I get lost easily

7 11 2010

In less than one month’s time I’ll be starting a work experience binge. I’m very excited about the forthcoming binge because I’ll be working alongside some of the best writers – and indeed drivers – that the UK motoring press has to offer. But my parents are a bit concerned.

My destinations are, first, Northamptonshire and then Cambridgeshire. The towns, the magazines, even the counties are irrelevant. What is relevant though is that I’ll be borrowing my mum’s car, which means I’ll be driving myself to the destinations.

I’ve borrowed my mum’s 1.2 Clio plenty of times before. So far, touch wood, I’ve had a good history with it. So the car-borrowing isn’t the issue.

When I asked my dad if I could borrow the car, for a journey that would head further south than Preston, the conversation went like this:

“Dad, please can I borrow the car?”

“Yes, but Pete, you haven’t had much experience with longer distances on your own. You’ve got to read signs quickly and make fast decisions.”

“I’ll be fine!”

“You get lost easily though, Pete.”

“[Pause] Yeah I do.”

This is entirely fair, and based on my past with following directions.

Examples of me getting lost

Example 1

One evening in late August 2008 I went to do an interview for my Sir William Lyons Award entry. I was going to head to a farm in the middle of nowhere to do an interview with my mum’s cousin.

On the day I was due to do the interview, my parents asked if I knew where he lived. I didn’t. So they told me the directions. One element of the directions was crucial: “You know how to get to mum’s school don’t you?” “Er yeah! Of course I do!” (From this reference point, the rest of the journey would be a doddle.) I’ve been to my mum’s school many times. It’s a very simple route, and less than four and a half miles.

That evening, I set off, went down the road I knew would lead me to my mum’s school, and drove quite contentedly until I realised that I was lost. I stopped, phoned home, told them I was at a junction on a corner that I’d never seen before, and was told where to go again.

Example 2

Unfortunately, my second example is more recent. At work in the summer, I had to drive to a place near Blackpool to meet a colleague to sort out some equipment for an event.

The day before, he wrote down detailed directions. I could see the route in my mind (it was a similar route to the one we – my family – used to take when visiting my late grandad), so I wasn’t going to get lost!

I agreed to meet my colleague at 9:30am. I set off in good time, and arrived in Blackpool for 9:15am – I was early! However, I was early somewhere else. I was in the right area, but I didn’t have a clue where I or my colleague was. I tried to ask a pedestrian for directions, but he ignored me, so I sped off and phoned home for directions.

My issue with directions is that I sometimes over-analyse them. If a signpost has a different destination to that mentioned in the directions, I think to myself: “I must be at the wrong roundabout, I’ll keep going.” Rather than: “This is probably the right way to go.” Or I’ll panic, and take a turn early because I worry that THIS could be the one I’m supposed to take.

Example 3

Surprisingly, I do actually have a memory, and, sometimes, even a sense of direction. When my memory and sense of direction are present, my third example demonstrates I should listen to them/myself.

Sadly, my third example was less than two months ago. Again, it was work-related. I had to take some food to a leisure village (I don’t know what else to call it, because that’s what it’s known as) because a journalist was visiting that weekend. I looked at the directions on the place’s website, and it fitted in with what my memory was telling me.

Just to be sure, I checked Google Maps.

Seven miles after leaving the motorway, I learnt that Google was wrong. A quick phone call to my parents got me back on the right route (I’d promised them that morning that I knew where I was going… and I did, but Google tricked me).

As a side note, the road I happened to go the wrong way down was a brilliant road. In fact, I was very happy that I’d gone the wrong way. It was the ideal hilly road, with fast and medium speed corners with enough visibility to keep up a good pace.


If I give you directions, they’ll probably be accurate, so you can trust them (note: this does not apply to walking directions for shops, even in Lancaster, which has been my nearest city since I was born).

If you’re in the car with me, I’ll go the right way. When others are in the car with me, my desire to remain dignified (ie. Not asking for directions) ensures I use common sense and stay calm.


