My story starts in early 2017.
WOOH! WOOH! WOOH! The siren from the canteen one arm bandit went off, followed by the rattling of 100 £1 coins.
This was followed by the sound of cutlery being banged on Formica covered tables and my bus driver colleagues shouting at the top of their voices as young Nathan Templeman began scooping his winnings into his money bag.
I looked across to see a young man looking a lot more relieved at getting his money back than actually the excitement of being a Jackpot Winner.
"Wait 'til I tell your Missus how much you've won." I shouted across the room.
Startled, he stood bolt upright and glared; "Don't you fucking dare. This is none of your fucking business, or hers."
The room went quiet.
I dipped my head and squinted my eyes, "Or else?"
"Tell her about this and I'll fucking drop you on your arse. That's what else" He spat out through clenched teeth as he fixed me with his 'death stare."
"What?" I asked for clarification. "What did you say?"
Suddenly the 10 or 12 other men in the room were looking from one to the other, then to the two of us. The tension was suddenly electric.
"You heard me." My much younger colleague hissed. "Tell her about this and I'll fucking knock you out."
Two seconds later I'd lunged forward with clenched fists, kicking my chair back so hard it clattered against the metal radiator.
Out of nowhere my mate Keith blocked my path, with his open hands held out in front of him.
"Whoa there cowboy... slow down." He cocked his head and then whispered; "think of the cameras mate ... think of the cameras."
I took a deep breath and scanned the four corners of the room to see the CCTV cameras all blinking green; meaning they were still streaming and not recording.
Still glaring across at the games machine I saw two of Nathan's friends standing in front of him too, with Matty T whispering something which quickly deflated the lad's testosterone filled balls.
As a friend of my eldest son since their schooldays I guessed Matty was explaining about my 'chequered past,' to the knob-head, emphasising the day that has gone down in depot folklore when I sparked out a chav car driver that was blocking my bus route four years previously.
His car had been half on the path and half on double yellows, his GF was in the drivers seat while he was in a sandwich shop. For him it was a case of 'wrong place at the wrong time.'
My wife had died a couple of months previously and I was about to turn 50 the next week.
I tooted my horn several times but she totally ignored me and when he reappeared he did the big 'posture', holding his arms out wide and bouncing on the spot like a wannabe football hooligan; whereas I was a 30 year man at the front line of the Soccer Casual world by then.
I was fuming but stayed in the cab until he threw his pie at my bus widow and laughed.
The next few seconds were a complete blank until I was throwing a right to his chin making him jerk backwards and his Gucci cap fly off into the road; followed by a left to his gut which made him start to double up as I headbutted his nose, spraying blood onto my pale blue work shirt.
By now is girlfriend was screaming and manhandling him into the back of their Chav-mobile before tear-arsing off down the road like a rally driver.
I just stood in the road until I saw my mate in his bus, parked straight opposite waving his arms in the air like a cup winner and laughing his head off.
When I got back on my bus a Granny clapped her hands and told me "Good on ya son... you showed that Tosser!"
With no complaints forthcoming over the next few days, it was only because of depot gossip that I got called in to see the Boss.
He was sympathetic to my situation but suggested I took time off to see a GP (who suggested a therapist) and come off the 'big bus routes' for a while to avoid any similar flash-points; and just do 'little bus' around the local estates and villages until 'I felt better.'
Angry at the time; but with hindsight it was the best thing I could have done, as I have loved flirting with the old Dears and young mums too; and the kids give me sweeties and draw me pictures after letting them press the bell.
My therapist diagnosed an 'addictive personality' with 'occasional anger issues' ... which was no surprise to anyone but her.
A new combination of medication meant I wasn't supposed to drink alcohol; but I found out when I did have a couple of beers I became 'supper horny;' which was a bit of problem for a recent widower; but with so much Free Porn available; after a fun day flirting at work and getting to look at lots of hot women of all ages and ethnicity, I had a few beers before going to bed and then wanked myself silly every night.
This was until a month or so after my 50th birthday when my mates from 'the football' virtually kidnapped me one Friday night and dragged me to Moncur's Bar where a Beautiful South tribute band were playing.
It was just as I remembered from a few years previously when it had been a regular haunt for me and The Valley Boys on Friday and Saturday nights before and after 'the match'; when we would plan then deconstruct what had happened with and against the opposition's fans.
The bar was full of friends going back years; and my belated 50th birthday party went off with a blast, with me getting drunk, making a tit of myself on the dancefloor and somehow walking a young MILF home.
I still don't know how it happened and can't even remember chatting her up; but I soon had my tongue down her throat outside her front door and my hand squeezing her plump arse.
"Are you coming in?" She asked mid-kiss, "Don't worry ... the kids are with their Dads, so we will have no disruptions."
'Kids'?
In the plural?
She hardly looked twenty, yet she had at least two kids to two different fathers and here she was taking a man home old enough to be her own Dad ... or even Grandfather!
The times they are a 'changing indeed!
