I had a memorable journey home last night.
After another deeply frustrating day at work, I left the building and climbed into my old banger of a car, a car that has been reliable but is not long for this world.
I cranked up my mp3 jukebox and set off on a journey home that normally takes around fifteen minutes (up to half an hour if the traffic is bad).
I felt the stress and frustration dissipating to the dulcet tones of rock music and soon afterwards I was in the zone.
What is the zone?
The zone is the place where I drift when I am relaxed. I am still alert and can function normally but I my mind has opened the door to my imagination and I have willingly tumbled in to allow myself to flirt with my bizarre thoughts.
When I am in the zone I am on autopilot, still able to drive, still able to concentrate, but at the same time in a world of my own where reality is warped and weirdness rules.
I was driving along and I turned onto a main road where I pulled up behind a double decker bus at a traffic light.
I found myself staring at the back of the bus, still in my weird reverie, when I noticed the advert on the back of it. Suddenly I was intrigued.
The words I read were:
I used to hate my bust but now I LOVE it.
The words were accompanied by a picture of a rather attractive young lady called Sophie who was singing the praises of a plastic surgeon specialising in breast implants and all manner of cosmetic enhancements.
Sophie was very nice – so nice that I became entranced. She was very pretty and was thrusting her ample bosom out to me as if to say:
My breasts aren’t just for me, Dave. They are for you as well. Would you like to cop a feel?
At this point, I can imagine any female readers looking for the mouse to close the window and shouting YOU SEXIST PIG at the computer. Before you do, please understand that I can’t help this disgusting train of thought. I am a man governed by rampant hormones that take over my normal rational mind and cause me to say words like:
It’s something I can barely control. Normally I find myself saying things like STOP IT DAVE - JUST STOP IT!!!! and then can regain control.
Oh – and before you say it – yes I do still have rampant hormones even at my age. I may be approaching fifty faster than the speed of light but I am still a man with feelings and desires, even if the sensible part of my mind allows me to subdue them.
I can’t help it.
I am a man.
I am also trying my best NOT to be a dirty old man. And as I type this an image of Megan Fox stretched out over a Harley Davidson wearing hot pants has just entered my head.
See what I mean?
I can’t help it.
GO AWAY MEGAN FOX!! YOU'RE GETTING ME IN TROUBLE WITH MY READERS!!!
There – that’s better.
Anyway, back to the tale.
I found myself staring at Sophie and I was in the zone, and my autopilot also became obsessed with her. Before I knew it, the bus had set off and I was driving right behind it. The rear of the bus filled my vision and I had a Cosmos Smallpiece style grin on my face. And the bloody thing kept stopping to let people on and off (selfish bloody passengers; selfish bloody driver) causing me to almost plough into the back of it on several occasions.
In my imagination, I saw myself talking to a policeman:
POLICEMAN: How on EARTH did you manage to crash into the back of a double decker bus?
PLASTIC MANCUNIAN: It was her. It was Sophie, thrusting her bust at me. I couldn’t help it.
POLICEMAN: Come with me sir.
Before long I was driving along, refusing to let anybody in between me and the bus and staring at Sophie. The hormone soaked beast had taken full control and was irrationally following this advert on the back of a bloody bus.
After a while, something happened. Somewhere deep inside, I realised what was happening and I had an internal conversation:
PLASTIC MANCUNIAN: What the bloody hell are you doing?
HORMONE SOAKED BEAST: Shut up – I’m concentrating.
PLASTIC MANCUNIAN: GET BACK IN YOUR PIT!!!
The beast was gone and I was able to regain some form of sensible normality. It was then that I realised what had happened.
Where the bloody hell was I?
I had stupidly and blindly followed the bus all the way into the city centre, miles out of my way. And of course, being the city centre, the traffic was horrendous.
I turned around and battled for around half an hour to get back home. A journey that normally took fifteen minutes had taken an hour and a half.
I walked in and saw Mrs PM and as usual I was completely honesty with her. The conversation went something like this:
MRS PM: You’re late.
PLASTIC MANCUNIAN: Yes – I ended up in Manchester . I saw this lovely woman on a bus and kind of got a little hypnotised and ended up following her into the city centre. She had a magnificent bust. You know how I feel about woman’s breasts. She – hang on dear. Why are you holding that frying pan like a club?
And now I am in hospital in traction having been savagely beaten by the woman I love. Please excuse any typing mistakes because all of my fingers are broken.
P.S. Not all of the above post is true. No Plastic Mancunians were harmed in the writing of this post.