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It was a truly delicious day. Blue sky and boobs wherever the eye did wander, and my eye did wander so very far. With my Top Gun shades on I was free to size up all of my female clientele's assets as they bounded up the stairs of my vehicle. With a wobble and jiggle it was truly a fair day for fare paying fayre. A carnival of quim. Yum!

Later, as the Sun went down and nipples hardened, I stood at the relief point on Dumbarton Road waiting for my next bus to arrive. Inspector Slinky was there also. His presence was to regulate buses on their time tables and do a little PR with passengers by presenting a visible and helpful face of the company. But I call him Inspector Slinky because he was presently cowering behind me in the entrance to a block of flats saying, "Hide me! Hide me! That wuman in the white top always nips ma fuckin' heid every time she sees me! Always moanin' aboot buses like a fuckin' rusty gate! Just stand there a minute and don't move!" The woman in the white top waddled by and Inspector Slinky slunk away under her searching radar.

But Inspector Slinky's job was not finished yet. A decker had pulled up and was waiting for relief driver Pebble Kong to take over the controls. Unfortunately, Pebble Kong was nowhere to be seen so Inspector Slinky decided to march up and down the street to track him down. Was he in the tea room? No. Was he round at the bus station? No. Was he buying something in a nearby shop? Thrice nay.

A bus with no relief looks genuinely dejected sitting there at the side of the road with it's hazard warning lights winking. Such a sullen look reminded me of big chubby Stoddart who was always the last girl to be picked at social dance in school on account of her smelly armpits and spluttering cough. She claimed it was due to her hay fever but we used to wind her up by saying she was actually retching up one of Dim Smiddy's pubes. Yes, I was a bastard at school too.

Then, as though a light had been flicked on, Inspector Slinky suddenly brightened, "I know where he'll be!" he said and marched straight into the bookies on the corner. About five minutes later, Inspector Slinky emerged from the bookies with a very glum looking Pebble Kong. Without another word between them, Pebble Kong climbed into the forlorn decker and humped it all the way down Dumbarton Road. I think that's what happened to chubby Stoddart too. For all her wretched moping around at the side of the gym hall during social dance, I think she was the first girl to get humped. Funny how that works.

"What happened with Pebble Kong in the bookies?" I asked Inspector Slinky. "You were in there for a long time."

Slinky scratched his head and measured out his words slowly, "Well, I walked in an' saw him just sittin' there staring into space. His eyes were a' glazed as though he wuz aboot tae burst intae tears. I says to him, 'Do ye know yer bus is sittin' ootside?' but he didnae answer me. So I says tae him, 'Ur ye alright?' and he says 'Noe! I'm fuckin' noe alright!'"

"What was the matter with him?"

"He just blew his £1000 criminal compensation claim on a single horse!"

Now that's GOT to hurt! Driver Pebble Kong must have taken a hell of a beating in order to have been awarded £1000 in criminal compensation. A real thrashing in fact. However, every punch to the chops and kick to the knackers must have felt like a shy virgin's kisses in comparison to how badly he felt about himself now. It makes you wonder who is the bigger crook: the thug who beat him up or the scavenging money vampires who run BetFred. But that's all academic now because once Pebble Kong goes home tonight and tells Mrs Kong what he's done, I reckon he'll be on to another £1000 criminal compensation claim. WHAM!

My bus turned up a few minutes later and I headed into town. At the Kelvingrove art galleries I picked up a couple of squat ballers. The woman barked something at me that I didn't understand. I couldn't place her accent at all, it sounded like Polish crossed with dog.

"Mee noe understandee!" I said in my best foreign.

The woman then fumbled for her mobile phone and typed something in to the keypad. She held up the phone so I could see what she had written, 'U PASS CNTRL STATON?'

Ah, deaf! That was it! Not Polish or dog, they were deaf! I swear I was this close to pulling out my mobile phone and typing "YES" but I figured a nod of the head would suffice. So nod I did and with a flick of their concession passes they boarded.

