pie, chips and quilted toilet tissue (standard:humor, 1860 words)
Author: ade	Added: Oct 24 2002	Views/Reads: 3640/2271	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
A story of a teen who embarks on a trip from his dull home town to the big city of london. this is his journey.

Adrian Byrne 

Pies, Chips and Quilted Toilet Tissue 

The lack of leg room, the constant chatter of old people and mad people
a like.  We are content reading our books and magazines or listening to 
our personal stereos, but no matter how hard we try we always end up 
talking about the weather or how Britain's youth are on a downward 
spiral with an old person.  If you don't have an old person next to 
you, you are more than likely to have a very open person next to you 
and we get to hear all about their lives, whether their favourite food 
is pie and chips to whether they use quilted toilet tissue.  Think 
yourself lucky if you sit down next to a young boy or girl who is 
content looking out the window, or if you sit next to somebody who has 
something even slightly interesting to talk about.  Is this something 
you have experienced?  I think it is something we all have. 

The bell rings for the end of school.  What happens next is bigger and
much more urgent then the gold rush, it's the rush to see whether you 
will get on the first Metro to town and in my case it's a must. 

I am lucky that I am bigger than most of the children, therefore I am
able to use my superior height and strength to get nearer to the doors, 
and able to obtain a place on the first bus.  I sit cramped up in my 
seat next to an irritating little child who looks about eight but is 
probably about thirteen.  The fact that the boy is younger and smaller 
than me, still feels it necessary to hurl abuse in a lame attempt to 
impress his friends. 

Maybe he does have an older brother or a bigger dad, it doesn't mean
that I am going to back down from giving him some abuse that will make 
him look small a stupid in front of his friends.  I pick areas on him 
that are common use among insults, the fact that he has ginger hair is 
an immediate target area and the fact that his trousers are so short 
and tight that they could be a pair of cycling shorts.  I leave him 
feeling stupid and yet surprised at my response.  I wouldn't just 
insult anyone, it's that if someone can give abuse and can try and make 
someone look small they can receive it back.  I hear nothing from the 
boy for the rest of the journey. 

I arrive in town.  I am half an hour early so I proceed to the nearest
shop.  I get some appropriate reading material, in the shape of 
Kerrang! a rock and metal magazine. On the way to the counter I pick up 
a bottle of Coke, a packet of crisps and a chocolate bar.  I am at the 
counter and I ask for twenty B and H. When I walk out of the shop a Big 
Issue seller confronts me. “Buy a Big Issue or I'll follow you home.”  
That is the funniest line any Big Issue seller has ever used.  I buy a 
copy so I can read it on the coach as well as my copy of Kerrang!  I 
commence my short walk to the bus bay. 

The sound of a mobile phone can be heard.  O my God! There's more than
one, it's the greasy slick Rick's, most probably called Trevor or 
Kevin.  I am not being stereotypical, it's just that when you see them 
all the time you start to associate certain people with certain things, 
for example you always associate snazzy Dr Marten boots with art 
students.  I light up a cigarette; I need to get my nicotine levels up 
for the journey ahead.  Those bloody mobile phones.  Don't get me 
wrong, everyone needs to find a tune that has a nice jingle, and yet 
retains your sophistication, I did it myself, but when there are five 
people going over every tune on their phone, each one double and triple 
checking each tune it starts to get a bit annoying.  I light another 
cigarette. 

When I get on the bus I find a suitable place next to a window, although
there is barely enough room to swing a gerbil let alone a cat.  I sit 
reading one of my magazines.  I immediately turn to the concert 
listings and see what is being said about tomorrows gig, there isn't 
much. 

All is fine and we are nearly at Cirencester, I have successfully
flicked through about half the magazine.  When we arrive at Cirencester 
I am asked if it is possible to move so a lady can sit next to her son. 
 I oblige and sit next to a girl who is about five feet four inches, 
has long black hair and looks quite oriental. 



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