If you give me directions, I will probably go the wrong way anyway.

If I say: “Yeah I know where that is” I probably do, but I’ll doubt myself when I get to a crucial junction and turn the wrong way. It’s best to tell me how to get to even the most obvious places.

If you set a rendezvous time, no matter how long in advance I set off, I WILL go the wrong way. Expect me to arrive anywhere up to 45 minutes late, even if the journey was only supposed to take five.


My turbo lag addiction

20 04 2010

I have a confession. I really like turbo lag. It’s universally slated by motoring hacks, but I like it.

For those readers who don’t know what turbo lag is, let me explain. Basically, an engine releases exhaust gases after it has burnt the fuel. A turbo uses the airflow from these exhaust gases to spin a little turbine. This little turbine then spins an air compressor which grabs more air and forces it into the engine to help make the explosion bigger in the engine, giving more power.

However, the time between when you press the accelerator and when the turbo spools up enough to give you more power can vary, and this is known as turbo lag.

So, sometimes there can be a delay between you flooring it, and the car actually making any decent progress. It can be massively inconvenient and sometimes dangerous if you’re expecting more power, but I admit… I’m addicted to it.


One widely-experienced drawback of turbo lag is when you’re at a roundabout.

You roll up at about 10-15mph in second, you look to your right, there’s a car coming, but you know you can get out in front of them without making them slow down. If you’re a bloke, you definitely think this. So you check left, right, and then you floor it…

And the engine does sod all. Oh. Crap.

It’s too late now though, you’re in that other bloke’s way. Bugger. You’re up the proverbial creek without a paddle. The turbo is your paddle, but it’s disappeared right when you bloody well need it.

So you look straight ahead and ignore the ever-nearing car because you might as well – he’s getting nearer, and he’s only going to look peed off with you. Might as well ignore him and tell yourself that not giving way was the right decision.

Then, after the engine has made some deep droning noises, the turbo slowly spools up and then suddenly you have your paddle back and you can frantically get yourself out of the faecal creek.

Turning right

Now, you’re happily driving down a road and you need to turn right. On goes the indicator and you slow down. Coming the other way is a seemingly never-ending line of cars. But, luckily for you, there’s a decent-enough gap in front of them to make your way down the little side road on the right.

Two things can happen here. The engine might not respond as actively as you want, like in the scenario above.

Alternatively, it might respond quicker, but at the wrong time. You think you’ve got the timing and acceleration well-judged, and you’re smoothly turning into the junction.

But then the turbo says: “Wahay! Time to party!” And it spools up, and suddenly you’re driving 5mph faster towards that hedge than you were hoping.

If you’re lucky, there’ll be an old Fiesta crammed with old ladies, who you recognise from your street, on their way to an open garden in aid of the church. They all look very disappointed, and they’ll go away with the impression that you’re a madman. The whole local gardening fraternity now hates you. You are “that” hooligan intent on causing fear and distress to vulnerable motorists around you. You boy racer, what do you think you were doing, tear-arsing around that corner. Tosser.

Why turbo lag is good

Granted, there are many times when turbo lag is annoying, and you’d just rather have smooth, consistent, instant power. But I like the lag. I’m a turbo lag slag.

For about 40 days every year (it’s what the insurance company allows), I’m allowed to be temporarily put on our family’s Laguna insurance.

The Laguna has a 1.9 turbo diesel engine. The turbo makes me excited. It makes me giggle. It’s like a little power surprise every time I put my foot down.


One of the first times I discovered the merits of a turbo was when I was on holiday with my parents. I reach a tight left -hand corner in fourth, going about 35mph. I round the corner and there’s something I didn’t expect: a hill. Granted, I could’ve just dropped into third, but nah, I decided to pretend I was in the correct gear, so I pressed the accelerator all the way down.

The diesel engine grumbled. It didn’t appreciate my ignorance, so in retaliation it filled the car’s cabin with an unpleasant booming noise to say to my parents: “Your son’s in the wrong gear, the idiot. So I’ll just annoy you.”

