To continue my public transport theme, I was pleasantly surprised to see that the bus this evening, although obviously boarded by passengers, was in no hurry to leave the terminus at The Square. After I'd paid my fare to the female driver (who, it seemed, looked at me kind of strangely), I turned and was nearly knocked over by a drunk who was sitting near the exit and was leaning out to harrangue the private-security-firm man standing by the bus stop. I went upstairs, hoping yer man wouldn't follow.
Rab C. Nesbitt is fine when he's on telly, but not so fun in full spate on a bus on a Friday evening when all anyone wants to do is get home, get packed in ice-cubes and forget about the week.
"G'er on ye fat bash-tard! Ge' on the bus! I'll.... KILL... ye...!"
The fat bash-tard grinned at him through the window-pane, knowing that backup was on the way.
"Driver! Drive the bush...! You have de power."
Sirens were wailing in the distance. Unfortunately, when I looked, it was an ambulance on its way to the nearby hospital and not the Gardai.
"C'mon the bush! I... DARE ya! Ye shee... He can't. Ha! Ha! Ha!"
The security man was joined by two others. They passed around cigarettes and made occasional use of their radios. Then the Garda car pulled up. Quietly. No fuss.
Three guards, one of them of higher rank, judging by his epaulettes appeared. Two boarded the bus and asked Angry Drunk if he was causing trouble.
"No! No! It's the men being horrible. They think they're guards...!"
Then, inexplicably, the driver told them she didn't need help. Someone in a seat behind me said:
"Fuck's sake! Now we'll have to listen to this crap for the next hour!"
"They're not taking him off!"
The Gardai checked the driver was okay with taking her passenger. She was. So off we went.
Yer man says: "They shuddent give a fri' like that."
The bus rolled on. Picking up passengers. Some laughed at him.
"I went home and I dropped the bag... But I'm supposed to shurrup. I'll shurrup."
Angry Drunk gargled a few random words more then stepped off the bus into Tallaght Village. He was zig-zagging in the general direction of Molloy's Pub when I last saw him.
There was an Angry Drunk in my own childhood whose exploits I'd largely put out of my mind until today. I remember the vague hostility though the fog towards anything and everything, from dinner-plates to television to neighbours. Even towards the dog. A long drawn out incapable snarling that continued even in his sleep.
Me? I'm a Quiet Angry Drunk instead. And only Angry if that's all right with everyone else.
Anyhow, as soon as I got home I opened a beer.