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Double decker buses are seen as nothing more than play ground rides by drunken and rowdy passengers. So much so that only single deckers are put on the more notorious runs in an act of damage limitation; like the gut wrenching, barbed wire sandwich that goes to Paisley.

So, my heart sank when I saw the old, crappy, smoke belching double decker arrive for me at the relief point. Bastard! Putting a decker on the fearsome Paisley run is a bit like putting a bouncy castle into a psychiatric ward. Weeeeeeeeee! It's playtime!

Three Little Pigs got on at Central Station and did their best to hide their bottles of Buckfast as they boarded. The youngest was only about thirteen but was quite the Snoop Dog with his ear rings, gold chains and sovereign rings. "Take it easy, driver," said the little artful dodger.

Of course, they went straight upstairs and sat at the very back. All the way down Paisley Road West they stamped their feet, shrieked mercilessly, sang sectarian songs and kicked their Buckfast bottles around the floor. The passengers on the lower deck were mumbling stuff like 'That's ridiculous!' and 'That shouldn't happen!' and the obligatory 'Fuck sake!' while all the time praying that the ceiling did not cave in above them.

A cheeky muppet came down the bus to get off at Cardonald.

"Hey, driver!" said the muppet. "Can you not hear that? Can you not hear what's going on up there? For Christ's sake!"

"Yep," said I.

"Well, what the hell are you gonna do about it?"

"What do you mean? You want me to get out my cab, go upstairs and give them a stern talking to? You think that will sort them out?"

"Yes!"

"Don't think so. I signed up to drive a bus and give tickets. If the company gives me a stab vest and a tazer gun, then I might consider crowd control. Until then I stay in my cab."

"That's it! I'm taking your number! I'm putting in a complaint about you!"

And there you have the final fucked up proof:

Calling the cops to get rid of the delinquents wouldn't have helped anyway. It would have just transferred the trouble on to another bus, freaked out another driver, frightened other passengers and just caused more damage.

It's times like these that I would like to flick a switch in the driver's cab and turn the upstairs back seat into a big death grinder. A sort of big combine-harvester-come-steam-roller jobby. I would dearly like to see the pricks' faces as they drown in a whirlpool of blades:

"Ha! Look at that, Ritchie is gettin' pulled into the seat and all mashed up! Ha ha ha! Wait a minute, the seat has grabbed my leg and is pulling it off! AAaaarg! Ritchie, help! Oh, you've got no arms left. OOOh! Despite my Buckfast induced stupour this really hurts! Quick! Save the Buckie! Save the Buckie!"

After the shredding, cutting, mashing and mangling of the arse holes, the rollers, blades, fly wheels and gears of the Arse Hole Disposal Unit would wind down and the seat would return to it's original appearance. Less Three Little Pigs of course.

Surely that is better than the reality of getting to the Paisley terminus and checking the bus over only to find that the drunken arse holes had left an ankle deep puddle of piss upstairs and had used a blade to cut away the rubber from a window and push the window out?

Yes, the window was flapping out of it's frame and could have quite easily fallen out on top of a pedestrian killing them without so much as a 'how d'you do'. Surely an Arse Hole Disposal Unit built into the back seat of every decker is a cleaner, quicker and more elegant solution to the problem of pestiferous neds?