Carry On Bussing

In this game, you, now and again, cop a really cushy number, unfortunately not too frequently, but mustn’t moan, over the years I’ve had quite a several. A really splendidly live-saving one came about due to poor old Martin Winsor severely injuring his arm. He and Jeannie were booked to do a load of gigs for the British Tourist Board, involving them traveling round Germany on a red London double–decker, singing on the street in front of it (when it was stationary, ov kosst) creating interest amongst passing punters: who, it was assumed, would climb aboard to have a dekko at the bus, and be pounced upon – in the nicest possible way – by young ladies anxious to arouse their interest in visiting the “…precious jewel, set in a silver sea…” by handing out brochures, answering questions and so on. The girls were German, but the rest of the gang, with the exception of one very curry–’n–rice geezer named Kaiser, who wore a tweed whistle, a soft tweedy titfer, carried a brolly, spoke public school posh (what my mum, in a nifty bit of punnery, would’ve called: ‘Eton and brought up’ ) and depicted the epitome of what many consider the typical Englishman, but was actually German (as must have bin bleeding obvious from the build up) were all Brits. But digressiveness strikes; I was talking about our mates, Martin and Jeannie. They were booked for this tour, had already done a similar one with the same crew (apart from the Germans) in the Low Countries, then Mart went and shoved his hand through a closed glass door attempting to push it open when pulling was preferred. The British Tourist Board immediately panicked, but our chinas told them to contact us. I imagined the booming Winsor tones intoning boomingly: “They reside in Germany, and, if you phone at once and are really extremely fortunate, they may perchance be available to take our place.”
Indeed we were available.
Too available !
We were horribly boracic at the time, and when I say that, I don’t mean, as certain of our acquaintances seem to mean… down to the last 30,000 quid. I mean we were properly fucking broke: a few marks in our skyrockets, bugger all money in the bank, no gigs on the immediate horizon, and hadn’t the first idea how, or even if, we’d be able to pay the rent. That’s what I mean by being bloody skint!
Mart’s accident, and his phone call to the British Tourist Board, saved our critically endangered bacon.
Naturally, we were sorry for him and wee Jeannie (two very old, much loved friends) regretting we wouldn’t be seeing them double–deckering along the German highways, nor hear their combined ‘Obson’s’ soaring above the traffic noise; but we gratefully grabbed the proffered straw. Vincent, four years old and (quite rightly) blissfully unaware of the deep financial faeces in which his family stood, was happy to be going back on the road with us, although upset that Martin’s accident meant he wouldn’t see the Winsors, nor receive Martin’s inevitable greeting to him of a sonorous”Hello my little friend!”

We joined the London double-decker in Pforzheim, about 40 ks from where we were living at the time, and met the people who were to be our companions for the next few weeks as we travelled from town to town, a different one each day (town, not companion).
The  “Colonel” (as the bus drivers always called the man in charge) wasn’t a bad sort: mildly eccentric, and otherworldly – as if recently returned from sojourning in a reincarnated British Raj (or perhaps this was solely a clever ruse to avoid getting saddled with anything entailing releasing his grasp on a pink gin) toted what he called the “petty cash” (consisting of several thousand marks) around with him in an old sanitary towel box – the reason for which I assuredly cared not to ask– said to me: “Now then, old boy, you and the lady wife – and, of course, the little chap – eat and drink whatever you like; all goes on the Tourist Board bill, but (a conspiratorial wink) not more than one bottle of whisky per day, eh?” (an incredible fee, the best hotel in town, everything paid for, though not more than one bottle of kilt a day!…the roller-coaster on which we spend our lives had hit the upward grade again). He tapped his Tampax safe: “Require any excess remuneration, come to me. However, I’ll need receipts, alright?”
His assistant was a young liaison officer with whom we had few dealings, being perfectly capable of handling most things ourselves, but, during occasional chats, she seemed quite pleasant, if a touch on the “jolly–hockey–sticks” side.
However, the bus drivers were just too wonderful for words– like refugees from a Pinewood Studios “Carry On” production.
There was Stan: built like a wardrobe; a tough–looking, slow–moving, deep–voiced, good–natured bloke (somewhere there’s a photo of the four of us standing cake–tiered beside the bus: Stan behind me, me behind Shirl, Shirl behind little Vincent). On one occasion the Colonel wandered into the hotel bar, where we were enjoying an end-of-the-day drink, and said: “Good evening, Stanley. Quenching your thirst already, I see.”
Stan drew himself up to his full six-foot-four, and barked: “Correct Colonel, sir. Thought you’d approve, sir. A good cavalry man always waters ‘is ‘orses first.”
There was Brian, the complete opposite of Stan: a head smaller, quick, darting, fidgety, excitable, utterly unable to believe his luck– for it was summer, and German girls, in a show of emancipated sisterhood, had cast aside their bras. As they bopped and bobbed along the streets, benevolent sunlight illuminated their translucent tops. Standing beside the bus, Brian nudged his pal in perpetual delight: “Look, Stan. Nipples!” he chortled.
(Like a lot of daft phrases which catch your attention, then lodge in your mind:             “Look, Stan. Nipples!” became a standard Wilkie Family expression, an all–weather phrase useable even on occasions when nipples weren’t necessarily involved – which in itself is far too involved to be explained lucidly …….)
Then there was Terry, average height, smart, wavy–haired, slightly Tommy Trinder–jawed, youngest of the three, and obviously the one destined to become Inspector as his next move up the London Transport ladder. He and Jolly-Hockey-Sticks were always conferring with the Colonel and Mr.Tweeds. They’d set off together in the morning to clock our planned route; ensuring there were no bridges too low to allow the passage of a double-decker, no road-ups, hold-ups, cock-ups or other obtrusive obstructions, liase between branch offices, and whatever else was required.  He was unable to pronounce the letter “r” so, behind his back, we called him “Tewwy.” I think he was an Akela or summat, and could easily imagine him, alternately squatting and jumping, woggle a-joggle, whilst “dyb-dyb-dybbing” enthusiastically, “dob-dob-dobbing” enthusiastically, and enthusiastically enthusing his pack of Wolf Cubs with enthusiastic Baden–Powell–saluting–fingers proudly raised.