Slowly but surely, the turbo slowly spun up. Between 30 and 35 there was a faint whistle, building up gradually. But then at 40 we had full turbo happiness. The turbo was at full spin, and suddenly the Laguna was my friend again. It propelled me and my parents to the top of the hill. And then Dad told me to slow down.

Pretending you’re in a rocket. 3, 2, 1…WHOOSH!

There’s also the moment from going from a 30-limited road and onto a national speed limit one. On purpose, I shed 10mph off my speed, and then I let third gear whoosh me from 20 to 50mph. Yes, I am that sad.

It’s not so much the total power that I enjoy, because there isn’t that much, but the sudden surge of power and the accompanying noise. I like sinking my foot to the floor, hearing the turbo spool up, hearing the engine become more energetic and then suddenly having 221 lb/ft of torque available. I know it’s not much, but I’m speaking relatively here. It’s the effortless speed, the effortless power.

I’m Peter Adams, and I’m addicted to turbo lag.

Note: I first published this blog post here, but, I thought I might as well put it up here too (I’ve kept the title the same, for the sake of our friend SEO, ‘search engine optimisation’). What’s more, for being a lovely faithful reader of my blog, you even get three or so extra paragraphs thrown in. I have even got a different picture for you. Yes, you are very lucky.

Aston Martin Cygnet NOT April Fools’ joke

1 04 2010

Aston Martin Cygnet: astonmartin.com

The morning of April 1, 2010 has passed. April Fool jokes are no longer allowed. And there has been NO news anywhere of the Aston Martin Cygnet being an April Fools’ joke, meaning the Cygnet is a real car and will be produced.

So, we’d better start getting really, really…excited.


The Toyota iQ (on which the Cygnet is based) comes with either a 1 or 1.3 litre engine. Now, it may be the more extravagant option (suitable only for speed demons), but let’s look at the 1.3 option.

The 1.3 Cygnet will be able to rocket you from 0 to 62mph in an incredible 13.4 seconds. And if you keep that pedal mushed into the metal, you may even reach the top speed of 105mph. Although, whether you’d want to go that fast is up to you. It’s not the car that isn’t capable, but you – do you really think you would even stay conscious at 95mph, nevermind 105?! In fact, has anybody ever been above 95?


When you’re flying around those back country roads, you’ll be glad you opted for the red leather. Under the hot summer sun, you’ll be sweating loads (you won’t want any air con on, because that’ll take power away from that leviathan of an engine), and that leather/sweat combination will mean you’ll be stuck securely to the seat on those high-g corners.


The iQ Cygnet echoes the design of its less sporty, less cool, less exciting siblings.

This is the car that the V12 could, should have been.

Financial sense

Yes, it’ll probably cost about double that of an iQ, but you get leather and stuff. And, you can say to your mates that you’ve bought an Aston Martin*

So, it’s not an April Fools’ joke. And who thought it would be?! I didn’t doubt Aston Martin for a second.

*Note: They may call you a twat when they realise it’s a Cygnet.

New car or new phone, new is cool

7 03 2010

In 2006, on my 16th birthday, I received a new phone. It was black and shiny, and it flipped open and flipped shut. As well as being able to send texts and make calls (and also receive both) it could also take pictures. It was amazing.

Almost four years on, I’ve just bought a new phone. It’s black and shiny, and it slides open and slides shut.

Did I need a new phone? Well, not really. But my old phone had its faults: its battery life was sometimes limited to one day (one phone call and a handful of texts would kill it off), the memory was dire (50 texts would cause the memory to be full), I couldn’t upload pictures onto my laptop, it would turn itself off (usually after calls, or playing the excellent ‘Hungry Fish’ game). Oh, and it was starting to look a bit old.

The new phone has all the features I could only once have ever dreamt for. It’s got a camera…which can record both still and moving images. It’s got lots of fun extras (like a stopwatch, a timer, voice recorder – although I have an Olympus voice recorder anyway), a world clock, a convertor, and something about it blue teeth.