But all was not well with the deaf couple. As soon as they sat down they broke into a heated argument with each other - in sign language. Ever seen someone arguing in sign language? It's bloody crazy! I watched them on the CCTV screen karate chop the air right in front of each other's face. If she accidentally conjugated a noun at the wrong time the poor guy might have lost the tip of his nose. Although they were "shouting" at each other there was no noise coming out at all, they were merely mouthing the words. But by Charing Cross the argument reaching a new phase and they did start letting the odd yelp out. The woman was the best because every time she "spoke" all you could hear was, "Puh, puh, puh, puh, puh [SQUEEK]".

Now, I don't like altercations on my bus no matter what their disability and this couple's exchanges were now disturbing other passengers. I was tempted to type 'SHUT IT!' into my phone and stick it in their faces, but in the interests of political correctness I refrained. Besides, with the speed at which they were signing, my hand would have come back looking as though I had stuck in a lawn mower.

I was hoping that the deaf "fight" would be the only excitement on my bus this evening, but I have learned to expect the unexpected in this job. You really don't know what might be waiting for you round the next corner. Especially so when your final run of the night takes you from that festering goitre known as Drumchapel all the way down to the inflamed prostate named East Kilbride.

Everything was quiet and my punters well behaved until I got to East Kilbride bus station. There was another bus sitting in the stance that I was supposed to pull into so I just pulled into the next stance along. The waiting punters looked a bit confused by this but my destination screen was working fine so I figured there should be no ambiguity about what number I was and where I was headed.

But I forgot that some punters don't bother to read the destination screen. They think that because the bus has pulled into the stance at which they were waiting that it's going to take them home. So as soon as I left the bus station and turned the corner, a wee dumpy muppet started yelling, "Driver! Stoap! You've gone the wrong way!"

I ignored her because I was in fact going the right way. It was she that was on the wrong bus. She fired again, "Stoap! Do ye hear me driver? Do ye understand? Are you Polish? Someone's got tae tell him! He's away the wrong way!"

"Noe he's noe! This is they way the bus always goes!" I heard another passenger shout.

"Naw it doesnae! It goes the other way! Hey, driver! Just go up tae that roonaboot and turn roon and go back the way ye came!"

I went up to the roundabout and went straight through, following the bus route.

"Naw! Driver, you've gone completely the wrong way! Stoap! Stoap the bus!"

I didn't stop.

The muppet came thumping down the bus and banged on my bandit screen with her fist, "Hey! Whit ye' all aboot? Can ye' noe hear me shoutin'?"

I looked at her. It was just a glance, but a glance was all I needed, for indeed it was as though all my Christmases had come at once! She was an unkempt mud-monster created by evil untold, a slobbering jellyfish whose loose jaw unhinged to reveal a gigantic red tongue that unfurled and wriggled like an unruly octopus tentacle. How she trained that slithering beast to form words inside her podgy round mouth I am unsure, but when she spoke, her tongue really did do all the talking.

On the right side of her chin was a large mole. No, wait, that's an understatement, it was a huge fleshy floret of cracked skin, a heinous garland of erupting epidermis that her searching tongue had no difficulty in reaching. To you and me that fleshy mound would represent a main meal and pudding in one serving, but to her bestial tongue it was a mere chick pea, a nibble, a vol-au-vent, an amuse bouche.

And lick it she did, much like some people bite there nails or tap their foot when they are stressed, she licked her mole. It's punters like this that keep me going in this job. Praise God for each and every one of her mutated chromosomes!

"Are ye noe goin tae Licky Road?" she tongued.

You've GOT to be kidding! Licky Road?

"Where's Licky Road?" I asked, stifling my convulsions.

"It's, um, it's, Licky Road!" she whipped again. "Licky Road!"

Maybe she was taking the piss out of herself and had a stronger grasp of irony and self-deprecating humour than I initially gave her credit for.

A passenger from the back of the bus clarified the situation, "Lickprivick Road, driver!"

"Oh! Lickprivick Road! Yes, I do go there, is that what you meant?"

"Aye! Up Licky Road! Christ! Stoopit bus driver!"

At Lickprivick Road she got off and slithered away into the night. All in all, she seemed generally harmless. The kind of innocent wee butterball that wears socks in bed and eats whatever is put in front of her. However, when she eventually dies and the nursing home throws her body into a dumpster, her tongue will endure in a jar of formaldehyde for generations of scientists to hypothesize over and prod.