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It was the night before the night before Christmas, and I was hauling my smelly chump chariot through the insidious genital goiter known as Drumchapel. The lurid, cascading Christmas lights, flashing santas and waving snowmen were actually a pleasant sugary veneer covering the stinging melancholy one usually feels whilst driving through such a tumbledown ghetto.

And just like a strip club or casino, wherever you get neon lights, you also get vice. Tonight, the streets of Drum Vegas were peppered with scantily clad she-neds, drunken stagger-oafs and gangs of Young Team (who were no doubt wearing a liberal splash of aftershave with their sharpest tracksuit to impress the 'bitches') all out for an evening's festive freakery.

At the shopping centre I picked up three young lassies who were wearing almost nothing. They were a bit on the young side but definitely worth a sniff in a year or two (as long as the tobacco leaf and Ronald McDonald don't get to them first).

I also picked up one of Drumchapel's choicest odd-balls. He's fortyish with permed blond hair and goes about dressed in tight leather from head to toe: leather stetson, leather waistcoat, leather jacket (with tassels), leather trousers, leather boots and (probably) leather underpants. This evening's ensemble was garnished with gold chains, gold pendants and sovereign rings beyond the scope of counting. He does actually creak and clank when he walks.

However, his slick image is betrayed by a strong slavic accent. Rather than a bona fide cowboy from the Wild West, he has the guise of a retired, Eastern European porn star who is still clinging to his on-stage persona: 'Helmut Bloe'.

After leaving Drumchapel I rumbled down through the weeping canker of Garscadden. There was about ten neds at the first bus stop and, when they saw me approach, stood perfectly still like spooked meerkats. I felt a twinge of foreboding and could sense a trap. But because they hadn't actually done anything wrong, I had to pull in and stop when they stuck an arm out.

My twinge was correct. As soon as I stopped, one of the little acne scarred bastards ran up the side of the bus and pulled the emergency fuel cut off valve. The engine died and would not restart until the valve was pushed back in. With the bus now immobilized, the rest of the neds barreled on to the bus whooping and shrieking and shouting and yelling.

Several neds were filming this wack-attack on their phones as they ran up and down the bus screaming into passenger's faces. Most passengers just sat there like rabbits caught in headlights. However, I heard, "Dat shouldn't happen! [clank] [clank] [clank] Dat shouldn't happen! [clank] [clank] [clank]" It was Helmut Bloe standing up and hammering his bejeweled hands on the chrome handrail of the seat-back in front of him.

After about a minute of anarchic devilment, the neds finally bailed out the emergency door at the back of the bus and scarpered. As I got out my cab to push in the fuel valve I resolved to bring a little bottle of Gaviscon antacid next time I drive through ned infested swamps like this. Wack-attacks are not good for peptic ulcers.

I briefly mentioned the wack-attack to Driver Crabby-Bellow during my break at the depot.

"That's nothin'!" humphed Crabby-Bellow, nearly covering me in kebab. He continued with, "One time my bus broke doon at Bridgeton and the punters said 'What's happenin' driver?' and I said 'I've broke doon!' and they said 'Fuck sake!' and they sat on the bus for aboot ten minutes. Then they came doon the bus and said 'Just let us aff, driver!' so I let them aff. But they came back tae the bus aboot twenty minutes later with a hammer and a golf club and even branches oot a fuckin' tree and just set aboot smashin' every window on the fuckin' bus! They smashed every one except for the windscreen and the driver's cab window. One o' them came up to me and said 'Driver, get to fuck!' but I said 'No way, I'm staying in my fuckin' cab!' Then an unmarked police car pulled in and all the fuckers ran away. None of them were caught. Cunts!"

Okay, make that a BIG bottle of Gaviscon for my next run through ned infested swamps.

The next part of my shift took me into the city centre. My timetable was already shot to pieces by double parked taxis who just did not move to let me past, no matter how long I honked my horn.

"Do you go to Kennishead?" said a young, drunken grotter on Hope Street who was holding on to my doors to steady himself.

