the same bus as me). He is an old man, of a decidedly scruffy persuasion, and he stinks. Oh Lord, the man has a genuine stench about him. It is a powerful and potent smell, one that clearly affects other passengers as much as it affects me, though we are all too polite to mention it (I did, however, overhear some college-age girls remark that he smells of "poo" on a recent journey). I have been wondering exactly how I might describe his smell, because 'poo' is both far too crude, and indeed inaccurate. Initially, I would have called it a mixture of 'wet dog and disease', but tonight, with the man freshly damp from recent rainfall, the answer hit me as surely as his pungent aroma assaulted my nostrils. He smells like the inside of a pumpkin. COUGH!

And that, my friends, brings us to the end of tonight's episode. I do hope you'll join me again, when next we travel through the dregs of the population and experience things of which the only sane response is YOU COULDN'T MAKE IT UP!


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