The cornerstone of any long-distance relationship is the humble Megabus, and so Sunday lunchtime aboard the Megabus I went, headed in a vaguely Boyf-ish direction. If you’re unfamiliar with the wonderful world of the Megabus, perhaps a little background is in order: the Megabus is a bus, but it is far from mega; if I have my facts straight it was actually rejected as the choice of transport across the River Styx as it was just too cruel.
Normally on any given Megabus journey there will be one problem: it might be late, or you might get stuck sitting next to a BO-riddled guy; but it’s just one problem and it’s only three hours and the Boyf’s at the end of it so you suck it up and deal with it. Boarding the bus the driver informed us that despite – or perhaps because of – the rare occurrence of sunshine in northeast Scotland the air-conditioning would not be functioning for the duration of our trip. Just the one problem, I can deal with that.
Then a guy sat behind me, took out his mobile phone and proceeded to hack and cough his way through a phone call explaining he thought he had swine flu – or a bad hangover. He couldn’t decide which.
Then there were roadworks and traffic jams and a great big kerfuffle so the bus driver whipped out his trusty sat nav and took us on a Magical Mystery Tour of the B-roads of central Scotland. However, while on said Magical Mystery Tour one of the wheels on our bus caught fire. The bus driver didn’t think it necessary to tell us though, so after he skedaddled off the bus he left it to the downstairs passengers to wave frantically at us on the top deck to get the hell off the flaming bus.
Eventually – after a detour thought Scotland’s carbuncle, Cumbernauld – I did make it to Glasvegas. Woop woop! The Boyf – thankfully – hadn’t given up on waiting for me and disappeared to an AFP signing [which would have been a perfectly viable option, but no, he waited. Aww.].
