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Ever seen an attractive cave woman? Not exactly “lookers” judging by the freeze-dried horrors that have been pulled from the ice in recent years. It makes me wonder what early man saw in those scrawny beanpoles that made them want to knob 'em. Seriously, you could tart one up in a mini-skirt and stockings, slap on some lipstick and perfume, but I still would not flirt with it. “Lady In Red,” back in those dark days would have been more like “Growler In A Bug Ridden Tunic.”

Yet, a knobbing is exactly what they got. Otherwise we wouldn't be here today, and for that I'm thankful. I suspect prehistoric men gained favour with those loathsome hag-maidens through contrived displays of heroism, like throwing snowballs at passing woolly mammoths. That would definitely get you laid in the late Pleistocene Epoch. And as I found out tonight, courtship behaviour amongst the lower foreheads hasn't changed much in five thousand years.

I had been sitting at the Summerston terminus for about five minutes watching the age-old ritual play out in front of me. Over the fence, away across the grass was a group of about fifteen gangly neds. Nearby was a similar number of horror-hoe she-neds. It was too dark to see exactly who was throwing what, but every few minutes a projectile would scud against the side of my bus and a loud whoop would go up from the hoes. It seemed that my decker was the hapless woolly mammoth caught in tonight's prehistoric rutting frenzy.

Doink! Another good contact on the side panel. That probably earmarked the displaying ned for a good “nip” from one of the observing bitches.

[A few minutes later.]

Bang! An even better shot! One of those tarts will surely be wiping some ned's genetic mulch from her anaemic paw before the night is through.

[A few minutes later.]

Tink! Hmm, disappointing. The stone merely rebounded off the fence and bounced harmlessly away. No nookie for that ned tonight. The stumpy gristle-bound menace tucked away in his tracky bottoms will, thankfully, be staying put.

At last, it was time to leave the terminus. It was time to ride my battle scared mammoth out of this iniquitous thug spawn. I put the bus into gear and released the brake. Of course, I wanted to hit the gas and smash through that fence towards the neds. I wanted to stampede over the skull of every last one of those dung-munching plebs in a crazy elephantine charge; the kind of charge that would give the normally placid Mister Snuffleupagus a boner to wow even the most pessimistic grouch.

Trampling ned skulls would indeed have been fun. But instead, I thought it best to just slink away quietly before the brick of full sexual intercourse came fucking through my windscreen. Hopefully I could tip-toe unnoticed from this cauldron of crab-ridden coitus.

Unfortunately, just as I started rolling forward, I spotted a little bloke on crutches hobbling up the street. His wobbly progress was hindered by frantic attempts to flag me down. It's not easy to hobble on crutches and wave at the same time. As a result, each whip of his arm was a sort of karate-chop-come-heil-Hitler. An ominous gesture, particularly to breeze blocks and gypsies.

Risking further damage to my steed, I came to a halt long enough for Mr Wobbly to shuffle his way up to me. As he approached, I couldn't help but notice that his oval head was magnificently large in proportion to the rest of his body. He was quite horrifically top-heavy. An egg and spoon race is a challenge for those even in the peak of fitness, but this guy's becrutched form teetered like a rugby ball on a golf tee.

“Alright, mate! How ya' doin'?” he said, grinning and hauling his graffitid plaster cast on to the platform. He continued with a series of head shakes and twitchy nods: “I've goat a wee problem, driver. I've noe goat change. I've just goat a twenty spot for ma shopping at ASDA.” He uncreased the note and held it up to me as if to imply honesty in his story. But this was Summerston and I just knew what was coming next.

“Ye' noe goat any change ye' can gimme fur this?” he asked.

I shook my head.

“Noe? Goannie just let us oan, well? It's only roon the corner, about three stoaps. C'mon big man! I cannae walk roon there wi' this thing oan ma leg!”

Don't think so. There will be no free travel on this bus tonight. But I feigned indecision for a while, just to let him squirm. All the time I was just taking a few more steps back for a better run-up. That rugby ball head of his was just aching to be punted.

“Here, mate, ur ye' a blue nose or a tim?” he asked after a while.

I did not reply, knowing he was just trying to tap into some religious bigotry in order to curry favour for a free ride.

“Ur ye' noe intae the Rangers or the Celtic?”

Again, I said nothing.

“Here, I bet yer a blue nose! I kin tell! You look like a clean cut, educated kinda' guy. I bet yer a blue nose!”

