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A westering sun cast its shadow over Battlefield Road as the last of Glasgow's commuters headed home. Amongst this evening's stragglers was a paint-spattered labourer who had exchanged today's cash-in-hand for a barrel's worth of ale in a local drinkery. Everything about him was ruffled, wrecked and undone to the point where even his grubby clothes appeared to be inside out and back to front. I've seen mongrels dressed up in old rags by council estate kids looking more chic.

The slothy dolt's eyelids were getting the better of him as he plopped two pounds into the slot. "East Kilbride!" he shouted at full volume, probably to keep himself awake.

"It's only £1.35," I said. "Do you want a two pound return?"

"I don't fuckin' care! I start ma shift at six o' clock the morra' mornin', I just wanna get fuckin' hame!"

Without waiting for any ticket to be printed, he staggered up the bus and was snoring before his rear end tooshed a seat. As we headed through Muirend, I noticed that his slumber was punctuated now and then by odd little facial twitches, as though a fly kept landing on his nose. He was probably having nightmares about being chased by an assortment of evil building site machinery. I felt uneasy with the possibility of having to wake someone up at the terminus who might mistake me for a homicidal cement mixer.

And, yes, he did sleep right through. Even the terrible commotion made by a family of neds bull-dozing their way on to the bus with an oversized pram did not rouse him. There was Mama-ned, Dada-ned and their screaming little Young-blood. The child wriggled out of his pram and flailed around on Dada-neds knees, only to grab at his Burberry cap and the half-smoked roll-up behind his ear. The adoration on Dada-neds face just said it all: patience, Young-blood, you'll have your own soon.

Just before East Kilbride town centre, a sudden shower of rain prompted Dada-ned to lift up Young-blood and offer him the the privilege of closing the window.

"Right, push it shut!" shouted Dada-ned, but bus windows are quite heavy and Young-blood simply did not have the strength to close it. "Hurry up! Push it! We're getting dripped on!" yelled Dada-ned, but again, Young-blood's feeble muscles were unequal to the task. "Right, I'll huv tae dae it mysel', then! Here, hang oan to they handles the noo."

Bizarrely, rather than place Young-blood back down on a seat while he closed the window, Dada-ned just turned round and hung the child by it's arms from a couple of hand-holds six feet up in the air. Even more bizarre is that Young-blood seemed only mildly perturbed by his unexpected dangle, probably having been used to drip-drying from the washing line at home because Dada-ned spent all the towel money on Burberry caps and roll-ups.

Despite many gasps from passengers, that lunkhead labourer managed to snore through it all to the very last stop at Calderwood terminus. Arse! I switched the engine off and considered how best to wake the brute. What the hell, a good kick to the shins usually does the job.

But wait...

[Tap] [Tap] [Tap]

My steel toe caps were checked in their march to the labourer's shins by the tapping of a couple of soggy muppets at the door. A man with a moustache and a woman with a beard were peering in at me, waving their concession passes. Oh, well, age before beauty, I suppose. So I decided to deal with them before I confronted the sleeping caveman. After printing their tickets, they both creaked and bumbled to a seat near the front of the bus. Their muttery whisperings were occasioned by the awful sound of much denture rolling. I needed to get out my cab and kick some shins just as means of distracting my own attention from that unbearable clickety-clack.

But wait...(again)

There was no need to kick shins anymore, for the paint spattered dumpling was awake and striding down the bus with keen purpose and a stern brow. In fact as he neared, I noticed that his fists were clenched and his teeth gritted. Now, down at my cab, he turned to me with features burning: "Driver! Open that door right noo!"

I obliged and watched in puzzlement as he poked his head out the door. He checked to the left, checked to the right, then without stepping off the bus, began clawing at his crotch. This odd behaviour also claimed the attention of the wispy whisperers, but they just carried on muttering and blowing bubbles as though nothing were amiss.

Without shame, the labourer pulled forth a length of phallus and unhooded the flesh-wrapped bulb. There was a sudden gush and a prolonged sigh as he voided his bladder into the gutter. A whizz of a wizz if ever a wizz there was. I couldn't help but notice that the redness of his helmet was pleasantly repeated in the bearded muppet's cheeks.

"Don't worry, mate, I don't think anyone saw you," I said as he whipped away the remaining dribbles with far more flicks than were quite necessary.

"I don't fuckin' care if anyone saw me!" he blasted, still flicking. "Right?"

His nonchalance was fractured by the stony stare cast in his direction by the man-muppet. No longer could he maintain the pretence that he was happily sitting by the fire on a Sunday afternoon blowing talc-rings with his bewhiskered love. Here was a filthy oaf flicking his bell-end right in front of his face with almost provocative abandon. He coughed to underline his discontent. The labourer paused in his flickings and turned to the man muppet with: "Whit ye' lookin' at?"

Now suddenly restrained by fear, the man-muppet said nothing and his eyes quickly sought the ground. Maybe he could manage a few talc-rings after all. Sensing victory, the labourer flourished with a line I think I'll always remember: "You look at me like that again, mate, I'll rip that moustache right aff yer fuckin' face!"

Ha! Ha! Ha! Ziiiiiiiiiiiiiiiip!