I am afraid that in my normal fashion and in spite of my initial good intentions, things always start to degenerate sooner rather than later. And my mini series of amusing childhood stories is no different and certainly not immune to this natural decay of decency and respectability.

But what is true is true and ultimately begs to be revealed, for it is simply a real narrative of past experience, even if certain elements may be far from savoury.

I was here in my mid teens which was an entirely different world to the one we live in today. Suffice to say that, as we will be speaking of traffic and related matters, sometimes you didn’t even see one single vehicle on the road.

I distinctly remember driving to the airport with my father, either from Rabat, or later on from Balzan, at the middle of the night, to pick up friends coming from England, when we literally didn’t see one single car all the way. No, not one!

Similarly, as we used to spend our Summers in Xemxija, where I had many friends, some of whom remained there later, before returning to their Winter homes, or even lived there throughout the year, I had problems getting a lift home after we moved back to our Winter home in Balzan. In those days the last bus was at 8pm and if you missed it you had to walk or hitchhike. I can remember many an occasion when I tried to get a lift at night and all the way from Xemxija to Balzan no more that two or three cars would pass my way throughout the entire journey.

So we paid bitterly for those few extra moments with friends, usually resulting in a couple of hours of walking home. But at that age who cared!

This is just to indicate the ominous nature of the last bus. Or should I say The Last BUS!

Yes you either made it or you didn’t. And if you didn’t you’d then might as well stay on much longer with your friends, before facing that two hour walk. But on the days you intended to get that bus, then you did your damn best not to miss it.

On one such occasion I remember that I just about made it, by running desperately to the bus stop as I saw the old chugging bus approaching. Had I arrived only a few seconds later, I would have missed it for sure. My strenuous sprint in no way helped my already groggy state. I had indulged in some wine, which we all did in those days, in spite of our tender age and at the time what we called wine wouldn’t even be added to olive oil to embellish a salad today, and that is no joke. Just to effectively drive my point home, does anyone remember Special Reserve? Well as the name indicates, that was reserved for special occasions, as we normally drank much more modest crap, which I won’t even refer to as wine. I had also smoked a few cigarettes, as one does when one desperately wants to look cool and older.

So I jumped onto that last bus and to my horror it was packed solid and steaming hot inside, with dozens of sweating human bodies. “Oh no, air conditioned buses still won’t arriva in Malta for another 35 years” I astutely thought to myself in unparalleled insight. I pushed and I shoved just to create for myself a small standing space amongst the rest of the solid, sweating, huddling crowd.

I didn’t feel too good at all. The heat, the stench of human sweat, the hot breath all around, the occasional whiff of nauseating flatulence, the long bumpy ride, the sudden braking, the mad swerving from left to right. All a vicious conspiracy to turn my stomach inside out. It gradually became worse and worse. First I felt my stomach form a painful knot. Then as the terrifying realisation set in that I could do nothing about it, that there was absolutely nowhere I could relieve myself, that the only possible way would be to get off the bus and walk all the way home, in spite of my wretched state, that’s when it really hit me.

Suddenly the knot in my stomach let go. My stomach not only opened but it wanted to suddenly overflow. I panicked. What could I do? I felt that I couldn’t hold on any longer. The entire contents of my stomach were about to erupt. I looked around desperately trying to work out a plan. I was literally squashed between other huddled bodies and there was absolutely nowhere to go. The one only option was to push my way out, jump off the bus, do my terrible business and walk the rest of the way home.

But then suddenly it was simply too late. Too late even to think about what I could do.

Now I don’t usually stop the story half way through, especially at the very peak of my narrative. But I will make an exception here. If you get queasy and sickened quite easily, if you get revolted by graphic material and filth, then please stop here, because it’s about to get bad, very bad. So you have been warned! Stop reading!

So my stomach opened and simply refused to continue holding in its putrid contents. In a huge powerful rush it all came racing up. I desperately held my mouth shut as best I could, but the pressure and the force was far too strong. The vomit not only filled my mouth but squirted out of my tightly pursed lips. I pressed and I pressed for nothing. Strong hot jets of disgusting vomit sprayed out of my swollen cheeks in every direction, showering people’s backs and arms and heads and faces all around, not unlike an exorcist sort of way.

But there was nothing anyone could do. Nobody wanted to get off and miss that last bus.

So there I was trying to desperately and unsuccessfully hold it in, all in vain. And with each massive and successive heave I again and again tried to hold it in my mouth, but there simply was too much. So I was transformed into a stomach-churning vomit fountain, spraying those both close and far, as I slowly rotated my head from side to side to spread out the proceeds equally for fear of drowning any one individual.

What made the situation worse, much worse, was that to somehow contain the gallons of rancid, macedoine-like, regurgitated spew, I also tried swallowing back much of it to hold it in. After years of hindsight I can still attest that this was not a very good idea. This foul hot retch is really not what you want to push back down your throat without inciting much more spewing as a direct consequence. So I vomited, filled my cheeks to their full extent, sprayed around a bit on my fellow passengers and swallowed back the rest, only to vomit even stronger again and again.

Well that sums up much of the journey to Balzan that evening. And with every heave and ensuing spraying there was a collective scream from all the passengers, followed by a sigh of relief when I swallowed much of it down.

Yet nobody got off. Nobody even asked me to leave. Hey this was the last bus remember, so we were in it all together until the bitter, vomit tasting end.

But in the end I didn’t want to be much of a nuisance for everyone, so I got off a couple of bus stops earlier, to offer them some relief. I am always kind and considerate in that way and just hate to impose. So I made a rather big sacrifice and walked a couple of extra yards home.