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You don't have to be behind the wheel of a bus for craziness to strike. Even just wearing a bus drivers uniform in the street can attract a bizarre array of freakery from the public. This week, for example, I was walking to the driver change over point when a taxi screeched to the side of the road and gave a long blast of the horn.

"Hey, pal!" shouted the scowling lump of a driver, "one of your buses knocked a wing mirror off my car!"

"Oh, really?" I said, quite taken aback. "Which bus?"

"Dunno, but I'm bloody furious!" and he bared his teeth to show that he most certainly was. "They all come down my street hitting parked cars. Don't you have to pass a test to drive those fucking things?"

"When did it happen?" I asked, trying to calm him down.

"A few weeks ago. Last month, or something."

Last month for Christ's sake! Well, I almost made free with an oath. One driver takes his wing mirror off and suddenly all bus drivers are scoundrels. Now that's what I call resentment. Some British War veterans still spite the entire Japanese race for their treatment of allied POW's. However, witnessing your compatriates being vivisectioned and boiled alive is probably more grounds for a life long grudge than having a wing mirror knocked off your car.

After the cabbie vented his spleen for a few more minutes I informed him that the correct course of action was to write a letter to the company. However, I could sense that the oaf would probably have to get someone else to write it for him, what with him having nothing more than rice pudding for brains.

He wasn't too concerned with my advice and simply mounted another expletive-rich invective against bus drivers. He was howling, spitting and waving his arms around in a malevolent mardi gras. Us lot abviously disturb him very powerfully. Sneaking up on this guy, even in several decades time, and shouting bus! would probably achieve the same complete constitutional failure as sneaking up on a war veteran today and shouting suchi!

At the change over point, I picked up a rather busy bus from Stingball but managed to avoid much of his biting sarcasm and poker faced put downs. Difinitely the biggest mouth in the depot. As I took to the wheel and headed up to the open wound that is Knightswood, my bus radio crackled into life:

Incoming Radio Message: "Central Control to all services in the Byres Road area. This is a missing person enquiry on behalf of the police. We're looking for an elderly male, five foot nine, gray hair, wearing brown trousers, a brown waist coat, a cream sweater and flip flops."

Flip flops! Not exactly difficult to spot wearing those. Mind you, there is a University up there and I have seen various academic professor types going about dressed like grand patriarchs of some wacky New Age commune. The Age of Aquarius has most certainly dawned on Byres Road. In fact, the fugitive may be strategically blending in amongst them.

Thankfully, by the time I reached Knightswood the bus was a lot lighter. This was good because it meant there were less people to suffer injury from projectiles if the Knightswood Young Team were on the prowl. Usually they were, and tonight was no exception.

I could see about twelve youths standing in the middle of the road up ahead and it was clear they had spotted me. There was nothing I could have done. You can't say excuse me ladies and gentlement, does anyone know a detour that will get me round these blood thirsty delinquents? I had to follow the bus route, and that took me straight into the jaws of the Young Team.

They stood in the middle of the road blocking my way, so I slowed to walking pace. That's when I noticed the Nedette swinging the cricket bat. I coudn't believe it! A girl was going to make an attempt on my windows with a damned cricket bat! Usually the KYT prefer airborne ordinance such as stones and bottles, but this was the first attack I had witnessed using sports equipment.

She walked unhurriedly round to the side of the bus and took a hefty swing. The sound of willow on glass made more of a bong than a crash, but to my amazement the window remained intact. Mind you, the sudden loud impact made a muppet on the bus go "Whoop!" and no doubt squirt an extra soup con into her Tenna Lady. At least I wasn't the only one on the bus peeing myself.

The Nedette squared up again. Hoisting the bat even higher, she took an even bigger swing. But again, bong rather than crash. The bus was beginning to edge away from her at this point, so she took one final, frustrated swing. But for a third time, the window denied her.

Her complete failure to even make a scratch gave me a sort of malignant satisfaction. For any self respecting Young Team, any debauched night of ultra-violence is not complete without the tinkle of bus glass on tarmac. Otherwise how could they justify writing KYT No.1 everywhere? More like No.5 or No.6 if you ask me.

After an embarrassing cock up such as this, the KYT would no doubt be eclipsed in the Young Team Delinquency league by, not only the Young Possil Boys, Young Parkhead Rebels and Young Scotstoun Fleet, but even those jocular tards who call themselves the Yoker Krazy Krew; the ignominy! As I made off, I figured that the KYT would probably relegate the failed batsman to the fielding position of Deep Fine Cock.

There was no point in contacting the control room. Unless two or three buses in a row got their windows smashed they wouldn't even bother sending a police car round, or even condescend to put out a radio call for the benefit of other buses. Damn it, the Young Team knew it and all of them wore a smirk as I zoomed round the corner to get away from them.

Finally, I reached the terminus and switched the engine off. A muppet standing at the stop tapped the door, "Ven are you leaving, driver?"

That was a German accent I was detecting. "Five minutes," I said, "Hop on and take a seat."

"Dank you," said the muppet.

I thought it only right to warn her about the KYT death squad that were going about tonight and she seemed suitably disgusted. Then, as muppets often do, she began telling me a story: "I vill tell you vot I saw on ze news."

Hang on, let me strap in.

"A man on a bus in London kept throwing heez feesh and cheeps at another man's goorlfirend. Ze other man told heem to stop, but he deedn't stop. He kept throwing heez feesh and cheeps at heez goorlfriend. Zen, you know vot heppened?"

Do I know what happened? We'll, lets see. In my experience they start shouting and swearing at each other, then they start the spitting, and finally they usually end up rolling around the floor of the bus in a drunken brawl amongst the empty beer cans and fast food leavings. Then, unless one of them pulls out a knife, the fight fizzles out as one of them flees the bus. But I was interested to hear what she had to say, so I let her continue.

"He moordoored heem!" she exclaimed.

So, one of them did pull out a knife then. Ahh, the things people do just to keep their Young Team ahead of the Yoker Krazy Krew.