So on my 2nd trip in today returning to Shaftesbury, on the buses, I pull in at Stourpaine at the rather inviting White Horse pub – adorned in winter sunshine under blue skies in the refreshingly crisp chilled misted air – with all the outside tables set out for the hardy, soon to be supping on pints waiting for something hot from the kitchen. As I pull in to this rather idyllic, classical village setting a reality check beckons, ominously so. Two male customers stand uncomfortably together, skulking at the stop, and one in a half-cocked way pulls up his hoody, just enough to cover his chin whilst looking at me with a bit of a “fuck you” attitude simmering away there: not a mask in sight. (One has previous – always rowing with this girlfriend, without which it has transpired, he is an absolute arsehole). I say nowt. Just observe and pull away. Other conversation on the bus has all but stopped, except for their snarling as they occupy all the back seats, coughing and spluttering (more for effect than anything).
When I arrive at the next village, I see on a regular who was pleased to see us (feelings reciprocated on both sides) as he hasn’t been so out and about as usual. He has a keen eye, and says to me quietly through my shower curtain screen, “those two at the back aren’t wearing masks, what’s the score with them then?” I said, well, I can’t enforce anything but if you’re uncomfortable, I’m quite prepared to call 999. One thing I did do as a compromise, was open all the windows on both sides of the bus. We had a good chat on arrival and he enthused about the big game tomorrow: the Women’s FA Cup final he’s looking forward to and asked me if I’ll be watching it. I’ll be supporting the Arsenal Women, I replied (Mr all in the know).
I’d hoped the Stourpaine scallies would be travelling back on the same bus as the passengers I’d taken up. Not the case. Much later in the day as the sun was going down I passed them on the way in, waiting at a stop away from the hustle and bustle of the town centre, and braced myself for the final trip down. After my short break I left the Town Hall. As I approached the stop and turned in, the attitude was palpable, and to top it, they’d been drinking heavily. The larger of the two says, seething “you had to open all the fucking widows this morning didn’t you, you jobs worth”. . . A perfectly reasonable, calm quick retort from me, was met with the same again. Engine off. Hazards on. Opportunity to apologise refused. Second chance refused. 999. The operator asked me to stay on the phone with her, as I then had two idiots videoing me, invading my privacy (I cannot bear that man), as they shoved their phone cameras in my face desperately trying to antagonise a violent reaction. A chap came out of a house opposite to ask me if I was ok. I really didn’t want to be penned in by them. The bus reeked of alcohol and the same as the morning, they were mask less. I got out of my cab (couldn’t care what the company regulations are) I had to get clear of them and went to thank the chap over the road. I’m pursued. Police are getting closer. I go back to the bus and out of nowhere, the one that wasn’t filming when my back was turned away from his mate gave a sly, pretty hefty punch into my now, well padded stomach. Live commentary given to the experienced 999 operator and advice taken. Then, unexpectedly again, two sharp kicks to my left leg as he stamped on my foot, still trying to elicit a reaction from me as they filmed. Pathetic. The sky then lit up in blue. What a scene. Sirens wailing.They had sent out one response vehicle and a van! Excellent. Fantastic response. I was very grateful. Got the two scumbags away at last. One good piece of advice when the Police sorted the situation so I could get going quickly, to resume my duty to get down to Blandford to bring back passengers (some coming in from Poole) without losing any mileage – the Stourpaine scallies can thank me they weren’t arrested and carted off! – was to request future ‘refuse to travel’ rights from the company. . . (oh yes. . . rest assured. . . the sly puncher will get his comeuppance). . .
This had been nagging away at me all day but nevertheless, despite all the nights I’ve done in town, didn’t expect that kind of escalation. Be more prepared next time is the motto. Refuse to travel.
Goodbye. Close doors and off….
A.C. Reed
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