Stop ruining my morning: The deadly sins of the U1
The u1 can do 1
For many, the U1 bus is a terminal aggravation, made worse by the people in it.
For £300 a year, Stagecoach ferries many of the University’s penniless students between the Warwick bubble and their homes in Leamington Spa.
The bus runs on its own, non-existent, timetable, and since the University of Warwick seems to think it more appropriate to pay for a floor of the Shard building in London than to speed up road-works on campus, a U1 journey can be longer than your average lecture. Don’t make it worse for everyone else.
The lustful of the U1 are those who over-perfume themselves. Gentlemen, ladies, it’s good to be clean and smell nice. I get that you’re trying to attract fellow students with your manly musk or feminine scent.
But think of the asthmatics. It is annoying as fuck to breathe in more aerosol than oxygen during their daily commute.
The male anatomy has certain inguinal appendages (that’s your dick, mate). But at 8am, I do not care if you have to tuck that spam javelin somewhere where it wouldn’t naturally reside.
Put your legs together. Girls have managed it for centuries, you’ll cope. You do not need all of that room. I have yet to meet a man whose testes require a foot of space.
For all the greedy prats who believe that, at 5pm, out of the 100 people crammed in to the sweaty metal box that is the U1, you are not the chosen one.
The chosen passenger who gets a window seat, with no one beside them. They must believe this deep in their soul; what else could compel them to put their bags right on the adjacent seat?
I know you’re in a hurry in the morning, guys, but for the love of God, wash. No one enjoys sitting beside someone who last had a shower when campus had just the one roundabout, so bite the bullet and get intimate with a loofah.
Only the true misanthropes are responsible for this. We are in the British winter. Most of us never turn our heating on because we’re poor as shit.
The U1 is the first opportunity of the day to be truly warm. So what do these fuckers do? They open the windows.
We know you wish that your seminar or lecture finished earlier than all the people at the bus stop. We know you are jealous of the people that are poised to hop on the bus, having got there first.
Before coming to England for university, I laboured under the stereotype that the English love a good queue. My romantic ideals are shattered daily, along with my ribs, as I battle onto the bus. Your envy does not justify my injuries. Get to the back of the queue.
Do you know what’s worse than having to put up with all of the other sins twice a day? Having to put up with it all day. The bus drivers sit at the endless roadworks all day, and hardly ever have bouts of road rage. The least you can do is swallow your pride and thank the bloody bus driver.