I’m sitting on a National Express coach headed for Manchester, and I realise, I hate every person on board with a passion. (From Watford Observer)

I’m sitting on a National Express coach headed for Manchester, and I realise, I hate every person on board with a passion.

7:44pm Thursday 18th February 2010 in

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It is announced over the tannoy, ‘This is your driver speaking. Passengers are reminded that, for health and safety reasons, they must be wearing their seatbelt at all times. Also, for any passenger needing to use the toilet, it is located at the back of the bus...we should be arriving in Manchester just before 5 o’clock.’

I didn’t realise how difficult life had become, until I attempted to urinate on a National Express coach. I was travelling from Nottingham to Manchester, and whilst the bus was in transit and making its way through the Penninal Snake Pass, I needed to empty my bladder. The driver could have mentioned that, had a passenger gained experience in p*ssing in a tumble-drier, he may have stood a chance - and not looked like he had just crawled out of a Vietnamese swamp.

That would be a first and last for me.

So, I am 24 years old and I am worried that I am turning into my father – that is, without the alcoholism and ball-scratching tendencies.

I find myself being irritated by the most trivial of matters - whether it is somebody bumping into me on the street, or just simply having to wait in a queue. It is getting harder and I can’t quite figure out whether it is me, or that I am just reaching that age of being easily annoyed. I think they call it adulthood.

A recent NE journey really highlighted these frustrations. It was a combination of things that provided the backdrop for A Coach Ride to Hell, starring yours sincerely.

I have a routine when I board a coach, which always includes making eye contact with each passenger as I walk down the cabin. This is to determine who I consider to be the most pleasant-looking to sit by. I had arrived last minute, and it was made apparent that this coach was pretty full up already. I could see only one seat available. How’s your luck?

As per usual, I had the good fortune of accompanying Ted Bundy for the next 2 ½ hours of my life. You know the sort. The creep. The weirdo. The guy that in an hour’s time, will be sleeping and slobbering on my shoulder – and will no doubt snap one day at work, and go on a killing frenzy of his family and friends.

Sitting behind me to the left was Damien, himself - the anti-Christ resurrected in the form of a teething, screaming toddler, who liked nothing more than to kick the back of my seat for the duration of the journey. Poor little guy.

Situated a few rows in front of me was quite clearly a marvel of modern science though. This man had ears that were capable of withstanding the loudest music ever recorded. The complete discographies of AC/DC and Black Sabbath made for a relaxing couple of hours. Always nice to meet a fan.

The icing on the cake had to be this lovely, precious old lady sitting at the front of the bus. She was polite, friendly, had an endearing smile - but unfortunately carried with her a perfume scent that could only be described as a mix between stale vinaigrette dressing and potpourri. It was nauseating. Bless her.

This one journey made me realise a few things. It is not that I am reaching that grumpy age of maturity or that I have difficulty connecting with my fellow citizen – rather, that I just attract sociopaths and true oddballs (the man you see dancing in the Post Office queue, with no headphones and shoes on).

I am now making a conscious effort to alleviate these rendezvous from my everyday life, but knowing my luck, Myra Hindley is probably my street’s Avon lady. I’m pretty sure Fred West is maintaining my garden.