Title Text.
A Glasgow Bus Drivers Story
Glasgow Bus Drivers have the best stories to tell, mainly because we come across every degenerate prick that graces God's green earth. New stories will appear now and again. Feel free to CONTACT me and I may publish yours.
"Tickets Please"
Some inspectors are okay. Some are total bastards. One individual, a short, ginger haired female with a face that looked like it had been set on fire and put out with a golf shoe, was that of the 'bastard' variety. Or 'bitch' if we want to be politically correct.
She fucking loves her job!
How she manages to get that fat arse of hers to move as fast as it does to catch offending drivers, remains one of lifes untold mysteries. Rumour has it she has a contract set up with Bic for pens because she booked drivers more often than I say the word "fuck".
The rain was pissing down like golf balls as I aquaplaned into George Square in Glasgow City Centre on the 42 service heading for Barlanark, one of Glasgows undrained boils. I couldn't see fuck all out of the steamed up windows as the doors on SV420, a single decker volvo B10m opened with the gentleness of a herd of rhino's.
'That on your defect card?', said Ginger.
'Whit?', I fuck-offedly replied.
'The Doors. The Doors. Are they on your defect card?", she snapped.
'Aye, there's a wee picture ay them, and wheels, and windaes, and......'
The pen was out, ready, waiting, wanting to ejaculate all over her sodden book.
'People like you will go nowhere in this job', she smirked.
'Aw, ah dunno about that hen, av made it fae Drumchapel tae here and this mornin ah went fae Blairdardie tae East Kilbri..........'.
'NAME AND PAYCHECK NUMBER!', she yelped, like a mongrel with a thorn in its paw.
Fuck it. Booked.
I made sure the rubber that clad the 22.5 inch steel rims at the rear, clattered down the overflowing drain and drowned the bitch as I made off for the 'Battlefield for Youths' that is Barlanark.
On the upside, they're not all like that. There was one guy, with hands like shovels, a baldy napper and a soft South African accent, which amused me when he got angry, who was actually quite a lenient soul.
It was a real shame when he still thought he was an inspector after a night out when he boarded his company's bus, pissed, and tried to throw an equally pissed woman off for being,,,erm,,,,pissed!
Poor guy. Bagged.
Him aside, the majority are bastards and no matter how much you sooked on these animals sphincters and became their chumlet, you can guarantee they will, at some point, stab you in the back as quick as look at you. One minute they're all 'pal' and 'buddy', the next they're slicing and dicing you, ready to serve you up to the Depot Manager with a hint of P45-sauce.
Most used to be drivers, so they should know how stressful and shit the job can be. But they make the transformation, like Eric to Bananaman, when a wee black book and a company-issue pen are thrust into their sweaty, greasy little palms.
Fuckers.
She fucking loves her job!
How she manages to get that fat arse of hers to move as fast as it does to catch offending drivers, remains one of lifes untold mysteries. Rumour has it she has a contract set up with Bic for pens because she booked drivers more often than I say the word "fuck".
The rain was pissing down like golf balls as I aquaplaned into George Square in Glasgow City Centre on the 42 service heading for Barlanark, one of Glasgows undrained boils. I couldn't see fuck all out of the steamed up windows as the doors on SV420, a single decker volvo B10m opened with the gentleness of a herd of rhino's.
'That on your defect card?', said Ginger.
'Whit?', I fuck-offedly replied.
'The Doors. The Doors. Are they on your defect card?", she snapped.
'Aye, there's a wee picture ay them, and wheels, and windaes, and......'
The pen was out, ready, waiting, wanting to ejaculate all over her sodden book.
'People like you will go nowhere in this job', she smirked.
'Aw, ah dunno about that hen, av made it fae Drumchapel tae here and this mornin ah went fae Blairdardie tae East Kilbri..........'.
'NAME AND PAYCHECK NUMBER!', she yelped, like a mongrel with a thorn in its paw.
Fuck it. Booked.
I made sure the rubber that clad the 22.5 inch steel rims at the rear, clattered down the overflowing drain and drowned the bitch as I made off for the 'Battlefield for Youths' that is Barlanark.
On the upside, they're not all like that. There was one guy, with hands like shovels, a baldy napper and a soft South African accent, which amused me when he got angry, who was actually quite a lenient soul.
It was a real shame when he still thought he was an inspector after a night out when he boarded his company's bus, pissed, and tried to throw an equally pissed woman off for being,,,erm,,,,pissed!
Poor guy. Bagged.
Him aside, the majority are bastards and no matter how much you sooked on these animals sphincters and became their chumlet, you can guarantee they will, at some point, stab you in the back as quick as look at you. One minute they're all 'pal' and 'buddy', the next they're slicing and dicing you, ready to serve you up to the Depot Manager with a hint of P45-sauce.
Most used to be drivers, so they should know how stressful and shit the job can be. But they make the transformation, like Eric to Bananaman, when a wee black book and a company-issue pen are thrust into their sweaty, greasy little palms.
Fuckers.
