Rush hour U12 ‘not as bad as waterboarding’
That said, at least waterboarding is free.
(A reader had a bad morning on the bus — this does not necessarily mean that the Hoar has any views at all on what some call ‘the shittiest bus service out there’.)
From around 9am onwards, the challenge of locating a decent, if indeed existent, study space, becomes insurmountable. This is a load of shit, the point has been plugged endlessly. If by now you haven’t realised — either give me your secret, or perhaps I should extend my advisory hand, and suggest that you divert your focus away from hard drugs, and back onto your studies.
Given that this is somewhat uncontroversial, you’d think that transport agencies would notice a consistent, indeed daily, squeeze of odorous, caffeinated, and exasperated sub-adults — typically occurring, well, before 9am.
Logically, this would warrant shorter routes, and increased services.
Not only is this a typically busy time for the sedentary brain-dead robotic debt-ridden Croftian entourage. By some happy accident, the hour leading up to 9am is actually quite a busy time for the rest of the world too. Because some people have jobs, they try to go to them — this means that the roads frequently, indeed everyday, see an hour or so of increased traffic flow. This is called rush hour. Rush hour means that ordinary journeys take longer due to congestion.
Hence we see a large body of students trying simultaneously to reach campus via busy roads. Logically, this would warrant shorter routes, and increased services.
Nah, Ragecoach isn’t about that.
Instead, have a thrice hourly 55 minute journey via a collection of Coventry’s satellite shitheaps.
What could be worse?
Enjoy standing, head bowed and hungover — as middle-to-latterly aged locals visibly (and often audibly) express their displeasure at having to share their screaming tin can with an incohate bundle of steaming adolescents.
As the humidity levels reach par with a 50 Shades book club reading, and as the decibel heavy, but substantially inane gossip spilling out of surrounding conversations clutters what little thought space you have left — you may think “what could be worse”.
I know I did. I’ve always fancied myself as something of an optimist. And so, this morning, sitting on the foetid staircase of a stuffy U12 incarnation — I took pleasure in the thought that somewhere, somehow, someone is suffering more.
Nobody much likes syphilis… but at least you had some fun in catching it.
But there was a real struggle to ascertain how exactly things could be worse. Terminal illnesses are bad, granted. But one invariably sees out their last days surrounded by their nearest and dearest, whilst increased doses of morphine do the heavy lifting. If there are any two things lacking on an overcrowded U12, they are good company and mind numbing analgesics.
Nobody much likes syphilis. To see loose articles of body turn sceptic, shrivel up, and drop off is a real drag. But at least you had some fun in catching it. And, if nothing else, either modern medicine can help you to cope, or you have sweet release to look forward to. In contrast, nobody has a fun reason to be on the U12. The U12 is not sexually transmitted. Nobody fucked their way onto the U12. It isn’t, and probably never has been, the consequence of a good night to that end. Moreover, modern medicine isn’t going to make it manageable, and all that you have to look forward to is a day of caffeine and verb tables.
However, at least it’s in a kidnapper’s interest to keep you well fed, vaguely rested, and not beat up to bad.
Kidnapping is a real sucker. Boating holidays in the Gulf of Aden just aren’t what they once were, and it’s almost impossible to find a good Colombian supplier without spending an extended spell in a damp cell. However, at least it’s in a kidnapper’s interest to keep you well fed, vaguely rested, and not beat up to bad. In comparison, whilst on the U12, especially for any poor bugger over six feet, even standard seating requires agonising contortion. Not least if you are standing, or sitting in some awkward cubby hole. Not only that, you can’t even fucking eat on there. Not that you’d want to anyway — with air as fresh as a Beijing bypass — cracking open a pack of pungent prawn cocktail Pringles isn’t going to make you any friends.
The options for worldly troubles are running thin. Despite being the most efficacious cure for low blood pressure and a stress free life, could the rush hour U12 actually be the worst thing ever.
Certainly it takes something monumental to compete for the bottom rung of human experience. But things can always get worse, right?
Apparently, to be so permanently on the cusp of death is intolerable.
Right. Waterboarding. Feeling your diaphragm convulse as a masked man pours water over a towel covering your mouth isn’t a mere simulation of drowning, it is drowning. Apparently, to be so permanently on the cusp of death is intolerable. Christopher Hitchens could only stick around seven seconds, and here-say from Guantanamo Bay suggests that thirty seconds of endurance is a superhuman feat. All that, and not a bruise to display in the ICC.
If it’s that bad, it’s probably worse than being caught for up to an hour on the U12. That said, at least waterboarding is free.