Bloodbus

Yes, that's what it felt like on Saturday night when I hauled an overloaded night bus all the way down Paisley Road West to that skanky skid mark known as Linwood. The singing, chanting and screaming of seventy alcohol raddled goofers seemed to intermingle and interweave, forming a ragged tapestry of unholy babble in the air. Only the Tamanac tribesmen of South America can achieve such a frenzied climax when they get high on Yopo snuff and try to resurrect demons.

And the demons cometh. All the unrestrained wailing of my passengers must indeed have disturbed the deepest shadows of the Underworld, because waiting for me at Cessnock Underground was a foul ogress of untamed villainy. As though scorched by the flames of Hell, her wiry skeleton was hung with orange, leathery flesh, her head was a round lump of cheddar and her nose was a shiny door knob of finely polished brass. Hell fire or tanning salon - either way she was a flambeed whore.

"Know where I'm goin'?" she said with a Marlboro croak.

"No," I said.

"Helen Street polis station! Fuckin' maximum security lock up, man! Ha! Ha! Ha!"

Oh, dear! Her gaping mouth was an insidious nicotine stained rut which revealed a jagged dental wasteland that reminded me of opening a box of broken eggs. In fact, her entire oral cavity was an ode to back alley bric-a-brac, truly a joyous hymn to the kind of scattered remains that rain down after a gas explosion.

"It's £2.10 night fare," I said.

"Discount for cash? Ha! Ha! Ha!"

She plopped some coins into the slot, but without waiting for her ticket, she frisked away up the bus and started chicken dancing with standing passengers. It would have taken every last Tamanac tribesman frenzying at their very best to summon such a ghoulish spectre. But, just as I was about to close the doors and move off, I noticed another figure in the shadows. A man of colour was standing at the bus stop counting out change. Eventually he stepped on to the bus, threw 80p into the coin slot and said, "Paisley."

"I'm afraid it's £2.10 to Paisley. Night fare."

He pulled out a five pound note. "You got change?"

"Exact fare only. These buses don't give change."

"Hey! Come on, man! Just let me on?"

"You'll need to find an extra £1.30 from somewhere," I said.

"Please, man! Please!"

Orangina, the chicken dancing ogress, became annoyed with the delay and decided to intervene. In a storm of gristly giblets, she frisked back down the bus and got right in the black guy's face, "GET YER MONEY OOT!" she pecked. But the man just looked down forlornly at his fiver. She tried again, this time clapping for emphasis, "GET [clap] YER [clap] MONEY [clap] OOT!"

Still the man stood, looking down at his fiver. I think he was quite stunned by Orangina Ogress and the scorching knives of her orange stare.

"GET [clap] YER [clap] FUCKIN' [clap] MONEY [clap] OOT!"

Call of the Ogress: Get yer fuckin' money oot!

The man of colour eventually bottled it, "Fuck you, man!" he exclaimed and ran off the bus looking quite mentally but-fucked. Shame really because I was actually going to let him on. I just like people to beg a bit first.

"Did you hear that language? Ha! Ha! Ha!" said Orangina Ogress, her laugh crackling like splintered wood. Then someone's mobile phone rang up the back, "Ooh!" she whooped, "Whose ring tone's that? That's fuckin' gallus!" and off she went to investigate.

It is not beyond the perversions of fate that the spooked man of colour could, himself, have belonged to the Tamanac tribe. However, when Yopo snuff is being snorted at the next ceremonial demon summoning frenzy, I fear this is one tribesman who will want to sit it out at the side and perhaps just play the bongos. One demonic ogress messing with your head is quite enough, thank you.

Fortunately, I had unloaded most of my anarchic cargo by the time I got to Paisley Cross. That sack of coal on my back had lost much of it's boisterous bulk and was now just a plain old packet of barbeque briquettes. And by Linwood, it was no more threatening than a bag of cat litter.

But, just as I was beginning to relax: BUZZZZZZZZZ

An alarm buzzer in my cab told me that the emergency door had just been opened. I checked the CCTV monitor and saw two young blokes at the back of the bus, one of them was hanging half way out the emergency exit.

Ahhhh! Lemmings! This always gives me a chuckle!

The bloke shouted, "Whaaaaa!" and leapt off the bus. Although not quite a Fosbury Flop, the guy just crumpled when he hit the tarmac then rolled and rolled and rolled along behind the bus. Great to watch.

I figured his colleague was staying on the bus so I hammered the accelerator pedal down hard in order to flip the emergency door shut. But instead of the expected "clunk", all I got was a rather disappointing "thwap." It seems that Lemming No.2 did actually intend to make the suicidal leap also and was half way out of the door when I performed my little door closing trick. He must have taken the full force of the emergency door right in the kisser because he immediately fell down on to the road backwards and slammed the back of his head on the tarmac. Superb!

As you may have guessed, I don't slow the bus down for lemmings. In fact I speed up. If they want to kill themselves then I want a ring side seat. I'm quite happy to let the little shits tumble out the back of my moving vehicle with all the nonchalance of a horse rolling hot balls of doo-doo out its rear end. Like a quick-boweled stallion I don't even furrow my brow for the occasion. With a swish of my tail, I had dropped two steaming lumps of manure in the middle of Bridge Street tonight and galloped off, leaving them to the flies.

Bon appetit!