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Babies don't like buses. They find them 'irksome'. But, being unable to articulate the exact subtleties of their discomfiture, most of this irk is communicated through an awesome public extravaganza of voice and vomit; like a large trembling marshmallow possessed by bilious demons.

But who can blame these tubby little purveyors of decibels? Could you imagine being strapped into a pram then wheeled onto a smelly, noisy, bumpy thing where you can't see where you're going? It's the perfect recipe for motion induced sickness and the kind of shrill vocal display that makes any rape alarm sound positively inviting.

Tonight's baby screamed and yelled all the way from Argyle Street in the City Centre to Clarkston Toll before an old man finally snapped.

"That wean should be at hame in it's bed! It shouldn't be oot at this time o' night!"

"Whit?" yelled the young feisty mother with all the maternal softness of a bear trap. "Whit ye' sayin' aboot ma wean?"

"That wean should be in it's bed!" repeated the old man.

"Don't yoo tell mee how tae look efter ma fuckin' wean!"

"It's all aboot them and their social life these days," said the old man to the rest of the bus. "That's what it comes doon tae for all o' them noo! Their bloody social life! That wean should be in it's bed!"

"I'm goannie slap him! I swear to God I'm goannie slap that old cunt!"

"Sit doon, hen, ne'r mind him," said a wee granny sitting near the seething mother.

"I don't care! I'm noe takin' that pish aff anyone! Especially noe cunts like him!" She stabbed a finger in the direction of the old man and rattled her hundred or so bracelets.

"Ach! Away an' boil yer heid!" shouted the old man.

Just when I thought I'd seen it all, here was an elderly man and a young mother almost coming to blows over nothing more significant than baby's bed time. With the ferocity of their exchanges, I couldn't help but imagine the sorry circumstances when baby is finally put to bed tonight:

"Read story, Mummy, read story!"

"I can't! I've got a black eye and a fat lip from an old man who was concerned for your welfare!"

"Waaaah!"

Incoming Radio Message: "This is Central Control with a lost property call to any service heading down Paisley Road West. We're looking for a black bag containing a woman's clothes. Contact control if you have it on your bus. Control out."

Belter! I wondered when she finally realised that she had left her clothes on the bus. Freezing rain on her melons? Dogs snapping at her fudger? Surely the penny must have dropped when she was sodomized by a passing taxi driver?

I think control could have worded that announcement slightly differently.

Anyway, by the time I reached the razor gash known as East Kilbride the old man had left, but still the young mother and her vociferous offspring remained. Just before the bus station I pulled into a bus stop to pick up a young, well built chap who was drunkenly fumbling in his pockets for change.

I opened the doors and he just stood there. Without a word, he dug into his jeans pockets with a droopy expression similar to a Madame Tussauds exhibit left in the sun for too long. His eyes were trying to close and he was listing to one side.

"Are you gettin' on, mate?" I asked.

"Fuck'n hell! Calm yer jets!" shouted the drunken fool. His jeans were of the low-slung variety with the crotch join between the knees. However, with his continued pocket fumblings they were slipping lower and lower.

"Ha! Ha! Look at him!" shouted passengers who were intently studying the demise of the oaf's dignity. Sure enough, after some prolonged writhing at the bus stop, his jeans were now down at his ankles and his stripy boxers were exposed. I really didn't need to see that but some muppets were glued.

At length, he got himself together and stumbled on to the bus.

"I'm a fire fighter!" he said clutching his chest. He seemed very pleased about this and looked at me as though his bravery and sacrifice to the community exempted him from paying a bus fare.

"Pleased to meet you. I'm a bus driver and that's my colleague, Mr Coin Slot. Fare please."

"Away tae fuck, ya daft prick!" Obviously my response was not the one he was seeking, but he did plop in a pound coin before shuffling away up the bus. Result.

We set off towards the bus station with the drunken fireman muttering to himself and the baby still screaming. But, after a few minutes even the drunk became frustrated by the piercing screams from the crumpled tot. So, down the bus he stumbled to sort things out.

He leaned forward and stuck his flaccid countenance right into the baby's face, "Aw! Whit ye sayin'? Eh? Whit ye' sayin'?"