My impregnable silence was like a set of firmly clenched buttocks against his sickening brown tonguing. At last he caved in under my weighty silence and threw himself at my mercy: “C'mon pal, just dae us a wee favour, please! Just wan! How 'bout it, eh? Just roon tae the shope!”

By now I had given myself space for a more than adequate run-up. 'Just wan wee favour' was it? Sprinting forwards, and with a definitive: “Nope!” I booted his oval head clean off his shoulders and right between the goal posts. Two easy points for the driver.

But the wobbler was not so easily deterred.

“Och! Och! I 'hink that's pure crap, by the way! Here I 'um, I've goat a stookie on ma leg, I've goat nae change, I need tae get some shoppin' an' dog food 'an that, an' yoor noe lettin' me oan yer bus fur three stoaps! Well, I 'hink that's piss poor!”

Is it wrong to dismiss the appeals of the humorously lame out of hand? Can a faltering pauper ever be trusted under any circumstances? Absolutely not! But, although this guy clearly had several chromosomes to spare, there was a marked lack of the raw savagery that normally festers in the bowels of this primordial province at night. This chap was simply too weird to be a tough guy, and that at least was reassuring. So, to show I was not entirely without compassion, I considered accepting a reduced fare.

“Do you have any change at all?” I probed.

“Noe! Just this twenty spot.”

“Even a few coppers?”

“Noe! Honest tae Goad! Look, I've noe goat nuhin' else in ma poakits apart frae' this twenty spot and ma mobile phone!”

Even despite the continued pounding by flirting neds of missiles against the side of the bus, Mr Wobbly calmly turned out every one of his jeans pockets to prove his poverty. This situation was going to require a bit more lateral thinking. So I changed tack with my final throw of the dice.

“You got any funny videos on your phone?” I asked.

“Whit?”

“Show me the best video on your phone, and if it's good enough, I might let you on for nothing.”

At this suggestion, the quirky rock'n'roll movement of his elliptical noggin increased alarmingly. His rapid head actions made him look like a man sketching a sweeping landscape using nothing but a pencil up his nose.

“Aye! I've goat a clip ye'll like!” he shouted, and set about thumbing through his phone's menus until he found the file. At last, he passed the phone through my bandit screen and said, “Just press play.”

“What is it?” I asked. “It had better not be anything nasty.”

“Noe, noe, noe. It's just ma mate shaggin' his burd.”

With some trepidation I pressed play on the phone. Unexpectedly, I was treated to a fairly admirable piece of home cinematography. There was no story line or foreplay, it simply began with a naked goatee bearded bloke asking a buxom brunette lying on a bed, “Ur ye' ready, hen?”

She nodded and he was immediately upon her: bang, bang, bang, bang, bang. It was quite astonishing. Mr Goatee was pounding out the pelvic performance of a lifetime. Stretching every sinew, he must have mastered his pumping action by riding wild, amphetamine-snorting mustangs. He was a rubber-spined rodeo king.

“He's fuckin' good, isn't he?” said Mr Wobbler, in awe.

Mr Goatee was really galloping apace 'twixt her thighs. Each vertebrae popping thrust sent shock waves rippling through the woman's entire body. Her full breasts pitched and rolled like pink jelly at a children's birthday party. The unrelenting pull and thrust of his mighty piston would have brought a tear to James Watt's eye.

However, all the while the woman's face remained completely expressionless. She just stared up at the ceiling as though she had just finished her cocoa and was now trying to nod off to bobos. Whoever was filming this production must have spotted her lacklustre acting performance because he zoomed right in on her and said, “C'mon, give us yer best porn face!”

“Whit?” she asked.

“Dae yer best porn face!”

At first she grimaced at this suggestion but, after a bit more goading, she relented. The woman half closed her eyes, opened her mouth and very quickly rolled her tongue around in a circular motion. Not exactly a 'porn face,' more like Scooby-Doo licking ice-cream off his face.

At this point I had seen enough and handed the phone back to Mr Wobbly. “Aye, not bad,” I said.

“So can I...”

“Aye alright, you can take a seat.”

“Ya fuckin' dancer!” shouted Wobbly and proceeded to wobble his head and clatter his crutches up the bus. “Cheers, driver! I'm proud o' ye pal!”

BANG! The Summerston neds were still rutting nearby so I wasted no more time in zipping away. Mr Wobbly was all nods and smiles and winks when he got off at ASDA - but I'm not actually sure he could help it, poor afflicted lad.

To any ladies who might be reading this: next time your boyfriend or husband suggests videoing your bedroom antics to spice up your sex life – beware. Your best porn face might just be his free bus pass.