A piece appeared in the Guardian told by one of two
West Country busmen whose love for each other was not
appreciated by all. There follows an effort to retell this
man’s story in verse, as he remembers his John.
John, he was a driver on the Seventy-eight,
I was on the One-o-three.
Me, I had always looked pretty straight,
he was more Freddie Mercury.
And he
was the man for me
and we were the talk of the depot,
down in Torquay.
Down at the depot, we used to smile
and stop for a chat,
but it was only a little while
before we knew it would be much more than that,
the place we were driving at
where we’d both wear the trousers, and the driver’s hat.
On the edge of the morning,
he’s out in the kitchen cooking.
The day is still yawning
and we’ve already let love get a look in.
He gave me a silvery cigarette lighter,
it was brighter than the others,
it was a Zippo.
Hold on tight
for heaven’s light
when his sickness really began to bite
and he had to leave the depot,
he was still nosey
about the bus Stasi.
I kept him in touch with which inspector said what to such and such,
I kept him in touch.
He’d never hold another steering wheel
and I held him in my arms
and I told him I loved him very much.
You’ve got to let a little love get a look in.
On the edge of his hospital bed
the linen’s as white as any swan.
I went out for a cigarette
I came back in and he was gone.
Sometimes us chaps, we had to keep our love under wraps,
and now here’s a little rhapsody for John, Bohemian John.
The things that people used to say
when they found out we were
from Torbay.