“You are not going to believe this”

In the history of time and space, no one has ever been unhappier than me. Clinton on the day Trump was voted president elect, David Cameron when his pork loving secret came to light and even Harold Godwinson, crawling through the muddy, bloody battlefield of Hastings with an arrow in his eye, had a much better day then me.

My suffering started on a hideous English carriage way when my car decided not to be a car any more, instead it wanted to be a ton and a half of scrap metal that needed pushing a straining, miserable mile along the road. How can anyone at Vauxhall even sleep at night knowing that not only did they make such a boring, lifeless can of pure dullness but it also a car that doesn’t even bloody work. I hope that one day the managers of Vauxhall, whom I suspect drive BMW’S rather than Astra’s, get fired for incompetence. Voiding them of their stupid 3 story townhouses, nice cars, and their weekly prostitutes that they have to engage the services of as their loveless, soulless marriage trudges through another sexless year. Bastards!

Anyway, let’s not dwell on the breakdown of my car, mind, and life. After abandoning my car somewhere down a side street, I found myself at a bus stop. An actual bloody bus stop! What has my life become? A year ago, I had a good job, a working car, little stress, and a face that, on occasion smiled. Now I’m waiting at a bus stop that’s weirdly in a hospital car park. Who the hell goes to hospital on a bus? “Quickly, I’ve chopped my arm of with an axe! Grab some bandages to soak up the blood, oh and a bus timetable”.

Time was against me. I needed to get to a college party in a city far from where I was. The bus was, lavishly equipped with fake leather seats that managed to not only hold in all the sickness, death and disease of its hospital runs but also a driver that had no sense of direction, this became apparent when after ten minutes he’d managed to drive further from the destination we were heading for. Just as I was finding my way round the new depths my life had sunk to, the bus decided, much like my car, it didn’t want to be a bus anymore, instead it wanted to be 15 tons of scrap metal with an engine smoking profusely into the air. A symbol of the life and will draining from my increasingly bittering soul. Another bus then, this one had a better sense of direction however the driver had a worse sense of justice, refusing my ticket purchased on the previous bus, telling me I needed to buy another ticket. Bastard!

Finally, I made it to the party and after a significant amount of alcohol my spirits lifted as I put the whole rotten saga behind me. As the night drew to an end, I made my way to the station to catch my train to take me home. At least it would have done if the bloody train was cancelled. Bastards!