But all this out with the old, in with the new business got me thinking. It got me thinking about cars.

Car nostalgia

In March 2007, I was sat in the passenger seat of our family’s N-reg Renault Laguna. Dad was driving. We were returning from visiting my auntie and uncle. We rounded a tight right-hand bend, and in front of us, under a surprisingly warm spring sun, lay a beautiful straight and flat runway of Lancashire County Council’s almost-finest tarmac. No junctions. No bumps. No reason not to give the 2-litre engine a healthy workout.

After the energetic sprint down the road, and after I’d stopped giggling and applauding (yes, I still giggle like a child when I hear high revs as a passenger), we stopped at our local Renault garage, and agreed to trade in the Laguna for a new one.

What was wrong with our burgundy red N-reg Renault Laguna estate? Well, not that much considering it was 10 years old and had travelled over 126,000 miles.

The problems were: a high-pressure hose for the power steering once sprung a leak (quite a costly repair), the central locking in the boot didn’t work (the clichéd French electr

ical gremlins at work), the left hand-side had a mildly corrugated look thanks to children who were over-eager in opening doors, the heater took a good 15 minutes to start ushering out not-outside-temperature air, and the driver’s side rear door made a noise when it was opened. Other than that, it was a lovely car and its problems were, ultimately, minor and very rare considering age and mileage.

On the journey home from the garage, my dad and I sat in the old Laguna wondering: “Why get a new car?” We were happy with the one we had. It had a decent engine, it had a massive boot, it was seriously comfy on long journeys (buttock-ache took many hours to set in), and we’d had it for over a decade – it was like another sibling to me.

On 2 April, we arrived at the Renault garage in the old Laguna. A feeling of excitement and guilt engulfed me and my parents. We met our salesman, he handed us two key cards, and we sat in our new car for the first time…

Then suddenly we realised it was the right decision.

Sod the nostalgia. New car all the way

Granted, the ‘new’ car wasn’t exactly new. It was an ex-showroom car, and the model was only a year or two away from being replaced by the MkIII Laguna, but is still looked good. It was black, it had 17-inch, 15-spoke alloy wheels (which are a pain in the backside to clean), it had a raked rear end, and I reckoned it looked generally quite cool. Plus, it looked better than the surrounding neighbours’ cars (very important).

Over the old car, the new car had: air con, a working heater system, nice alloy wheels, bette

r sound insulation, better handling, a six-speed gearbox, a CD player, lots of airbags, rear head restraints, a rear armrest, a front central armrest, and…SPORTS SEATS!

Yes, it had a 1.9 diesel engine, not a 2-litre petrol unit, but the relative torque made up for the lack of aural pleasure.

Put the past behind you

When we own something for a long time, we become attached to it, we sentimentalise it. I must admit, I sort of miss the simplicity of our old Laguna, I miss the thousands of miles I spent sandwiched between brother and sister as we were taken to pretty places in Europe.

At a basic level, buying something new, be it a new phone or a new car, gets rid of the issues encountered with owning something old. Don’t get me wrong, owning and nurturing an old car is something I’d quite like to do one day (I shan’t yet say what car that is), but buying something new always conjures up a wave of immature excitement and hyperactivity.

So go on, do it – buy something new and shiny. It’s a lovely feeling.

Two years of driving

28 02 2010

Who couldn't enjoy a road like this?

On 22 February 2008, I was sat in the driver’s seat of my driving instructor’s olive green Seat Ibiza. As I sat looking out of the windscreen at the delightful rainy, windy, grey and cold Heysham weather, an Irish bloke in a big yellow florescent jacket was running a pen up and done a sheet on a clipboard, writing a number here, adding a comment there. Then he said (with a Northern Irish accent): “Payder, oim playsed to tell yoy yoy’ve paaased.”

