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Ahh, Bearsden...land of silver BMWs, Mercedes four-by-fours and tweedy old ladies with wicker baskets and green wellies...everyone aspires to live in Bearsden - don't they? There's no delinquency in Bearsden - is there?

As I humped an old Scania single decker down Bearsden Road I came upon three burberry neds sitting idly on top of a bus shelter like gnomes on a toadstool. They sucked on tobacco leaf and were no doubt regaling each other with exaggerated tales of courage and heroism performed during fist fights of yore; just like gnomes boast about the size of minnows caught on the end of their fishing line, "Honest, it was THIS big!"

With my approach they jumped down from the bus shelter and stuck out an arm, so I duly pulled in and opened the door.

"All day ticket, driver," said the first two with a sneer as they clumped aboard. A quick visual check confirmed the validity of their tickets. Hmm, cigarettes and valid bus tickets? Obviously Bearsden neds were neds of some means - Glasgow's nedistocracy.

But not so for the third and final ned. He stood at the bus stop furiously searching himself like a mongrel with fleas. Clearly the runt of the litter. As the groping continued, his two colleagues Reeboked their way up to the back of the bus where I could hear them talking loudly:

"So, wee Brian grabbed ma heid into a heid-lock like this, and shouts 'Ev'rybdy get him!' But naeb'dy moved! Ha, ha, ha, ha! They all just stood there lookin' at him! 'Ev'rybdy get him!' What a wee prick! So I just went like this, 'C'mere yoo!' - punch! - right in the chops! He falls doon and then I'm like this - boot! - an' he's trying tae cover his mush and get away and...hurry up Stevie," he shouted to the groping ned who was still standing on the pavement with his hands all about himself.

Groping Stevie had, at great length, produced some coins from his pocket. "Driver, how far could I get for thirty pee?"

"Up to that lamppost."

"Oh, noe! Whit am I goannie dae!" He climbed aboard and addressed the bus, "Someb'dy give us fifty pee! C'mon! Fifty pee! That's all I need!" Disconcerted passengers looked at each other but nobody threw the dog a bone.

"Ha, ha! Stevie's walking!" added his 'friends'.

As usual, the hapless dope threw himself at the driver's mercy, "C'mon, driver, just let us oan, eh? C'mon, pal, pleeeeease?"

I can never stand to see such pathetic begging, but the feeling of power over such miserable cretins is undeniably exhilarating - and addictive. I can now sympathize with how God must feel in his heaven: frustratingly superior to all the wretched varmints who tug the hem of his trousers for blessings, but all the time hiding a perennial hard-on of infinite ego. He sees every prayer is a stroke to his Holy lingum. I see every begging ned as a pull of mine.

The only difference is, I was not going to hide my hard-on of infinite ego. In fact, I was going to flaunt it shamelessly and slap him in the face with it.

"Can you sing?" I asked the ned. [slappety slap]

"Why?" he returned, looking more than a little concerned.

"If you sing 'Twinkle Twinkle Little Star' to my bus, I'll let you on for thirty pee."

"Oh, noe! I'm noe doin' that! I've got a really bad singin' voice!"

"Sing it and I'll let you on, don't sing it and you're walking!" [slap] [slap] [slap] went the pink meat of my ego against his reeling countenance.

I have to stress this tactic has only ever worked ONCE before. Most people just refuse and tell me to 'Fuck off!' Other drivers sometimes get begging neds to clean their bus of Buckfast bottles and fast food containers before they make any reluctant concessions. But I prefer to inject a little showbiz into an otherwise woeful situation.

"Alright! Jesus Christ! Driver, you're a bastard, by the way!" Yes, and loving every minute!

"Ladies and gentlemen," I called to the bus, "the wee man here is going to sing to you for his ticket." I then gestured for the ned to commence his lullaby.

"Go on, Stevie!" shouted his mates from the back of the bus.

With a face the colour of beetroot, Stevie began:

"TwinkletwinklelittlestarhowIwonderwhatyouare..."

No, no, no! This would not do at all! The pace of his stanza was far too allegro for my liking, and his tortured falsetto whine was making me balk. He was just trying to rattle through it without giving it any feeling. Time for another intervention of my swollen and erect ego.

"Stop! Far too fast! You're just speaking it quickly! I want you to make my passengers cry! Start again and sing it properly this time!"

"Fuckin' hell, driver!"

And the poor little bastard did sing it and he sang it well! He sang his little heart out for my bemused passengers. A few times he fumbled the words but I was always there to correct him, pick him up, and put his train back on it's rails.

"Ha, ha! Stevie, you're a poof!" shouted his friends from the back seat when it was all over. Stevie's sexuality was his own business, but I think he had chewed enough of my bulb for one night.

"Well done, mate. Take a seat," I said.

Last time when the singer finished he got a generous round of applause from passengers, but this time not a sausage. Bearsden is a tough venue.

"I can't believe I done that!" said a traumatized Stevie as he walked away up the bus. Neither can I, Stevie, neither can I.

Incoming Radio Message: "This is a lost property call from Central Control. We're looking for a plastic bag containing hair extensions that was left on a bus at the St. Enoch centre about half an hour ago. If you find it on your bus let us know. Control out."

Hair extensions in a plastic bag??? Since when did hairdressers start doing takeaway? I'll have a perm please, with a side order of mullet. Wish dentists would start doing likewise. It would save you the ignominy of having to make your way home looking like your face has just suffered a massive stroke.

Anyway, I continued humping the Scania towards town when, at Byres Road, [sniff] [sniff], what's this? Someone smoking tobacco leaf on my non-smoking vehicle? But it was more than that. It was a pungent and acrid twang, a bit like...

"Sorry for smoking skunk on your bus, driver," said Stevie as he came down the bus to get off with his mates. Cheeky little bastard!

"Just be careful, Twinkles," I said.

In truth, I can fully understand why he had opted for a quick blow of skunk. Firstly to calm his nerves after such an awful vocal rendition of a classic lullaby, but secondly, and more importantly, to get the taste of my big turgid ego out of his mouth.