Boswell's Bus Pass by Stuart Campbell Read Free Book Online

skited on the abundant dog mess and tumbled into the harbour. Either way it seems slightly strange that the event is not referred to by either Johnson or Boswell.
    The jetty is now an extension of someone’s scrap yard. The defensive wall of bicycles, bedsteads and old sheds would deter all but the most hardy and recently inoculated from attempting to land.
    Out to sea was the odd spectacle of a fire tug preening itself, an aquatic peacock, shooting plumes of water in spectacular but pointless arcs. On the horizon was the newly reinstated Rosyth ferry. It seemed unlikely that the lorry drivers on board would be misled by the one-ship nautical cavalcade into mistaking the Forth for the River Hudson.
    By now the pursuit of mutton and onions or the equivalent was becoming something of a priority. A café on the High Street promised us an unforgettable breakfast which, in the circumstances, seemed an acceptable compromise. It certainly lived up to the hype. The fact that it was served by a waitress wearing latex gloves should have warned us. The gloves were necessary to prevent her from being contaminated by the sausages that had the unwelcome, if novel, consistency of pâté. To avoid staring at our congealing and rancid plates we looked with interest at the building opposite whose roof was shimmering ominously, as if at any moment it would be lifted off by sheets of flame. Every square inch was covered in pigeons.
    By now David’s diatribe on the forgotten pleasures of mutton was becoming repetitive. To prove his point he ventured into the neighbouring Quality Butchers where he confronted a refugee from the eastern European state of Monosyllabia;
    Did he sell mutton? Na.
    Did anyone ever ask for mutton? Na.
    Can you buy mutton anywhere? Na.
    On the way up the hill we passed one of the least inviting churches on the planet. Declaring itself the RHEMA Christian Mission it had gone to considerable lengths to take inclusivity to new heights by wrapping every wall in barbed wire. The Truth must be kept safely inside and not under any circumstances be allowed to escape into the streets and the lives of ordinary, unchosen people.
    * * *
    Entering Kirkaldy I looked for the floodlights of Stark’s Park, the football stadium which parodies in miniature the one at the centre of Lowry’s
Match Day
. Its turnstiles will still only admit one whippet-thin supporter at a time. Soon a gloomy son of the manse will cower anonymously on the terracing sucking warmth but no comfort from a polystyrene cup. Prime Minister no more, a paunchy wraith, condemned to wander the wastelands of Fife for the rest of his days. He will find the perfect reflection of his own fallen glory in the fortunes of Raith Rovers.
    Striking up an innocent conversation about free travel with an elderly woman in the bus station queue was a mistake. Animated with genuine bitterness she embarked on a loud tirade about the grannies down the town who could easily afford to pay for their fares if they didn’t spend all their money on toys for their spoiled grandchildren. Seeking, but not finding, support from others in the queue for her rant against families in general she developed her increasingly self-absorbed monologue. Yes, she had lived in Kirkcaldy for 59 years but no, she couldn’t lose her English accent. She wasn’t to be deflected. No, she and her late husband had not had any children. And why would they, given what it had been like for her being brought up in a family of fourteen? Her parents had no time for any of them, and fought all the time. And what about people who claim it’s great living down the road from their sons and daughters? How often do they actually see them? How many of the kids will even go to visit them unless they want money? With these rhetorical questions hanging in the air we joined the embarrassed line to board the X54 Dundee bus.
    Something must be said about the quiet rituals of courtesy that govern the behaviour of elderly bus