8:13am. There’s a man on the number 7 drinking a can of Stella while eating a macaroni pie for breakfast and singing Cheer Up Sleepy Jean between (and during) mouthfuls. He’s dressed in what I presume is his Christmas night out suit, it’s ripped at the elbows and he has a swollen face as though he’s been up the whole night greetin.
He seems fairly happy, mind you, but something about his demeanour betrays the fact that something bad has happened. He gets to the Homecoming Queen bit as we pass through Partick, except Queen doesn’t quite escape his mouth as planned, as he lets out a big cheesy lagery belch which makes it sound mare like Homecoming Quweeeaeaeaeaeaeaurgh.
He fumbles in a pocket, rattles his matches and lights a fag. And then there’s that awkwardness where all 30 odd other folk on the bus all kid on they cannae see each other, hoping like hell if they hold their breath and imagine they’re invisible it will hide them so they don’t have to witness this petty crime—or worse, have to be the one to say Haw Pal, Put It Oot.
And then the bus stops suddenly outside Partick Library, shudders completely to a standstill, and the driver gets off and just leaves us there.
And he gets back on, and then he gets back off again. He gets on and uses his radio, then he gets back off, then he comes back on and shakes his head a bit, then he gets back off and disappears round the back. And then there’s a slam, he finally gets back on and shouts Ye’s Aw Needtae Get Aff.
There’s a scrum and a surge forward, all except for Sleepy Jean who shouts HAW! HOW? and the driver belts oot his explanation in his bestest and loudest Cooncillor Mattheson at the Opening of the Commonwealth Games voice: Ye’s Aw Huv Tae Wait Fur The Next Bus Cause ‘Iss Wan’s Pure Knackurt, and Sleepy Jean is instantly appeased, and says Aww Right, Nae Bo’er Pal, Ah’ll Jeest Feenish Ma Fag Furst…
The driver tuts, resigns, shakes his heid and leaves him to it while the rest of us shuffle out along the pavement, and I join the back of the queue of indignant and inconvenienced commuters and Christmas shoppers with faces full of ill-disguised contempt, and we stand there each and every one of us in silence waiting on the next bus, watching Sleepy Jean sook on the crust of his pie or drag on the doubt of his fag while swigging the dregs from his can of Stella like he’s King of Partick Hill as he churns out another few bars of Daydream Believer and a—Homecoming Quweeeaeaeaeaeaeaurgh.