That remark came at the end of my driving test (first attempt). Unlike many people, I actually quite enjoyed my driving test. Unfortunately I got four minors too many (ie four minors in total), but hey ho, at least I passed. Two were for undue hesitation, one was for observation during a ‘turn in the road’ (a three-point turn to post people), and the other I can’t remember.

Mr Irish Bloke told me that the next two years were important. If I got six points on my licence, then my six-point-weighted licence would fall out of my wallet, and into the hands of the magistrates court, and I’d have to one day retake my test.

Two years later, I have no points (touch wood) – I’ve made it! I have my licence for the foreseeable future. Unless I get 12 points, in which case I’ve done something wrong, and the magistrates will happily store my licence in a drawer somewhere (probably in their study at home).

Did you crash?

No. In my first two years I didn’t crash, or have a ‘near-miss’ (long may it hopefully continue). According to statistics, all young drivers, in particular young males, are supposed to crash. Much like many young drivers, two years into my driving life I haven’t crashed and I haven’t got any points.

I have had a bit more extra driving education since Mr Irish Bloke told me: “yoy’ve paaased”. I did Pass Plus, which involved two three-hour lessons – a journey to the Lake District and a journey to the Trafford Centre. It was good fun (although my buttocks were seriously numb, and I also learnt about ‘ball-ache’), but I didn’t learn much.

Extra-curricular activities

As a present for when I reached the 18, I went to Croft (albeit a couple of months after my birthday). Yes, because I was 18, and had a licence, I was able to drive a Porsche Cayman round a track with an instructor by my side. I then went out on my own in a Formula Renault. With hindsight, I was incredibly slow, but bloody hell it was fun.

Fast forward to June 2009 and (with thanks to CAR Magazine [who gave me incredibly beneficial work experience] and Honda [my first journalistic treat]) I’m spinning round and round in a Honda Insight and a Honda Jazz on a skid pan. Half an hour later, I’m sat in a Honda Legend with my eyes closed and hands off the wheel waiting to hear a beep that was signalling that I am about to hit something metallic.

But then came the really fun bit – a few laps round Rockingham in a Honda Civic Type-R and a Honda S2000. I’d read plenty about the sounds of the high-revving 2-litre VTEC unit, but goodness gracious me, accelerating out of ‘Tarzan’ in the S2000 in second gear, seeing the red line light up, and hearing a 9000rpm howl made my day. I also dabbled with heel-and-toe, with mixed success. Sometimes it worked, other times…well, smoothness was the aim, but it wasn’t exactly achieved. Oh, and I was really slow in the S2000 (first time on my own in a rear wheel drive car, and on work experience…I wasn’t willing to get near any limits).

From hooning to honing

Three weeks later, hurtling along at 100mph before plunging on the brake down to 30mph was a distant dream. I was back on the public highway, this time under the critical gaze of one of my local IAM (Institute of Advanced Motorists) group’s observers. My first ‘observed drive’ was terrible. I hated it. My driving was criticised – nobody likes being criticised. But after I’d learnt to accept and use that criticism, it became a lot more fun. Then in September 2009 I passed my test.

While the IAM test isn’t guaranteed to equip drivers with God-like driving abilities, if everyone took the advanced driving test the standard of driving on Britain’s roads would be far higher, and people would be a lot safer.

Discount please

So, after two years of exploring a few thousand miles of the UK’s highways, experiencing 11 cars and taking an advanced driving test, I can assure you that many young drivers are not boy (or girl) racers who are intent on creating holes in hedgerows while listening to apocalyptic /techno/grime/club music. Some of us actually enjoy driving. So bearing that in mind, will you thieving insurance companies please give me a discount?

Note to reader: Peter is now probably sat in a Renault Clio, taking a nap on the driver’s airbag after discovering the brutality of Lancashire’s hedges.

Buses – reasons to love them

9 12 2009

Why on earth would anyone love buses, you may ask. Very few people in the world love buses. In my previous post I said I hate buses. Now I’m saying I love buses. This love, though, is more like a guilty pleasure; I love to hate buses.

