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Splat!

And another surreal bus driving moment was born.

This particular Splat occurred while I was just standing at the drivers' change over point in the evening gloom.

As I pondered the comings and goings of the busy street around me, an older fella wearing a blazer with badges and commendations pinned to his lapels shuffled up to the bus stop and unceremoniously plonked his shopping bags down. He had one of those WW2 airman's handle bar moustaches which they used to curl around their index finger and say: What a fine fillie! upon seeing an attractive young dame. Despite his age, and to my complete astonishment, he pulled out an i-pod and started skipping through some tracks.

Such an incongruous picture this was - seeing the old fiddling with the new - but today's age-less society is very 'live and let live'. These days pensioners go to university, visit pubs and clubs and even throw themselves out of aeroplanes.

However, I have to draw the line at trying to steal your Grandson's girlfriend. That's just sick. You hear me Grandpa? Sick!

Wonder what the Old Groover was listening to on his i-pod. He was probably gettin' jiggy with a drum'n'bass mix of Vera Lynn's 'We'll Meet Again'. Nice change to see a pensioner bopping away and enjoying himself instead of scowling and moaning at me because their bus was late.

Mind you, by the time the veteran flicked forward to DJ Mustard-Gas and his Artillery Mix of 'The White Cliffs of Dover', a large hen's egg whistled by my nose and splatted down between myself and Old Groover. I half expected the guy to have a mental flashback to the blitz and make for the rusty Transit van across the street thinking it was an Anderson shelter.

But all credit to his tranquil disposition as he just followed the egg as it thwacked onto the pavement. Although it missed us both, the force of the impact made the eggy goo spurt up on to the hem of his trousers like a snotty come shot from a dubious German skin flick. Without so much as a grumble, he calmly wiped the money shot from his trouser leg with a handkerchief.

How refreshing to see such measured behaviour in response to adversity. Had Old Groover actually belonged to today's i-pod generation then he would have no doubt dispatched many an oath and cursed blindly into the street. In Glasgow, this would have just started someone else off across the road and the wretched cycle would be perpetuated ad infinitum.

But who actually threw the egg? The local Neds knew that the bus stop was used as a change over point by bus drivers and usually declared open season on us when they passed. But when myself and Old Groover looked around, there were no Neds to be seen. Very strange.

Then, as a last resort and in perfect synchrony, we both looked UP! What the hell were we looking for in the sky? A chicken? I still can't believe we did that!

A bus swung round the corner with Toothlock Doddy Boy at the controls. The vehicle was packed to the rafters with glum faced commuters, all making their way home after another day's graft for modern-day, slave driving Mill Owners in the city. I bade Toothlock Doddy Boy a good evening as I climbed into the cab. His shift for our slave driving Mill Owner was over but mine was just beginning.

Having sat down in the cab, the thick wreak of a million sweaty bus driver's tooshes assaulted my senses. So I opened the window as far as it would possibly go and gasped for fresh air. Damn that Toothlock Doddy Boy! Did he not know that it is bus driving de rigueur to open the window and fumigate the cab before handing the bus over to another driver? Incompetent fool!

With the cab air now breathable, I began entering my details into the ticket machine. As the keys went beep, beep, beep, I could hear a man in the distance shouting "Fuck, fuck, fuck!"

Ahh, maybe Old Groover had found the phantom egg hurler and finally lost his cool. I glanced about but couldn't see who was shouting. Disconcertingly though, the shouting was getting closer.

"I'm gonna get you, ya bastard!"

I stopped typing on my ticket machine and looked about for the source of the hollering. Someone was going to get their ass kicked and, with a bit of luck, I might even have a ring side seat.

"Come here, you!"

And there he was. My wing mirror caught the reflection of a short, portly man who's face was bearded and bespectacled and rather red as he cantered along the road. I wondered who he was chasing because there was certainly no one running away from him.

Beardo marched up to my bus and hammered his fist against the door. Wouldn't you just know it?

"Open the fucking door!"

Ah! Maybe he's got a beef with someone on my bus! Heh, heh. Let's be evil and let him in. Yes, a little beardy pugilist would cheer me up. I could really go a laugh after suffering Death By Toosh on account of Toothlock Doddy Boy's ignorance. So let him in I did, and long did I rue that decision.

"Caught you!" he said pointing his finger at me. "What the fuck do you think you were doing running by me at that last bus stop?"

"Oh! Wait a minute, it wasn't me. You see, we've just changed over-"

"You think it's fucking funny do you?" he interrupted. "Give me a complaints form!"

"Drivers don't carry complaints forms, and besides it wasn't me-"

"It fucking was you! I chased the bus and I caught you, didn't I?"

"No, I mean we've just changed drivers."

"Ah! So he's slunk off his shift has he? The prick! There's a complaint going in about this!"

He showed me his pass with gritted teeth and stomped away up the bus.

I hadn't yet moved the bus an inch but already I felt like bailing out and going home. Damn that Toothlock Doddy Boy! What was he up to? A paranoid voice inside my head was telling me that he did it all on purpose. First he deliberately stank out the cab, then he ran by a punter at the stop just before the change over point, and finally he legged it to avoid any retribution. Going to have to keep an eye on him...

At Anniesland, Beardo came stomping down the bus again, this time to get off. I could see from his expression in my passenger mirror that he was still fuming. He waited until I opened the doors before he spoke.

He looked right at me as he pointed to his ruddy countenance. In a low, syrupy voice he said:

"Remember this face!"

Remember this face? How could I forget? In fact I might launch a counter claim for laundry expenses incurred through bed wetting caused by having terrible nightmares about bearded men. Make them stop!