Bus Route Review: The 12

Part two of my very infrequent review of different routes on London buses, and this week, it's a biggie.

I read on the Camberell Online blog, that some cats been hating on my favourite bus, the good ol' 345. In particular, some chump who writes for Time Out, claiming as they do that it takes forever to get anywhere. Tsch, eveyone knows you don't get the 345 if you've got to be anywhere fast, fool.

But fair enough, if you've actually got a job and don't just dispense comments like 'Camberwell is a bit shit' while tittering over your laptop in starbucks, then maybe you want to get there fast.

I am occasionally compelled to Work, necessary evil that it is, and In such situations, the bus for me has recently been the Number 12. In practical terms, it's theoretically unrivalled. It goes right past my flat, up the Elephant, and thence to Waterloo and ultimately Oxford Circus. The reality however, is somewhat different.

This is what some Christian website had to say about the number 12:

"Twelve is a perfect number, signifying perfection of government, or of governmental perfection. It is found as a multiple in all that has to do with rule. The sun which "rules" the day, and the moon and stars which "govern" the night, do so by their passage through the twelve signs of the Zodiac which completes the great circle of the heavens of 360 (12 x 30) degrees or divisions, and thus govern the year."

"Twelve is the product of 3 (the perfectly Divine and heavenly number) and 4 (the earthly, the number of what is material and organic)."

Blah blah blah, yadda yadda. Whoever wrote this clearly never rode the number12, because it really is shit. Shame really, because it's a really useful route, just massively oversubscribed. They really should put on about 50% more, because every morning and evening, it's rammed to capacity. It's kind of what I imagine a bus from purgatory to hell would look like, with serried ranks of grim faced commuters lashed to posts trying to ignore each other, and their own misery.

A wise man once said:

"If you want to see real grime in London, don't look to the streets - you've got to go on the buses for that"

Actually I made that up, but its true. The endemic lack of civic pride in this country reaches it's Apex on buses like this, where no journey would be complete without several small heaps of sweating chicken bones, swirling round your ankles. One of my quintessential bus experiences on the 12 recently was when some guy sat opposite me wolfed down a couple of Muller Fruit Corners, then cast the detritus under his seat (which was considerate) whilst across the aisle, some guy was sat openly weeping next to his stoney-faced and oblivious (and presumably newly ex) girlfriend, whilst all around strove to ignore it.

The number 12 is also one of London's new breed of buses the much reviled 'bendy bus'. In practise these are supposed to be more efficient and quicker, as the driver doesn't check tickets. In reality though, this generally means that he has no way of restricting the flow of passengers, so anyone can ram their way on, and generally does. The number of times I've waited at a bus stop and the 12 has rolled up, packed to capacity with a sea of piteous faces staring out of the gloom.. In anywhere sane, people would simple wait for a less crowded bus, as I usually do, but Londoners actually seem to relish hanging out in someone elses armpit, so force their way on anyway. When you're on the other side of the doors and people start inserting themselves, the overwhelming urge is do draw a concealed hedge trimmer and repel boarders.

In fact, so sardine like is the net result, that you could pump a 'bendy' full of olive oil and it would make a covenient snack for a balrog on whatever circle of Dante's hell the 12 is currently stopping at.

Uggh Hellish.. But as I said, it would be a hell of a lot better if there were just half as many again. In the space of time it took for one 12 to arrive at the top of Regent Street last night, three 453s (I think) themselves of the bendy disposition, sauntered past like vast empty red corridors; you could install driving ranges on some of them, and for practically a fraction of the cost of the buses themselves.

As you may be able to tell, I aint got a whole lot of love for the 12. It seems to bring out all that is worst about public transport, and the unflinching meanness of modern life in the modern city. Needs must though, and I gotta say, it gets me to the coalface on time. I was going to give it a (1+2=) 3 but for sheer handiness:

5/10