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It was a windy Friday night.

As I hauled my soggy glummers through the pustulating ulcer that is Partick, I had to slalom in between the debris that had been blown all over the road by the storm. Bins had gone over, spilling their contents; an armchair from a three piece suite had somehow blown into the middle of the road; even the toilet paper that bubbles up through the rancid drains on Dumbarton Road had been whipped up into a repugnant ticker-tape parade of airborne guano.

Incoming Radio Message: "Central Control to all services in the Castlemilk area, please resume normal service in Castlemilk. Police have secured the area. Control out."

Secured the area? Yeah, right! What probably happened was the bus company called the police to say, "Excuse us, but a couple of our buses have just been trashed in Castlemilk. Any chance of sending a squad car round?"

"Just the two buses?" answered the cops. "Give us a call back when it gets to four. [yawn] No, in fact make it five."

"Will do, sorry to trouble you like this. [BANG in background] Oops! Looks like it's three buses now. [BOOM] Make that four. [BOOF] And there's the fifth."

"Damn. Right, I'll get an officer to have a nosey round there just as soon as I finish my coffee and mini-cheddars."

"Ooh! What flavour of mini-cheddars?"

"Branston pickle. They're really nice."

"Nah, don't like 'em. You tried the smoky bacon? They're good."

Talking of smoky bacon, two of Strathclyde's finest zoomed right past me in a police van as I blustered my way up Dalmarnock Road. They pulled in to a bus stop, got out the van and flagged me down. This sort of thing is never good news.

I opened the doors and a big bruiser cop had to duck in order to come on aboard.

"Gonna take this guy into the toon for us, driver?"

The big bruiser's colleague walked round and slid open the side door of the van. A little crumpled man emerged. His jaded expression and uncertain movement suggested a recent interrogation at the hands of the local constabulary. God only knows what he had done.

"Aye, OK. Bring him on," I said.

"Cheers, driver, you're doin' us a favour," said the bruiser and got back behind the wheel of his van.

As the little crumpler stepped on to the bus I noticed that the geography of his face was dominated by an improbably wide and flat nose. It seemed to obscure all his other features, save for the cavernous eye sockets which had been fashioned by the Devil himself wielding an over-sized ice-cream scoop. But all the time, the scar on his top lip whispered "guilty". (Or at least "aiding and abetting a felony" but his lip was far too thin to cram all that in.)

As our eyes met, he paused as though I had just accused him of something. I actually expected him to say, "Look, it wasn't me, right? She was like that when I found her! Besides, the bitch knows what I'm like when I've got a drink in me!" But without a single word, he made his way slowly up the bus like a condemned man reluctantly scuffling to the gallows.

As the cops drove away, it suddenly occurred to me: They had got it the wrong way round! It should be me unloading my offal onto their meat wagon, not them unloading their offal into my meat wagon. Bastards!

With a fresh oath on my tongue I set off to do battle with the wind once more. It was actually quite fun being blown all around the road but perhaps a little disconcerting for the bingo crowd who likened it to a dodgem ride. At one point the whole decker listed so far to the right that I actually leaned left to counter balance. But it didn't make any difference! I think what ultimately saved me was the extra weight afforded by all the tea drunk by the bingo muppets. I owe my life to their Brooke Bond bloated bingo bladders.

The crumpled villain had remained calm, but nevertheless wary, of the eyes around him. He sat glowering at the one person on the bus causing a commotion; a young boy who was yelping and climbing over seats.

"Come an' sit doon next to me", said the boy's mother. "The bus is gettin' full up noo,"

"But there's only wan, too, free, fore.... FIVE people oan the bus!" Actually, both decks were heaving with passengers.

"Come and sit doon right noo!" commanded mother.

"Will ye sing The Magic Spider's Web?"

"Just sit nice and be quiet."

The boy flapped onto the seat adjacent to his mother's. "Whit's fur tea?" he gurned.

"Fish an' chips."

"Oh, noe! Ye' always burn the chips!" shouted the little ingrate.

"I never burn the chips!"

"Ye' think you don't but ye' always dae!" moaned the boy with a tremble in his voice. Properly cooked chips are definitely worth embarrassing your mother on the bus for. Ronald McDonald claims another soul.

A few heavy gusts later and we were in the city centre, trundling along Trongate. Usually lots of people get off at this stop but after having checked my passenger mirror and seeing no one, I just continued straight past it. However, just before the tail of the bus cleared the stop, someone pressed the bell. [Ding]

"Woah! Fuck sake! Stoap!"

Ahh, the crumpled villain speaketh. He came stomping down the bus shouting about how I was such a "fuckin' clown" for missing his "fuckin' stoap!"

"You need to press the bell a lot earlier than that, mate," I said.

"Shite! I fuckin' pressed it, but, didn't I?"

I considered expounding the complexities of stopping an eleven ton decker that was fully laden with five tons of human blubber on a wet and windy night. But his low forehead and mesmerizing squint persuaded me otherwise and I held my tongue.

"Are ye' sure ye've got a fuckin' licence, mate?" he snarled.

I gave him my standard reply, "Licence? No, mate, I'm just doing community service for aggravated assault."

With a pixilated look he shook his head and scuffled away.

Bet that got him worried! You get bus driving for assault now? I bet he decided there and then, if it came to it, he would rather do a stretch in Barlinnie than do community service as a bus driver. Don't blame him.