"No."

"Do you go anywhere near Kennishead?"

"No, your best bet is to walk down to Renfield Street and jump on a-"

"Get a fuckin' hair cut, ya prick!" he shouted and wobbled off into the night. May death find him quickly.

Nearing the end of the run, I became aware of an even drunker passenger who had fallen asleep on the seat behind my cab. I couldn't remember where he got on or where he said he was going but I sensed he was going to snooze himself all the way to the terminus. Bastard! A Terminator!

However, when I pulled in to pick up a ned in Clydebank, the loud blast of air from the opening doors must have roused the beast.

"Where 'ur we?" slurred the drunk to the boarding ned. But the ned just stood there looking at him.

"Mate, where 'ur we?" said the drunk once more, with growing anxiety. But again, the ned regarded him with suspicion and contempt.

The drunk staggered to his feet, "Are ye deif? I said where 'ur we?"

"Fuck off, ya maddie!" said the ned at last, thinking the drunk was taking the piss.

"Just fuckin' tell us where the fuck we 'ur!" grumbled the semi-concious wino.

"Parkhall in Clydebank!" shouted the ned, and then sat next to a girl near the back of the bus.

"Right! That's all I fuckin' wanted! Jesus Christ! Remind me not tae come back here again, everyone's a fuckin' arse hole!"

"Who you callin' a fuckin' arse hole?" shouted the ned.

"Danny, stop it!" called the girl beside him.

"You're an arse hole! Whit ye gonna dae aboot it? I'd fuckin' murder yoo!" yelled the drunk, a bit optimistically considering he was pretty much murdered himself.

And so it was T-minus one minute before the launch of space ship Fisticuffs. However, a sober ned is not such a formidable beast without his gang of Buckfast swilling Young Team, and did indeed try to defuse the altercation by stating that he didn't want to fight because the bus had "Too many old cunts on it."

But the drunkard was very persistent and offered him off the bus, "Me and you, aff the bus at the next stop ya' weedy wee cunt!" I could sense the ned's concern for the 'old cunts' on the bus was about to expire.

I had to separate them and actually came up with a cunning plan...

"Excuse me!" I said to the drunk. "I get the feeling you're lost. Am I right?"

"Erm, aye," he said.

"Where are you going?"

"Victoria Road."

"Well, here's what to do. This bus is finished for the night when it gets to the terminus and it's going back to the depot, so I can't take you to Victoria Road. But if you're quick and run across the road to that bus stop, there's a bus due there in one minute that'll take you back into town and then to Victoria Road."

The drunk thought for a moment. A mental cog clicked in his brain and he agreed to my plan. I opened the door, but before he left, he threw a final verbal insult at the ned as though each word were a brick, "You're just a wee skinny shite bag!"

He left the bus and I closed the door feeling very proud of myself. As I accelerated out of the bus stop I figured that I could have just saved someone's life, or their teeth at least. Not to mention the ambulance call and police time. Yes, that was my good deed for the day.

How wrong I was...

As I pulled out into traffic, the ned just inexplicably snapped. He bolted up to the back of the bus and opened the emergency door. I could see him in my mirror dangling out the side of the bus, but I was going too fast for him to jump out. Had there been no CCTV on the bus I would have just kept going in order to separate these punch-keen pugilists, but all drivers are told to stop immediately if the emergency door is opened. If he fell out and injured himself I would be answerable. So in order to cover my own ass I stopped.

The ned jumped off the bus with a King Kongish "Raaaaaaaaaaarrrrrr!!!" and went chasing after the drunk.

"Excuse me, could someone up the back close the emergency door please," I said.

"Aye, I'll dae it, driver," said the ned's female acquaintance. "Daft Danny! I'll see him the 'morra and make sure he's alright."

I dropped off my last passenger at the terminus, then put 'Not In Service' up on my destination screen and started back to the depot. There was an ambulance on a blue light call going the other way and I couldn't help but wonder if it were carrying Danny the ned, or Sleepy the drunk. Hopefully both. Happy Christmas.