Time seemed to pass more slowly up in the air and the middle-aged ones were getting really quite bored with their situation, now that at least ten minutes had passed since the bizarre revelation that a London bus was being sported through the air in the basket of a hot air balloon. This boredom had led them to take up the very occupation that had brought them to their current position in the first place – idly sniping at each other. In no mood to be called boring or smelly, but since when had he ever appreciated compliments, Neil had retired to the back end of the bus with a newspaper he had found beneath a seat and was engaged in pretending to read it.
His disinterested eye fell upon an advertisement in the popularly unpopular jobs section. Shock slowly straightened his spine, dropped his jaw and widened his eyes and it took him a few minutes to fight off the puppet mastery of the emotional spectre before he could fully concentrate on the newsprint words before him. The advert proclaimed that a woman called Anita had recently lost her bank manager husband and was now looking for someone to take his place… preferably someone with a Peace Studies degree. Amazed, Neil thought back over his dream of money and success, recalling how happy he had been and unfortunately forgetting all about his untimely demise. For that moment it seemed as if his dreams (literally) could really come true at long last.
"Guys!" He stood up and vaguely waved the crumpled newspaper around, trying to attract the attention of his fellow passengers. His outcry in fact startled Vyvyan so much, that he nearly dropped his playmate Rick from the window he had been dangling him out of. Oh, the japes they still got up to…
"Look at this. I wouldn't say it's the best thing to have ever happened to me right, because nothing good ever happens to me, but look what I've found in the paper." He shoved it under the nearest man's nose, who just happened to be Rick, only just escaped from the grasp of his friendly neighbourhood punk.
"Blimey!" The People's Poet exclaimed, snatching the paper and holding it close to face. "They're looking for someone with poetic ability to replace Gordon Brown! I could finally free the world from the tyrannical rule of government and give all the power to the kids! They would all worship me as their saviour!"
Mike's ears had pricked up at the fist syllable of 'tyrannical' and the merest glimpse of a newspaper had captivated his eyes and soon he had joined the other two in poring over the unusually interesting job's section. However, he was initially reluctant to share their enthusiasm.
"Don't these job adverts seem a little too good to be true?" He questioned. "It seems to me like some kind of cheap plot device, implanted to get our hopes up before they are cruelly, and most probably bloodily, dashed in order to create that comedy-gold of pathos within the audience." He was met with blank looks.
Rick drew him aside and whispered "Mike… have you been reading ahead again? You know we're not supposed to do that. Careful or you might get killed off." With a nod of warning he went to rejoin the action whilst yours truly was forced to hand over a contract to Mike promising that he would not be meted out any form of untimely demise, maiming or celibacy.
"Oh look," the newly contracted and far too manipulative for a fictional character rejoined rather woodenly, taking up the paper himself. "It says here that they're looking for someone to rule the world. How strange, I've always dreamt of that." Still refusing for the moment to break into a more natural stride, he shoved the jobs section at Vyvyan pronouncing "Take a look in here, you won't believe it… and will probably find your own dream job relating to the actual dream you had last night."
"Nice acting," Rick smirked, attempting to lead a round of applause before being clobbered about the head by Vyvyan. Beneath this onslaught, the anarchist had no choice but to fall in a swoon to the floor and be used by his aggressor as a seat.
"This is all in Russian!" Vyv exclaimed in disgust, Mike leaning down to discreetly turn the newspaper right way up. "Oh. Hey, listen to this – 'Are you a previous medical student with absolutely no qualifications except an unhealthy interest in gore and potions that turn people into homicidal axe-wielding maniacs? If you answered yes, then become an ambulance driver today!' Brilliant!" He beamed up at the others.
"This could be like… the break we've all been waiting for! We don't have to die alone, bitter and unsuccessful like my horoscope said I would!"
"You're absolutely right Neil. There's a time for everything and the time for living is now. All we need to do is land this hot air balloon. Rick, you're an expert in hot air, go down into the basket and work out how to land us."
Rick saluted the bus leader with a certain amount of apprehension, because although he was indeed an expert in hot air, he had no idea how to work any form of flying contraption. But his head was full of all the politically powerful poetry he would write when he touched solid ground, so that left little room for doubts about his authority in landing the bus-carrying balloon. He disappeared out of sight down a handy trap door that luckily led straight into the generously sized basket of their transport.
"Brilliant," Vyvyan sighed to himself, vague images of wailing ambulance sirens and on-the-house-curries at a friendly pub wafting pleasantly across his frontal lobe. But then, something a little more disturbing began creeping into his mind… a dark alley, a faux hippy, endless scores of admirers… "Stop Rick! We can't land!" He shouted, starting bolt upright and staring wildly at the handy trap door.
The other two men had come to the same conclusion at around the same time as their spiky-haired friend and were both diving towards the hole Rick had adventured down, their faces panic-stricken.
But it was too late… There was a sudden and ferocious explosion as the fuel in the bus's engine caught fire as a result of the anarchist-turned-hot-air-balloon-technician's inexpert fiddling with the controls, launching the burning hulk of metal into the atmosphere at a speed only spaceships usually travel at. There was a faint scream of "Looks like the Old Ones are blasting off aga-ain", fading away until there was nothing left in the clear blue, but slightly singed sky, except a tiny light winking out as the former Young Ones and their transport disappeared from this world forever.
To be continued…