Incredibly, the baby stopped screaming.

Instead of using the power of it's lungs to split rock, it began a quiet monologue of "Ba! Ba! Ba!" The alcoholic vapours from the drunkard's breath must have acted as a sedative.

"Whit ye sayin'? Cha, cha, cha?"

"Ba! Ba! Ba!" exclaimed the infant

"Cha! Cha! Cha!" drooled the drunk.

"Ba! Ba! Ba!" repeated the baby. Then I went round a corner and the drunk lost his footing:

"Cha! Cha! FUCK!" he shouted into the baby's face as he keeled over and walloped himself into a vertical hand rail.

Curiously, the mother, who was ready to commit first degree geriatricide only ten minutes ago, was just smiling at his buffoonery. I think she had made certain favourable assumptions about this young chap the moment she saw him.

If any other shambling dolt had shouted expletives into her baby's face he would have no doubt lost some teeth and probably an eye. But this fella' seemed to have been granted special privileges.

Yes, he would be good for me, she thought. Her reckoning was that simple: He has a job and he likes a drink. Yes, he would be good for me. If he can bring home a steady pay packet every week then he could shout 'Fuck' into my kid's face all he likes! I'll just sit here and smile and see what happens...

After this occurrence I shuddered even more at the sorry circumstances of baby's bed time tonight:

"Read story, Mummy, read story!"

"I can't! I've got a fireman's helmet in my mouth in a calculated effort to drag myself out of urban depravity! [retch]"

"Waaaah!"

Even after unloading most passengers at the bus station and heading up towards the terminus, I discovered that the drunk, the mother and her baby were still on board. But not for long, as the drunk had just pressed the button to ring the bell. I pulled in to the next stop and opened the doors.

But the drunk just stayed in his seat. Thinking he had made a mistake, I closed the doors, released the handbrake and was half way out of the bus stop when he pulled himself up and started shouting, "Hey, driver! Stoap, ya fuckin' cunt! That's ma fuckin' stoap, ya prick! You're an arse hole!"

I braked again and opened the doors. The drunk continued: "Calm yer jets, driver! Right? Just calm doon! I am a firefighter! I AM a firefighter!" This was accompanied by a zealous display of chest beating. Is it any wonder the World Trade Centre fell down with monkeys like this in charge?

The drunk then saw the mother get to her feet also. "Hey, driver!" he yelled, "that woman wants aff here tae. Just wait here, right? Okay?"

"Noe!" said mother. "My stoap's the next one!"

"Right," said the drunk. "Driver, you better promise that you'll let that woman aff at the next stop, right?"

"No, I think I'll just drive right past it," I said just to annoy him.

"Whit? I'll fuckin', I'll fuckin'..."

By this time he had stumbled off the bus and I had spotted a gap in the traffic to make my getaway. As I accelerated away, I was comforted by the sight of him in my wing mirror trying to cross the road. He was all over the place like quasimodo on roller skates and I could even make out cars honking him. Surely it was only a matter of time before the road claimed him? Surely to God!

At the next stop I unloaded the mother and the baby, who was crying again. Now with an empty bus, I pulled into the terminus and switched the engine off. Ahhh, silence.

[knock] [knock] [knock] "Driver, when ye leavin'?" came the voice of a muppet at the door.

Christ! I opened the door and let two little muppets on. "Leaving in five minutes, take a seat."

"Thanks, Driver." Then without taking a breath, "Oh my God! Driver, someone has left a bottle of Buckfast on a seat!"

I knew it! "Oh, I just had a wee incident with a drunk guy on the bus. He probably left that," I said and lifted the offending bottle into a nearby bin.

"Oh, God love you, son. I hope you're safe in there!"

"Me too," I said.

"And look! Someone's spilled a carton of milk on the floor where the baby's buggies go!"

"I'll just throw a copy of the Metro on top of that to mop it up," I said.

It was milk alright, but it hadn't come from any carton. In fact it was probably still warm: just like my bus went from Clydebank to East Kilbride via the City Centre, the milk on the bus went from Mama's Boob to Bus Floor via Baby's Belly. A very express service.