AS I walk down Worcester's Bath Road each morning, it is often my fate to observe one of the Faithful City's famed First buses.

They always appear to be going in the opposite direction, but even if I wanted to catch one, I'd be out of luck. For most are not in the business of ferrying the public... which is why the fronts of these vehicles are invariably emblazoned with a huge 'Sorry!' sign plus other indications that they are not available.

Admittedly, I start work a lot later these days, but I hardly think that 9.30 in the morning is so devoid of likely passengers that there is not enough trade for the bus companies. However, this is apparently the case.

So it will have to remain one of life's little mysteries. The riddle of the Marie Celeste buses, if you like.

Mind you, when it comes to Worcester's transport lunacy, First doesn't even figure in the runners-up. I still haven't recovered from the latest park-and-ride lunacy - you know, the one where they are going to dig out that super cave in the only remaining green field between Worcester and Whittington.

I've seen some superbly crazy ideas, but this one surely takes the McMad Memorial Trophy. In any event, the existing council tax-eating fiasco at Perdiswell provides all the evidence you need. Those useless acres of tarmac that were once playing fields are hopelessly under-used and only add to the city's problems by requiring bus lanes destined to become full of empty buses that could usefully be occupied by - yes I'm sorry but it's true - cars.

Park-and-ride is a folly. If you don't believe me, check out the figures - the fact is that the taxpayer is now paying a fortune to shore up an idiotic New Labour daydream.

Sorry? I should say so.

MY FEATHERED FRIENDS

FROM white elephants we must move down the food chain slightly and enter the feathered world.

The thing is that I'm in the doghouse - or should I say pigeon coop, perhaps. You see, I'm in trouble with my wife, who doesn't approve of my encouragement of a couple of stray homing pigeons.

They've been coming to the garden every day, and I've been feeding them rabbit food. Did I say two? Well there was one at first and then a second appeared - word had obviously gone round.

My wife has instructed me to feed them in the turning area by the garages. She insists that the washing is at risk from droppings, but I retorted that this was a small price to pay for the pleasure of entertaining a few avian guests.

Anyway, guess what happened as I crossed the road near the Old Rectifying House the other day? Talk about Karma, I was hit dead centre, fair and square on the top of my head by the biggest dollop of seagull guano in the history of the world.

By the time I had reached home, it has set solid in the heat. Serves you right, said the cackling slatterns in my household. I then slunk up to the bathroom to wash and ponder the meaning of the Universe.

One other thing - the mandarin duck who lives on the Severn down by the King's School steps has found a replacement mate. Widowed by a mink, she has found true love at last. There's bound to be a wedding - must go shopping for hats!

TEACH VANDALS A LESSON

IT would appear that British disease of vandalism has spread to France. More than 40 First World War gravestones in a cemetery near Arras have been wrecked or pushed over. One was even charred by fire.

This was a particularly despicable crime and is not without irony. The perpetrators were undoubtedly youths, probably about the same age as those soldiers who died so long ago and now rest for eternity in the cold clay of Picardy.

Stupid, drunk, cruel. Whatever. It's pointless trying to work out why individuals do such callous acts.

Perhaps the answer lies in education, or, more specifically the teaching of history. For if Les Yobs Francais were made to understand what those poor British lads endured then maybe they'd think twice before committing such outrages.

It is only by studying the past that we can understand the present.

LAST ORDERS, PLEASE

SPARE a thought for the poor downtrodden landlord at your local. For time is running out. The egg-timer of bungledom is about to expire.

Yes. As he serves you your pint of beer and that rum and coke for the missus tonight, forgive him if the usual cheery smile is absent. The thing is, you see, that his mind is probably on that 21-page form he must complete within a very short time.

In the history of useless, penpusher-inspired exercises, this one takes the Whitehall Golden Spike Award. The nonsense of this whole thing is that not only publicans, but also the trustees of village halls, working men's clubs and so on, must all plough through this stupid chunk of bureaucracy even if they already have adequate documentation.

However, the saddest fact here will be the death of popular music. The new licensing laws actually discourage live music. Bearing in mind that all the major acts of the last 50 years have started off in pubs, you can see why the future looks so bleak.

I think that if it comes to making a choice, I rather prefer the habits of certain seagulls. Any day.