I have been involved in legal action ever since making a coach journey to Spain. My solicitors are Malahide, Leech & Loot. They have told me there is money in this thing. What do you think?
On 2 May 1997, after a preparatory drink at The Shakespeare pub, Richard Hart and I hurled ourselves into the maelstrom that is Victoria Coach Station on a Friday night. There was confusion about everything: tickets, coaches, destination, departure locations.
We were pointed to a section marked EUROPEAN AND OTHER OVERSEAS DESTINATIONS. There, an official with a thick European accent yelled "Get behind the rope!! All you passengers stay behind the rope!!" We waited. Then they started assigning us to our specific coaches.
I moved towards the nearest luxury coach, but was directed around it to an old bus standing behind it. An official with a large peaked cap, whom we later came to know as "Herr Direktor", inspected my ticket as though he had never seen one before. Finally he said "Due to an office error, you are not a first class passenger. This means that you are not authorised to avail yourself of all the facilities on this coach."
"Like what?"
"Permanent seating position. Use of toilet. TV viewing. Things like that. However, a modest payment now will immediately elevate your status. The coach is about to depart. It's your decision. 'Pay or stay!' I could see Richard waving, so I paid.
We staggered to the back of the old bus at 10pm as it roared out of the station. It smelled of old, perfumed disinfectant. I found myself on the narrow rear seat with four others. We were struggling to stow the luggage which the driver had refused to take in the luggage compartment. This included four large hat boxes, a guitar and what looked like an alligator. The only empathy among us on the back row was the timing of our bouncing.
There were only a few lights on within the bus. They were available only to "front of bus" passengers. Just in front of me, one of the "back" passengers started to adjust the individual light above her seat. She was immediately detected by a "front" person, who called "Stop! Don't do anything so foolish as to interfere with the controls of this coach! You endanger everyone. I shall report you!" We were silent for a while.
As the bus clattered through South London, we stopped at traffic lights alongside the luxury coach. On its upper deck, they appeared to be holding a cocktail party. A couple were dancing. Below, they had commenced ten-pin bowling. Meanwhile, on our bus, an official (Herr Direktor) shouted "Tickets!" and moved to inspect them once again. This was to be a recurring feature of the trip. Thus, clutching our belongings in the semi-darkness and bouncing against each other, we rattled down into Dover harbour.
After boarding our ferry we were allowed to get off the bus. Before doing so we were told our deck and staircase position: G6. We had to chant it in unison to prove we would remember it. We were not allowed access to our luggage. Escape would be impossible before Paris. So we used the ferry like everyone else. We had a modest meal and relaxed. The passengers from the luxury bus were attending a banquet at the Captain's table.
On boarding our bus again at Calais, I noticed that it had no destination sign. However, in view of the other defects I didn't treat this as significant. The bus lurched to wards Paris but it had only travelled for 30 minutes before it pulled into a secluded service are. The driver, a Romanian, announced "Stop. Meal. One hour."
Of course, there were protests, but he had already disappeared into the service station kitchen to visit his brother, the owner. We sat around in groups with passengers of another bus. You know how it is when we bus travel veterans get talking about our experiences – famous drivers, transfers, marathon trips. After a while, a grizzled man, his pockets flowing with tickets, turn to me and said "I see your bus has no destination sign."
"Is that significant?" I asked.
"It means that you are on the 'Bus from Hell'. Yes. There are some buses like this. They are fated to roam the motorways of Europe carrying their passengers to their doom. Only when the last person has been delivered to a municipal cemetery will the curse be lifted and the drivers be allowed to return to their loved ones."
Now I knew that I must escape as soon as I could land on neutral territory. Meanwhile, we all climbed back on the bus. From there we could see our driver in the kitchen stuffing himself with steak and chips. After 45 minutes he was ready and we were away. Of course, soon the old cry went up: "Another sick bag for the driver!"
Thereafter, the journey was chaotic with commotion and complaints. It started with the German woman crying that her alligator, Gertrud, was ill. She suspected poison. She complained until we all moved from the back seat so that Gertrud could lie stretched out. Gertrud's rheumy eye betokened no gratitude. Our driver contacted a mobile vet by phone. He joined us in a deserted lay-by. Monsieur Noah, our Euro-vet, was accompanied by an attractive nurse who immediately made a cash collection.
M. Noah examined his patient. "Aha!" he exclaimed. "As I thought. Poor petite Gertrud has indeed been poisoned, and with a lavender-scented nougat bar!" He turned on the Direktor. "What kind of sub-specification vehicle are you running here? You allow your reptile passengers to be attacked in this way?"
The Direktor responded immediately. "Right! If I find the swine who has attacked Gertrud, he will be put straight into the cooler. Empty your pockets everyone! We're smelling for lavender here!"
The cooler was a small cell under the luggage compartment. It was used for recalcitrant passengers until they could be handed over to the proper authorities. At present, the cooler contained Carruthers, who kept his spirits up by incessantly singing "We're Riding Along on the Crest of a Wave". (Apparently, Carruthers had been caught winking at a pretty female passenger. In European Law this is called "monocular molestation".)
No lavender-scented nougat could be found. The Direktor told us that the bus would have to be diverted to Paris(!) for a more detailed search. We skirted Mönchengladbach and entered France once more.
At Paris Coach Station, we met up with the luxury coach. Under cover of the uproar involved in removing Carruthers, we were able to recover our luggage and deposit it in the luxury coach.
We offered our tickets to the coach host. "We were expecting you yesterday, Gentlemen," he said with a subservient smile. "I'm afraid you have missed fun events and free refreshments. Still, if you'll pass right down to the rear, there are two seats in the corner. Yes, next to the man with the sick gorilla. I'll be along later to rent out some Travel Scrabble."
As the coach sped through South Paris, I suddenly remembered something which hadn't previously registered. Our coach carried no sign of its destination.
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The above had been thrown from the window of an old bus passing northwards through Bordeaux. It pleaded for onward transmission.
