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Started my shift by picking up the Paisley bus from Driver Guy Smiley. As he left the cab he informed me that he'd just been called to attend court as a witness to a stabbing on his bus.

"Did you actually see it happen?" I asked while typing my details into the ticket machine.

"Nope. But I knew for sure the guy had been stabbed."

"How did you know?"

"He was runnin' aboot the bus with a big hole in his belly."

Ask a silly question.

"But the weird thing is," continued Guy Smiley, "there was nae blood. Not a drop! Mind you, those piss-taking bastards in the depot are no givin' me paid leave tae go to court. They're making me take one of my holiday days instead! Pricks!"

Nice to see Guy Smiley has got his priorities right.

After setting off, I became aware that the bus was an absolute howler. Everything shook, whined, squeaked, rattled, hissed, groaned, screeched and clattered; a real cantankerous old lady of the depot. Rain dribbled down the inside of the windscreen and the rubber seal designed to secure the side windows had gone, leaving them rattling in their frame. This ol' bucket was really beginning to shake my teeth loose.

It got so bad that I had to drive along with my fingers in my ears and steer with my elbows. In fact, if Vlad the Impaler had been a passenger on this bus he would have been sitting there with a hard-on taking notes for his next torture chamber.

Mind you, most drivers dislike being on the Paisley run at the best of times, so it really wouldn't have mattered what bus I got.

Alright, that's an understatement; most drivers hate the Paisley run with the kind of passion most of us reserve for only our most quarrelsome haemaroids. The clientele who frequent this razor run remind me of the cast of Michael Jackson's 'Thriller' video, all desperately clawing at your door whilst gnawing on kebab flesh. Prayers of absolution will not help any driver who forgets his wooden stake, crucifix and Holy water.

Near the back of the bus, a nedette was screaming into her phone, "Gary! Why are you being like this? You're just saying that coz you're drunk! [pause] Oh my God! Don't you dare say I've got a fuckin' attitude! I've no got a fuckin' attitude, right? [pause] Oh my God! How can you say that? It's you that's got the fuckin' attitude!"

That's right, if someone accuses you of having an 'attitude', the best way of proving your innocence is to verbally beat them to a pulp with an even bigger and more malignant helping of 'attitude' - I'll fuckin' show you how much fuckin' attitude I don't fuckin' have!

At Finnieston, I picked up an elderly muppet of the short-squat variety. A real 'baller'. She humped a wheelie-bag of oddments up the stairs with a twitter and a mutter and a bibbety bobbety boo. Unfortunately she added to my headache by clattering her walking stick against everything within cat-swinging distance. Just because some muppets have a bad hip shouldn't mean that bus drivers have to risk loosing an eye.

After I printed her ticket, she made for the seat directly behind my cab and plumped herself down, knocking her walking stick against the back of my cab as she went. There was another muppet in the adjacent seat, and when one muppet chances upon another, there is a bloom of recognition as they mutually distinguish a member of their own species - they recognize 'self'. You see the same reaction when a mirror is placed in front of an orangutan.

Before I had time to release the handbrake, both muppets had bonded and were doing the muppet equivalent of picking ticks and lice out of each other's fur.

"That's such a high step. How are pensioners supposed to get on and off the bus. It's ridiculous!"

"Yes, it's ridiculous!"

[knock went the walking stick]

"I used to get a different bus up on Great Western Road but they changed the route and now I've got to get this one instead."

"Aye, they keep changing it, it's scandalous!."

"Scandalous!"

[knock]

"I feel sorry for people who can't see very well, standing at a bus stop waiting for a bus that's not going to show."

Yes, I think there is a perverse logic to that.

We set off and the noise from my clattering cab drowned out their conversation. However, I could still feel each thud from her 'knocking-stick' on the back of my cab as she fidgeted. It reminded me of what it must have been like for drivers of old horse drawn hansom cabs when the toffs used to bang their kane on the ceiling and shout, "I say, driver, I'll give you an extra farthing if you can make that beast go any faster!"

Bus drivers don't get farthings. Or toffs for that matter. At best, you might be given half a bag of lemon-drops when the bingo comes out. Bless.

As I pulled away from a bus stop at Blythswood square there was another knock, followed this time by an altogether more sinister thud. I felt this thud through my feet, but I felt the ensuing "Waaaaaahhh!" through my very soul. A collective gasp from the rest of the bus sucked a black hole in the space-time continuum before anyone spoke again.

"Oh my God! Get it off her! Get it off her!" shouted a man.

I pulled in to the side of the road, popped my head out the cab door and was witness to a scene of panic and confusion. Two men were lifting a large, rectangular board off the little 'knocker' muppet who's arms were all aflap under it.

"Driver, that board fell doon aff the wa' on to that poor wumin's heed!" said one of the men.

I stepped out my cab to have a quick look and discovered the sad truth. There is a large and extremely heavy inspection panel behind the driver's cab which gives the engineers access to a fuse box. Usually this panel is held in place by four screws and two brackets, but on this rickety old bone shaker, it was held up by ONE screw (which had lost it's thread anyway) and NO brackets.

Knocker muppet must have loosened it with her incessant knockings, so all it needed was for me to accelerate away from a bus stop and WHAM! instant tenderized muppet.

"I'm alright!" proclaimed the muppet as she passed through various stages of suffering in front of me.

"Are you sure?" I asked. "I should maybe get an ambulance just to be on the safe side."

"No! I'm alright!" she said, and stood up to brush away the dust that had come off the inspection panel.

My God, she seemed absolutely fine! Thank goodness little baller muppets are so well insulated by numb, fleshy, boneless layers of redundant anatomy. With the physique of a marshmallow, this resilient little flubber-muppet must have used her stout overabundance to absorb the full force of impact. Her insatiable appetite for cakes, scones and biscuits just saved her life.

"Well okay, but I'll need to take your details anyway for my report," I said.

She approached my cab and began whispering her name and address through the door. However, five drunken bastards had spotted me at the side of the road and decided they wanted on.

[BANG] [BANG] [BANG] "Gonnae open the door?"

I opened the door.

The drunks paused, thinking the muppet was getting off. But after a second or two their patience ran out. "Christ! Are you gettin' aff or what, missus?"

The muppet did not reply, I think she was still a bit dazed. I replied on her behalf, "There's been a wee incident on the bus and I'm taking this passengers details."

"I don't fuckin' care! I'm getting fuckin' rained on oot here!" He barged on to the bus, past the muppet and stomped away up the back. I didn't get a fare from two of his friends either, but on the bloodcurdling Paisley run, getting two fares out of five is not bad.

After contacting the Control room to let them know about the incident, I was hopeful they would send me back to the depot to get a better bus. Wrong. They just sent round a wee man with a screwdriver to fix the inspection panel back up again with the correct screws and brackets.

"Anyone injured?" asked the wee man.

"Well, no one needed an ambulance, but..."

"Right, continue in service, driver."

Doh!