#3. Bendy

Traffic Jam central mate.

#2. The Phonies

If the theory went thus: "Going to get an office job and make a lot of money like the rest of the phonies," then I made a bit of a miscalculation on the old renumeration forecast. Heh heh. No, I'm not talking about those phonies... The phonies I'm talking about are probably very similar to the phonies Holden Caulfield was railing against - only they didn't have mobile phones in those days and use them on the bus. Got that?

I've been trying to get inside the mind of the person who thrives on talking loudly on their mobile on the bus. They tend to be people who like to talk loudly anywhere. On the bus, however, fellow passengers are a captive audience who can't really walk away yawning and tutting. I think I can break them down into two main categories: Smug-conscious-phoney and dumb-ignorant-phoney. The former are a fascinating group. They're successful, well-dressed and educated and they can't wait to let everybody know about it. They are happiest when stood centrally in the bus gangway with an audience all around them. They are not shrinking violets.

#1. The Work Bores

People who belligerently use mobile phones on buses should have their hands and ears cut off using the rusted mechanism of an old-fashioned ticket machine. That's a given. But there's one type of raised-voice conversation that deserves even stiffer punishment. I'm talking capital here. It happens when two work colleagues - by chance - happen upon each other on the upper deck of a bus on the way to work. Where decent folk would pretend not to see each other and sink beneath their newspapers or feign sleep until the appropriate bus stop, these people acknowledge each other and embark upon a course of action that can only end in death - for their own salvation. Let me elaborate.

Him: Late 30s/early 40s. Greying buzzcut, blue gingham shirt, big chunky watch, thick wedding ring, suit, brogues and the blue-eyed steely gaze of a unnatural-born-salesman. Think: Mills & Boon handsome... or West Yorkshire serial-killer, depending on your disposition.

Her: Early 30s. Dressed down for work, has let herself go a bit but has the self-confidence and bloody-mindedness to carry it off. She will cut anything of yours off to get what she wants. Has a hold-all suggesting that she's going for a few nights away "on business".

The conversation is at one heck of a volume and modulated with a sexual tension that doubles the perceived absurdity of the situation. It's before the 9am watershed, but already these gimps are talking in BusinessSpeak. I'll pass on the foreplay and get down to the serious stuff:

"Jo, Angus, Brett... I like them. I don't know if that's naivety but, hey!"

"Their timesheet recording is crap."

"Have you ever looked at timesheetonline?"

"My concern is that Roy doesn't understand or realise the ramifications... blah, blah, I had a number of people say to me at the Monday's meeting, blah, blah,"

"That's been on my agenda for sometime now."

Really I shouldn't be angry. I mean, this is great entertainment. Add to the dialogue their affected posturing and you get the whole thespian picture. They're sat on the front seats on either side of the aisle looking across at each other in profile so the rest of us (the audience) get the full effect. They think they could be Bonnie and Clyde but in reality they're closer to being a proto-Christine and Neil Hamilton. Relentless and embarrassing.

He has the hapless Roy figuratively by the throat now:

"That's why I can't work with him. He has no merit at all. There's no communication but that's the way he likes it. He doesn't want bright, intelligent people..."

What, like you you mean?

Our alpha-male with the golden balls is biting his lips manically now, his steely blue eyes darting, scanning the bus, half expecting Roy to come careering down the aisle wielding a staple gun and yelling, "I'll have you, you flash bastard!"

But he's safe. Roy doesn't take the bus - he probably drives into work in a nice car with air conditioning, cd player and heated leather seats.

She has been agreeing, providing supporting evidence and idiosyncratic head jerks all along the journey. It's hard to tell if she likes him or just wants him as a strategic ally in her own crusade to the top. It's close the the grand finale, the climax of this sorry romp. He's reached the point where he knows he's home and dry . He's won this one (in his own mind). It's a sale. Result! Back of the net! I'm a tiger:

"If I was group MD," [in your dreams] "I'd be watching all of this," his eyes narrow, "letting it happen and picking my moment. Then I'd just get all the ineffectual managers," [the Roys] "and fire the lot of them. Cull them."

Now he is spent, his steely gaze mists over for a short while until he finds his guard again. Theirs is the next stop.

This toothless blood-letting, depsite being childish and embarrassing, belies a need to be heard. I have no doubt that as soon as these people get through the doors at 9am they are quite as mice, never disagree, never slam down a fist or slam shut a door. They just spend each day silently smoldering and plotting. And because they don't have the guts to say it how it is to the people who count, they inflict it on innocent bus travellers like my good self.

Of course, in a similar cowardly fashion, I'm hardly going to make my thoughts known to my two friends and their ilk. Some of us are performers and some of us are watchers. While I might have thespian aspirations I wouldn't like to get them out on the bus. Now that would be too messy.