Bloodbus

There were nine or ten Polish factory workers waiting for me at the Greenhills terminus. Although very polite, their weary faces spoke eloquently of the acrid funk of urine that bit through the night air. Yes, it was very unpleasant for them, but they didn't know the half of it. Some quick boweled drivers have left far fouler things in those bushes over the years. Hopefully the workers who took a shortcut through the undergrowth tonight were mindful of where they placed their feet.

That's why you must obey signs on buses that say "Please do not put your feet on the seats". It's a reminder that a careless Pole may have just tramped through a king kebab shortly after it has passed through the bloated guts of a fiend like Driver Humpty. With Greenhills being our depot's favourite al fresco latrine, it's only a matter of time before the hissing serpent of rectal karma comes back to bite each and every one of us.

The last Pole clumped aboard and held up his pass, but I only had eyes for his feet. Fortunately they were clean and I let him board. I noticed he was a man of colour, probably of African descent and spoke little English.

This concerned me because despite everything that has been done to make Glasgow a less bigoted city, there are still some who openly revile anyone they see as 'different'. Whether it's the colour of your skin or the style of your hair, I've heard such narrow minded comments on my bus that I almost thought I was driving through a 'hick' town in America's deep south, instead of the front runner for the 2014 Commonwealth Games.

Off we went. Before long I picked up two abdominous giggly girls who were heading into town for a night out. Despite both their heads being the size of a puffed pillow, they actually looked quite appetizing. They oozed into my vehicle wearing tight leggings and an array of girly feathery confections. This attire somehow belied their underlying mass and made them look positively dainty. But the lie ended when they started speaking. For that's when the gobbling began.

Yes, I'm afraid these girls 'gobbled' their L's. Every time they tried to pronounce the letter 'L', it came out as a 'G'. But it wasn't a normal 'G' as in the word 'glum' or 'goofy', but more of a turkey gobble right from the back of the throat - a sort of guttural 'rg' - that French people do.

Lieutenant Columbo was a master of the gobble with his immortal catch phrase, "Just one rgast thing..."

"One intae the toon prgease, driver," said each turkey, picking through change.

They plopped in their coins and I printed their tickets. I sensed these birds had already marinated in a sizeable alcoholic aperitif, so decided to employ the old accelerator test to find out just how much they had quaffed: full throttle away from the bus stop.

"Wah!" shouted the fowl, stumbling around, flapping at hand rails and shedding feathers all over the floor. "Ha, ha, ha! I neargy ferg on ma arse there! Ha, ha, ha! I neargy went frgying doon the bus! Ha, ha, ha! Stoap rgaughing at me! Ha, ha, ha! Stoap rgaughing!"

Well, I'd say that's at least half a bottle of wine each. Because rgambrini girls just wanna have fun.

Then the atmosphere suddenly changed. An unkempt middle aged man stumbled on at Greenhills shopping centre and sat down near the sozzled birds. No need for the accelerator test with him, he was already well gone. The turkeys seemed so spooked by this chap, it was as though he were a whisky-sloshed farmer who had appeared with a scythe and a fist full of stock cubes.

I couldn't hear everything but I sensed an English accent when the filthy man said, "Look at you two. It just goes to prove that you do think about it just as much as men."

The turkeys whooped and gobbled. The man said something else which made them whoop and gobble even more.

This went on all the way to the bus station where they were now shouting at each other. "See you!" bellowed the man to one of the turkeys, "I would never ever shag you!"

"I would never shag you either! Ya fuckin' crgown!"

"And see you!" to the other turkey, "I would never shag you either!"

"Get tae fuck ya firgthy bastard!"

"Are you lesbians? They're usually big bruisers."

"Get away frae' me! Get oot ma fuckin' rgife!" boiled a turkey in anger.

Having now established that none of the three were going to be spending the night together, the filthy man staggered down the bus to get off. But before he left, he tried to involve the Polish workers who had up until now been sitting in silence.

"Look at you!" he said to the girls. "You're both sitting there staring at him and wondering if it's true, aren't you?" he said, pointing to the black Pole. "Admit it! You're thinking about his big black cock!"

Piggy in the middle

"Aaarrg! Driver! Hergp! Get him aff the bus!" hollered one of the turkeys.

The black pole stood up, "Fock uff! You leave dis!" he shouted at the filthy bastard who immediately shambled off the bus at full stagger. I closed the doors. "Alright?" he asked the girls.

"Aye, thanks. I just hate firgthy pricks rgike that!"

A happy ending for the turkeys: they had gotten rid of the filthy prick they didn't like and were now in the company of the black pole that they did.