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The first part of my shift was all ashriek with what seemed like every shrieker in Glasgow coming on my bus at the same time - shrieking; countless shrieking school kids, three shrieking babies, two shrieking she-neds and one shrieking fat man. Well, the fat guy didn't actually shriek but his appalling stench did plenty of shrieking on his behalf.

I'm not kidding, this guy's brutal funk was almost a physical assault. It was like a tangible echo of the carnage generated by all Wars past and a dip of the hat to all that is evil in the world today. In fact, if racism, rape and premature ejaculation had to choose their own necrotic aroma, they would be climbing over each other to bottle this guy's essence. He was the true champion of all things that slither and moulder and...hang on a minute...INCOMING!...

...BANG! went a stone off my cab window as I approached the Summerston terminus. Without thinking, my arms were off the steering wheel and flapping all about the cab in the kind of reflex defensive actions that makes you feel like a right tit afterwards.

But credit where credit is due, it really was a well aimed shot! A perfectly executed cab window strike from over fifty yards away. Obviously thrown by the practiced hand of a true professional, it deserved so much more. A crack in the glass at least.

With nerves now ruffled, I did not enjoy sitting at the Summerston terminus for ten long minutes. I jumped with every distant scream and dog bark thinking the stone throwing neds were coming back to finish what they started. All around me, glistening on the road, were millions of little ice-cubes of shattered bus window that had been obliterated on previous nights of ultra-violence. Fortunately, this was a week night and the local Young Team had opted merely to nibble rather than bite.

Still in one piece, I left the terminus and literally tip-toed through the dark streets of this urban casbah (not easy in a decker), all the time checking nearby alleyways for movement and wondering what devilry lay in wait at the bus stops up ahead.

At Summerston ASDA I picked up a double dose of social blight in the form of a pimp and his hooker. Mr Pimp was dressed smartly in a leather jacket (Gianni Versace was the label, I believe), dark blue Chinos, polished shoes and, naturally, a bling-bling-pinky-ring.

But in horrifying contrast, his wire-framed hooker was an abstract piece of modern art sculpture - 'Cadaver In Denim'. Her spaced out eyes, slack jaw and protruding tongue made for a wonderful smack-induced facial prolapse. As for her stylistic leanings, compared to Mr Pimp, her designer label was Papier Mache.

They both flashed a pass at me and, of course, went straight upstairs. However, all the way down Maryhill Road, while Mr Pimp mumbled into his cell phone, the Hooker tottered up and down the top deck without holding on to any handrails. Very unwise, considering her natural unsteadiness. It was almost as though she wanted to be thrown about, wanted to be injured.

Maybe the thought of going into town tonight and giving hand relief to countless double-Y chromo neanderthals in freezing alleyways seemed so unpalatable, even for this googly eyed harlot, that an easier revenue stream was preferable. Like a sure-fire, water-tight, cannot-fail compensation claim against the bus company.

At Renfield Street in the city centre I was doing a steady 10mph in slow moving traffic; not accelerating, not braking and not turning. I watched the CCTV monitor with despair as the Hooker shambled over to the top of the stairs and cried: "Whaaa!" and launched herself down the stair-well. What a noise she made as she hit every stair on the way down...

"[WUMP] OOF! [WUMP] OUCH! [WUMP] AARG! [WUMP] BWOAGH! [WUMP] HOEY! [WUMP] GRUMPH!"

At the bottom of the stairs she unfolded herself and began shrieking: "Ya' bastard! Ya' prick! That was your fault ya' fuckin' maniac! Did everyone see that? Did everyone see him make me fa' doon them fuckin' stairs? There's a bus full o' fuckin' witnesses here ya' bastard! You're gettin' sued!"

I pulled the bus into the side of the road within earshot of the Horseshoe Bar as Pimp'n'Hooker shuffled up to my cab door.

"Right!" she screamed. "I want your name, I want your address and I want your number. Right noo!"

"Nope," I said calmly.

"I've got bruises all over ma fuckin' heed! Give's the pen in yer shirt pocket so I can write doon all your details."

"Nope."

"You were driving like a fuckin' maniac! Everyone oan the bus saw me fa'! Give's your fuckin' pen!"

"Nope."

At this point a normal passenger came down the bus, a middle aged woman who had boarded at the previous stop. "Driver, she's got a right to know your number."

"You do realise I could end up getting sacked over this? Sacked for nothing." I said.

"Look, I'm tired and I just want to get home," said the woman. "Here," she said to the Hooker, "I don't have a pen but you can use my eye liner pencil to at least take the bus number."

The Hooker grinned like a plotting pit-bull and actually tried to embrace her, but the woman grimaced and wrestled herself away.

"I really don't care, I'm not taking sides," said the woman. "I just want to get home."

The Hooker and Mr Pimp were now standing on the pavement writing down the bus number. Actually, it was Mr Pimp who was scribbling the number on the back of the Hooker's right hand (I got the feeling that he was more at home with the whole reading/writing thing).

"Will you be ma witness?" shouted the Hooker to the normal woman who was still standing on the bus.

"Um, well, I don't think the driver was doing anything wrong. I would say you just lost your own footing and fell."

The Hooker scowled at her like a fuck-tied Doberman.

With Pimp'n'Hooker off the bus, I realised this was my chance to escape. I closed the doors, released the break and hit the gas. But just as I did, the Hooker gave a mighty screech and thrust her right hand in between the closing doors. Ouch! Normally I would stop and make sure the person was uninjured, but not tonight. No, sir! Tonight I sped up, and if I took her severed hand with me then so be it!

Hopefully the wretch didn't have the full bus number on her hand when I fled. Even if she did, I am hopeful that it smudged beyond recognition after she jammed her hand in the door. Ooh! That still gives me goose bumps!

In retrospect, I might have actually done her a good turn by crushing her boney little mit. After all, for a woman in her profession, having a 'honey-pot' hand can only be an advantage - enables a more natural grip of her client's piece. Yes, that's right, get back to work down that alley and give those double-Y chromo's a hand-job to remember, coz you ain't gettin' no compo' tonight!