Famously, I dislike the general public. Having sold my car, I am now resigned to having no choice but to deal with them day after day on public transport, whereas previously I got to pretend that I was doing it out of some misplaced social and environmental conscience; I was using the bus to work because it was cheaper, because it was better for the environment, because I’m just that kind of nice guy.

"Grrruueghghf...shpare any change, mishter?"

Now I have to put up with them, I don’t have to pretend that I am that nice guy anymore. I really find them quite irritating.

The most important thing to note is that for some reason a significant proportion of the general public seemingly are allergic to soap. All of the scientific work the good people at the Dove laboratories has been for nought; even the gentlest of soaps is too harsh for Mr & Mrs Warty, who stink variously of urine, of faeces, of salt and vinegar crisps, of sweat which their glands secreted three years previously.

I assume they’re allergic anyway. I’d be even more appalled if they were simply too lazy to be washing, or if the demands on their money were so strong that they could not even spend a single pound for a five-pack of generic soap from their local Single Price Retailer.

I find that they’re often drunk. Drunk at wildly inappropriate times of day; the gentleman who was supping from a three litre plastic bottle of cider of the White Lightning ilk at eight-thirty on a Sunday morning was clearly a happy chap. He must have been; he sat there supping and singing, while I must have cut a thoroughly miserable figure as I sat there futilely attempting to block out his crooning through cunning deployment of an ever-louder selection of my own tunes on my iPod.

I’ve also got a lot of time for Mrs Tesco Value Lager, a famous local character who travels the buses all day with two carrier bags full of Tesco’s budget dizzyade, and slowly, impossibly gets drunk on this weakest of all alcoholic drinks. Her face no longer has any expression, her eyes blackened and blank, giving away no emotion. Other than when she often slips when trying to get off the bus, tripping over an inconveniently placed seat to the left of her, spilling booze all the way through the bus; she’ll yelp slightly, almost imperceptibly, and then sit there until she is carried off by the driver.

She then gets on the next bus, and the saga repeats itself.