Our main job was to stand in the street beside the bus and give it one to attract the attention of passing punters. “Don’t sing too much” said Mr. Tweeds kindly, “Just a couple of songs, no point in working too hard, is there? Enjoy yourselves while you’re here. Go and look at the town, take the little fellow to some of the childrens’ playgrounds or something. Just pop back every hour or so, and sing another song or two to arouse interest.”
We needed, as they say: “No second bidding.”  We’d punch out a coupler ballsy crowd– pullers for starters, then, when we had a crowd, instead of laying a show on ‘em, as we would normally when working the streets, we’d invite them to climb aboard the bus; whilst we took Mr. Tweeds advice, and investigated the town in which we were at present, amusing ourselves for an hour before returning to do another quick spot.
Occasionally a school class would book the top–deck (this was Jolly-Hockey–Sticks liasoning at work) and we’d have to sing for the dustbinlids. We chose kids’ songs, with catchy tunes and easy-to-join-in-with choruses, lots of Woody’s stuff naturally, but also some traddy ones.Then, without fail, Tewwy would want to become part of the fun, and we were happy to let him join in. He’d get the German kids singing: “One Finger One Thumb” or “The Alphabet Song” or “Mewwily Down The Stweam” his delighted, delightful, enthusiasm irresistibly infectious.

In the evening Tewwy, Jolly-Hockey-Sticks, the Colonel and Mr.Tweeds dined at one table together. Shirl, Vincie and me, preferred sharing our table with Stan and Brian, or maybe they shared their table with us; the question of temporary ownership was never broached. We enjoyed their company (they were pleased to learn that me mum’s dad had also been a London bus driver. Had actually driven the old horse-drawn busses, before motorization, and he’d worked with other drivers on the Fairplay Fleet Children’s Outings, which involved trips to the countryside for underprivileged London kids, on which he also took me) we were entertained by their jokes, and their tales of what had befallen them since leaving Blighty.
They were in Germany for the first time, so I’d always go through the menu with them carefully, translating the names of various dishes into an English equivalent or approximation, trying to persuade them to try one: “This is typical of the region, you won’t find it anywhere else.”  They listened patiently, nodding occasionally, until I was finished, then it was: “‘Ave they got, you know, any cod an’ chips, Col?” or:
“Wot abaht meat an’ two veg, then, Col? “
“Bangers’ an’ mash’d be okay, eh Stan? “
” ‘Col, ‘Ave they got…”
It was Sisyphian: I never ceased endeavouring to encourage the sods to try a local speciality, and I never ceased failing to do so. Despite Shirl’s and Vincie’s additional comments, and recommendations, they were adamant, immovable, typifying an old German saying: ‘What the farmer doesn’t know, the farmer doesn’t eat” (defining the stupidity of the prejudiced “farmer”) they always listened, even asked a question or two, but in the death only wanted what they knew from home, or at least, the closest they could get to it. It seemed such a shame to us; for food, drink, customs and, of course, the language, are essential elements in the excitement and enjoyment of any foreign land.
They were also perpetually astonished and bemused by the fact that Vincent rabbited away in English to them, switched into German to speak to the waiter, then unhesitatingly back to English again, they couldn’t Adam–’n–Eve it.
“‘Ow does ‘e do it ? ‘E’s so young.”
“Being young he has no inhibitions,” we explained, “so he’s acquired two Mother Tongues: we always speak English with him, other people speak German, his friends in the village speak German, the TV speaks German, plus we also read him German as well as English books.”  But they remained admiringly baffled.
Nevertheless, we did make more progress with the language than with the grub, teaching them some absolute basics: the simple greetings, the “pleases”  and “thank youses,” the names of items which interested them; they jotted down the phrases phonetically, quietly practicing them as they did so. Germany is one of the countries where it’s almost safe to say everyone has, at least, a smattering of English, no matter how remote the area, but – as we pointed out, by using a few words, by showing a willingness to try communicating in the local language, by being what is (when in a strange country) nothing more than polite fer chrissake !  You do, finally, receive much more than you give.
A word which was of special importance (enabling them to reclaim from the Colonel money spent on dinners, tea-breaks, or other work-related expenses) was “Quittung” the German word for a receipt. One evening Brian said: “I goes up to the Colonel’s room earlier on, wiv one o’ them “kwittuns” to get me money back for our dinners an’ arternoon snacks from today – we gotter few bob extra fer a coupler packet o’ fags added on, eh Stan?” (at every opportunity, they asked whoever served them to include the price of cigarettes, chocolate, or whatever else took their fancy, on their bill as if it were part of the meal, then gloated over the few fiddled pfennigs like a politician examining his expense account, or a banker his “hard earned ” bonus).” I bangs on ‘is door, an’ ‘e don’t ask oo it is, do ‘e ? just shouts “Enter!” coulder bin anybody banging’ on ‘is door, but ‘e don’t ask ‘oo it is, coulder bin anyone, it coulder bin you Shirl, but ‘e just shouts “Enter!” so I enters, and blimey there he is, in the middle of the room, standin’ on the carpet, stark bollock naked…”
“Oi! Do you mind,” rumbled Stan, “I’m eatin’ me supper.”