My reasons are simple, comprising a bit of Schadenfreude, and being nosy.

Disclaimer: Do not mistake this for saying I like buses themselves, I don’t. I’d much rather drive somewhere than suffer the great humanitarian injustice of having to sit in a mobile waiting room.

Buses are an excuse to grumble

See previous post.

Buses mean you can avoid tedious roads

Yes, sometimes driving can be a bit tedious. If you’re ever in Preston, drive from the roundabout at the north of the city (the roundabout which gives you the choice of choosing the M55, M6 or A6) and into the city. It’s a 30mph road. Fair enough, there are lots of houses, but it’s incredibly dull and tedious. It’s straight, so there’s not even a corner to entertain you. There’s a few traffic lights to break it up, but that’s it.

So, bus drivers can suffer the misery of a dull road while you suffer the misery of a wailing toddler whose neglectful, jewelry and sportswear-ridden mother LOLs at a text from her 28th boyfriend of the week (I’m not laughing out loud, you soulless bint).

Buses present a wide spectrum of society

Yes, buses allow you to see a whole variety of people. Sometimes they’re normal people, but sometimes they’re quite interesting. Sometimes you can find so much about them (yes, I know, you shouldn’t listen to other people’s conversations, but, when your attention can be taken away from the dandruff-filled mullet of the bloke in front, it’s a good idea). I shall provide some examples.

Bus journey example one

On this journey I learnt about two men. One was probably in his 40s, the other in his 70s. I shall give them fictional names to ease the storytelling. Man in his 40s shall hereby be referred to as Jeremiah. Man in his 70s shall hereby be referred to as Eugene.


It turns out that Jeremiah had been a naughty man. He had been to see his girlfriend, and he’d had a bit to drink, and they’d had a bit of an argument. But you won’t believe this… naughty Jeremiah decided to drive home. But don’t worry, the British legal system thrust its gargantuan foot right into his once-proud balls.

While driving home, Jeremiah was caught by the police. Jeremiah claimed that it was just a random check. Funny that, isn’t it, that the police “randomly” pulled over a bloke who was drink-driving when he “was driving fine, like. Not dangerous or owt.” Yes, Jeremiah, what a coincidence. What a shame that the police are successfully taking drink-drivers off the road.


Jeremiah told his story to Eugene. Now, Eugene was a cheeky old fellow. He had a girlfriend down South. And I found out he had a Rover 75. He was really proud of his Rover 75. He said it was really good on the motorway. He said that he bought it cheap from some local garage. He seemed proud of his Rover 75, and also the fact he had a girlfriend at the age of…well, probably 75.

Bus journey example two

There were two characters worth mentioning on this journey. We shall call them Augustus and Percy.


Augustus got on the bus first. He was wearing a big, bright yellow fluorescent coat. Now, to be fair, he wasn’t completely there in his head. As he counted out his money for the bus driver, he kept repeating: “Corporation Street”.

He sat down in front of me. Then, out of his pocket, he brandished his handkerchief. It wasn’t a very nice handkerchief. It was a bit dark in places. I think Augustus had recently had a nose bleed.

Augustus then proceeded to blow and pick his nose until he deemed that the bloody stains had decreased in size enough to warrant him returning the handkerchief to his right pocket. For the rest of the bus journey, Augustus’s head frequently darted from left to right, but not by much – I’d guess no more than a 15 degree angle.


Next, Percy got on the bus. I remember when I was a child, I used to read about Percy the Park Keeper. This was not Percy the Park Keeper, though. This was Percy the Drug User (I assumed he was on drugs).

When the bus driver opened the door, Percy leapt onto the bus. He was happy to be here.

From his pocket, he wielded his bus pass in his right hand, which he then thrust towards the partition separating the bus driver from the bus passengers. Oh yes, Percy was enthusiastic about bus travel. Even more enthusiastic than Augustus and myself… put together!

