Alan Muir: Crowded public transport, be it bus or train, is the modern equivalent of some level of hell

If Hell is other people, then public transport is the modern day equivalent of a ferryboat across the River Styx.

In principle, communal transportation is great, connecting society and reducing isolation. The clue is in the word communal. A person is fine, but when they multiply and become people then I find myself thrust into the role of an alien sent to Earth who is trying desperately to fit in, but failing.

Extended contact with groups of people – especially in the close confines of a bus or train carriage – increases the odds of confrontation exponentially.

Case in point: I had to get the bus to work for the first time recently. I had hitherto not even been aware that such a service existed, never mind patronised it. It was a journey of 12 miles, but the duration given was 74 minutes. That was my first warning and, tragically, it went unheeded.

I got on board, no-one foaming at the mouth, no-one making eye contact. I also desisted from both activities and time passed.

Suddenly a distressed man appeared wearing a high-vis jacket. My initial wild thought was that he was the driver. “Where do we go at this roundabout?” I looked at him with no small amount of alarm. “Eh? I’ve no idea – I’ve never been on this bus before.” He narrowed his eyes in suspicion: “What?”

“I’ve no idea where to go. Surely the bus driver knows.”

“Well he doesn’t,” he snapped. “You’re a fat lot of use, aren’t you?”

“What?” I felt my mind become unglued, but there was no further explanation. High-vis man had lurched up the bus, swinging from one hand-strap to the next like a furious chimp. He angrily challenged an old couple who looked like post-Brexit Britain – horrified and confused.

“Where do we go?” he barked at them. “Who?” asked the old man. “Where?” asked his wife. “You people are killing me,” screamed High-vis.

Disastrously, two nearby youths then began to laugh from their noses – high-pitched whining cackles which were all nostril.

High-vis promptly lost it, screaming: “This is serious you idiots – where do we go?”

His eyes were crossed with discordant fury as the bus drove over the top of the roundabout.

“Right, that’s enough for me,” I said, pressing the bell to stop.

So ended my last trip on the bus.

I decided to catch the train the following day.

Fifteen minutes into that journey and we were parked in a siding, in a stifling hot carriage packed to the gunnels with cross commuters.

Suddenly a man – wearing glasses so thick they would have voted Trump – bellowed: “I cannae take enclosed spaces. I’m going to have a panic attack!”

As I looked around for something with which to bludgeon him into unconsciousness, I realised I probably wasn’t suited to public transport.

Sartre was only partly right – Hell is other people: public transport and me.

Alan Muir lives in Cumbernauld. He tweets as @alanmuir74 and blogs at https://caobs.wordpress.