Well, I've tried putting some thought into what I write here, but that never works. I'm surprised I haven't learned that by now. I should always just start writing and see what happens.
Oh.
Nothing seems to be happening.
Hmm.
I'm sure something will turn up...
What about...? No, that's stupid.
Hey, have you ever noticed how you never see cress anymore? What's the deal with that?
What, was cress just a... y'know... eighties plant? Imagine Rick Astley eating cress! Out of Maggie Thatcher's vagina!
Because, y'know, those things are also... associated with the eighties...
Astley and Thatcher, I mean. Not oral sex. That will never go out of fashion.
Hey, you know when you're on the bus right? Yeah? And you're sitting on the bus, yeah? You with me? And it's empty. And you're on the bus, right? And a crazy guy gets on the bus! And you're the only one on the bus, right? And he gets on the bus. And he walks towards you, all crazy.
And you think about this person. About how through a tiny change in their genetic make-up, they are unable to relate to society in the same way as you. And they can never be truly accepted by people who only view difference and deviance with suspicion and fear. And in fact they may well actually be able to relate to society, it's just that they're never given a chance, because they're shunned and excluded. Everywhere they go, they are looked at like they're a freak, a joke, an animal.
And this mental difference may be because of a genetic glitch, or even a traumatic social event, but whatever the cause, they are imprisoned in this bubble of otherness. You know this, sitting on the bus, you realise that this is a human being. You realise that we're all different and yet we all try to find a way to live in a society that distrusts difference. You want to reach out and tell the crazy person 'I'm like you! We are one!', and hug them, letting them know they're not alone.
But they're making funny noises, and swearing loudly. And they've got weird stains on their clothes. And they're carrying a plastic bag, with something in it that looks like a dead animal. It's probably not a dead animal. But you're not quite sure.
So you turn up your Walkman (or iPod, depending on what decade it is), and stare forward, trying not to make eye-contact, trying not to display the fact that you are a human being.
And the crazy man sits behind you, and you spend the whole journey hoping he doesn't do anything, like touch your hair or start singing.
And finally, just as you think you're free, you feel it.
Tap, tap, tap, on your shoulder.
And you can't escape it. Contact has been made. Your charade of inhumanity melts away, and you're just two people. Just two people, together on the bus.
So you turn around and say:
"For fuck's sake Dad, I get enough of your bullshit at home.
At least use the animal-carrier if you're taking Scruffy to the vet. He can't breathe in that bag."
Eventually, you get off the bus and have to wait ages for the next one. And three of them come along at once. As usual.
***
Fuck Peter Kay. This shit is easy!