After the bus driver accepted that Percy was allowed to travel with me, Augustus and a handful of others, Percy set about getting to his seat. He then energetically lunged towards his nearest vertical bar (those upright poles that are there for people to cling onto when walking through the bus).

From there he swung, like a gold medal-winning gymnastic orangutan, to the next upright bar, and then to the next, and then to the one after that.

But, there was only one pole left before he reached the one behind my seat (facing forwards, I was on the left side of the bus). Percy extended his left arm, grabbed the pole in front of me to the right, and swung around. Out of caution and fear, I ducked out of the potential collision course. I awaited the arrival of an impact, but I’d done enough to avoid Lancashire’s own whirling dervish.

In an unexpected change of tactics, Percy remained clung on to the pole he had grasped in his left hand, and swung around and dropped into a seat, behind and left of my own.

After that, Percy listened to some music. Very loudly. But I wasn’t too annoyed – I was unhurt, that was all that mattered while Percy was on board.


So there we have it, the reasons that make travelling on a bus less horrific. If you have any other reasons why you think I should like buses, please leave a comment.

Buses – reasons to hate them

6 12 2009

Buses are awful things. They’re dreadful. Be honest, you agree with me. But, at the same time, I love to hate them.

Now, I know I can’t make such a controversial, bold, never-heard-before statement like that without supporting my argument, so in this post I’m going to tell you why I hate buses.

Buses are slowBuses are so slow that, when picking your nose, your fingernail will grow in the time it takes the bus to accelerate

They take a very long time to get up to speed. In fact, I’d wager a bet that if I started to pick my nose when we left the bus stop, by the time we reach the speed limit my fingernail would have grown so much that I would, in fact, be hacking away at the lower segment of my brain. That’s how slow buses are.

Buses are often late

My most recent experience with getting a bus involved waiting for 15 minutes after the thing was supposed to arrive. I was not pleased. The traffic was light and free-flowing, but the bus was still late. I can only suspect that the driver was late in setting off. I believe he was doing one of the following:

  1. Finishing a cup of tea or coffee. Why didn’t he make and drink it earlier?
  2. Talking to a colleague. He will see them tomorrow, or some other time. I am paying for both their salaries, I expect my driver to be there when I expect.
  3. Oversleeping. He should buy an alarm clock.
  4. Checking traffic and weather conditions, listening to local radio traffic bulletins. Very responsible, I admire his thoughtfulness.
  5. On the toilet. Fair enough – there’s a limit to how much control you can have over bodily functions.

Buses are smelly

They can be a mixture of any or all of the following (in order of most commmon):

  • Stale smell (general stale smell or damp stale smell)
  • Exhaust fume smell
  • Burning smell (brakes and/or clutch)
  • Sweat smell
  • Flatulence smell

I’ve found that the smell of damp is the most frequent offender. A bit of regular fresh air and Fabreeze would do the trick.

Buses are cramped

I have long legs relative to my height (I’m a smidgen over six feet). But even so, I’d like to be able to sit down without having to spread my legs at a right-angle. As such, I can’t wear shorts for fear of being arrested for indecent exposure.

Rather than having to take up the space of two seats with my legs akimbo, I’d just like to be able to sit down, with my legs in any formation which I desire. Surely, that’s an international human right.

Buses are rarely well-driven

The driver of the bus I was in most recently was okay, but not brilliant. Granted, he knew the dimensions of his vehicle, so fit through some fairly tight spaces, and his judgment wasn’t too bad either (although, up for argument). But, he wasn’t smooth.

Smoothness is not something I associate bus drivers with. Approaching lights which had just turned red, did he gently get onto the brakes in good time, bringing the bus to a smoothly and gentle stop? No, he just kept on going at the same speed, then braked when it was absolutely necessary.

I did not appreciate this driving style. I paid £5.90 for my Dayrider, I wanted to see signs of good observation and planning, not laziness.


To conclude, buses are dreadful. How can anyone like buses? How can there be any positives whatsoever in travelling on a bus? Read ‘Buses – reasons to love them‘ to find out.