No Birds And The Bees

Sometimes you find bus stops are an absolute disgrace.

Someone has written all over them, stamping for however long the ink lasts that they were, in fact, here. An elaborate tag to denote their name and then a date because they are well cool, innit. Or holes burned into the plastic covering over the timetable. Or smashed windows.

An absolute disgrace.

I can’t comment on this too much because I am as guilty as the next person. Although anything I did was short-lived and didn’t make it much past, I would imagine, a decent smattering of sunshine. When I used to work in Leeds and catch a bus at an ungodly hour I used to relish the winter mornings with thick frost covering everything in twinkly goodness. Because thick frost is like a blank canvas on a bus shelter window.

I don’t think a frosty morn went past in which I didn’t painstakingly etch a cock and balls into the frost for all to see. And, childish as it is, it didn’t stop being funny. The level of detail after the initial shape would depend on the number of minutes between arrival at the stop and the arrival of the bus. So sometimes there would be hairy balls, other times ejaculation. It’s just the whim of the artist. It’s down to you to appreciate it.

So bus stops are disgraceful. Youths spitting. Shitty music played from tiny speakers. Pensioners. Just pensioners. Not doing anything. Just cluttering up the place.

Today, though, I was disgusted to find sex going on at the bus stop where I get off the bus.

Absolutely disgusted.

I was taken a back.

Shocked.

Appalled.

And then fascinated.

So I stood and watched until it was finished. Which, I think, is basically dogging.

But I could be wrong.

Does it still apply when it’s between two bees?