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Dangers of Facial Hair & Public Transport

¦ dialling in from the Sky Bunker ¦

12:48 and I'm ignoring the mild starvation and excess of coffee. Just had a bath to refresh brain cells and had a flash back to an incident I want to document and record for prosperity.

Firstly, I don't usually grow a beard but there are weeks when writing takes over all aspects of my life apart from eating, sleeping and paying attention to my girlfriend... sometimes I just wake up and find a grizly monster has attached itself to my face.

Two, the traffic congestion in Bristol city centre often means it's easier to use public transport than a car.

Knowing this then, you can picture me standing at a bus stop in the centre of Bristol; 6ft-one, buzz-cut hair and minding my own business. Gazing ahead I notice a squat, surly bloke moving through the crowded pavement, making his way down the hill. He's got short dark hair,long arms, large hands and kind of... glazed look in his eyes. Plus his bottom lip is sticking out in a petulant sulky sort of way. My eyes lock onto him. His eyes swing left and lock onto me. I don't look away. Neither does he. In fact, he abruptly lunges forward, runs up to me and shoves a massive fist against my face, snarling something about his wife.

Hmm.

I don't move. And neither does any of my fellow passengers sharing the bus stop shelter. Everyone can see the "care-in-the-community" vibe about him. A wonderful consequence of the UK government closing down many of the facilities for people with mental health issues. One of them now has me pinned to the bus shelter with a fist, and crickey it really is a very large fist, and his shoulders are easily eclipsing my own shoulder-width.

Something about his wife. I'm not listening. I'm thinking kick him in the bollocks and pound him down. Then run.

But before I get to discover my fighting techniques haven't actually improved since giving two lads a bloody nose at school (age 7), the fist withdraws and the man lurches away with it; sullenly he marches on down the hill shouting at anyone who gets in his path.

Phew, I think, glance at my fellow bus shelter loungers - who don't look me in the eye (What is this my fault?) and then drift back to my thoughts.

I get on the bus and take a seat near the front. Two stops later, guess who gets on. Yup. The Morlock with the fists. Even before he can hand his money over to the driver he spots me and his face transforms into this animal mask of rage.

Uh-oh.

He charges past the driver towards me.

Oh can this really be happening?

A moment later has has me. By the beard. Yup, those large meaty fists and now clutching the coarse strands of over-grown stubble attached to my cheeks and chin. His face is right in mine, eyes squeezed together and glaring with some demented fury and now the words about his wife are more clear. "You f----ked my wife! You f----ked my wife!" followed by some growling gibberish sounds.

Do I hit him? No. Do I respond with anger? No. Strangely calm and composed I simple say (firmly)..."Get off my beard".

THe words did the trick. He steps away, like some uncertain monkey, eyeing me with a sidelong gaze... then he retreats, moving side to side as if now overcome by ape-like genomes. He shakes his fist at me, repeats the accusation about his wife, then barrells off the bus and flees.

Phew (again).

I glance round at my fellow passengers who are looking at me as if they completely believe his accusations. What?! Oh come on are you SERIOUS?!!!. Then a woman on the next row back proclaims, "Oh thank God he's gone, he did the same thing to me last week."

Yes madamn, but you don't have a beard.

Anways, thought I'd share that with you folks.

Peace

Djr