Bus Trouble...

"You can get off my effing bus, if you've got a problem! Effing walk! See if I effing care!"

"You rude B*&^%$*!"

"You can be done for calling me that."

Let's wind things back a few minutes to a time when things are much calmer and people a little bit nicer. I'm in Northampton on a freezing afternoon, trying to catch a packed bus back from the football ground to Northampton station. I'm not in the mood for messing about after a drab 0-0 draw and my legs are shaking, because it's that cold. There's a queue of people in a similar condition behind me - a line of football refugees waiting for silver survival blankets and cups of tea. To add tension to the occasion, if that's at all possible, my train back to civilisation (London) leaves in 23 minutes. It normally takes 15 minutes to get back to the station on a 'good' day, but this is not a good day. The referee had decided to add 7 minutes injury time to the game, probably out of pure sadism. It means I'll have to run at the other end. I still think I'll make it. I'm an optimist at heart. I know that the train service is as reliable as the bus service.

As is with all 'disagreements,' it begins with a very small thing. This is how it all went down, in real time. And I'll be as accurate possible - honestly.

I board the bus.

"Station please."

"Bus or effing rail?"

"Effing rail," I reply, with a smile.

"That's 2 pounds, 30 pence," growls the bus driver, clearly not happy at being upstaged.

"What?"

"2...30," he repeats extremely loudly, as if I'm a demented geriatric.

I hand him 1 pound and 80 pence.

"Are you deaf or sumut?" The bus driver is clearly having a frustrating day, too.

"Ah," I say. "I think you're wrong. It cost me 1.80 to get here and I'm returning on the same route. £1.80." I smile winningly. He's clearly made a massive mistake. No one is going to diddle me out of 50 pence - no fear. I might be cold and mentally-challenged after the game, but that 50p will remain snug in my warm pocket.

"It's 2 pounds 30," repeats the driver, even louder. He's not going to give in.

I try reason and logic. "Then why did it cost one pound eighty to get here?"

"I don't effing know. My machine here tells me that it's 2.30."

Ahh, I think. Its not just him. He's now bringing technology into the fight. Upping the ante.

"But why?" I persist. I need a reason for this illogicality.

There are rumbles of discontent from behind me. Extremely cold Cobblers fans are like hyenas. Fine in a pack and all brothers (and sisters), but if one hyena should step away from the pack, the others will quickly turn on him, particularly if its freezing cold and... we didn't win. I'm feeling a bit anxious; they don't care about my 50 pence or illogicality.

Then comes a strange turn in events. The resident mad person on the bus (there's always one) decides to join in. No one is certain who's side she's on. I frown. I'm not sure I want her on my team.

"It's an effing liberty," she shouts from three rows back. "And I don't like carrots either!"

The bus passengers all mumble, worriedly. They don't want her involved in the argument at all, whichever side she's on.

"Effing Jeremy Hunt and Boris Sh*& face," she continues, passionately. "It's all their effing fault. And I'm not an effing racist, no matter what they say."

The passengers all nod, sadly. One or two tut in agreement. Northampton passengers are a simple lot at heart.

"Any more obscene effing language from you and you're effing off," shouts the driver, leaning through his small, pay hatch. He's clearly crossed swords with her before.

"Eff off," retorts the mad woman. "I hate Primark too."

"Steady on," interrupts an old gent at the back, clearly appalled. "It's not that bad."

"And trousers. I effing hate trousers!"

"Can we get on the effing bus?" shouts a newcomer - he's in the queue outside and is wearing a grubby claret, bobble-hat and a bomber jacket with 'Death to the Posh' written on the front.

"Wait your effing turn," shouts the driver, almost reasonably.

He leans towards me and tries a loud, conspiratorial whisper. "I shouldn't be telling you this, but if you were to wait for a number 12, it would cost you an extra 60 pence. You're getting an effing bargain on this one."

"Why, do they have quilted seats and waitress service?" I ask.

"Are you effing getting on or not?" He leans back, not being reasonable anymore.

"I won't pay more than £1.80," I say woodenly.

"Yabba-dabba-do!" shrieks the mad woman. She's on her feet and pounding to the front of the bus. People part like the Red Sea. "She waves 50 pence in my face. "Take it." She looks at the driver. "You take it!"

He takes it.

"Should be effing ashamed of yourself, making an old-un like him pay 50 pieces of silver extra. He fought for this effing country. Effing... Judas!"

"What?" I'm appalled, for so many reasons.

The driver looks over my shoulder at the next refugee from the Arctic tundra outside. He decides to ignore the mad woman.

I don't move. Not sure what to say next, I goldfish silently at a cruel world.

It was then that the driver issues his threat (above). I have to say that it's not often that I call anyone a B*&^%$* in public. Getting your tongue around ampersands and dollar signs can be very tricky, especially on a cold day.

So I say sorry (yes, I actually apologise) and make my way into the bus. The mad woman makes a space next to her. Oh joy. I'm 'with' her now. After all, she paid for me. I sit down and scrutinise my I-phone, hoping to be left alone.

"Effing Jeremy Corbyn wouldn't be much better either," she hurls at the bus. The passengers grumble this time. People on buses on a cold afternoon near Northampton are usually hardcore Marxists.

"And he doesn't like fruit," she adds.

There's a very thoughtful pause as everyone takes that in.

The 'Death to the Posh' man climbs aboard.

"That's £2.30," says the driver.

"What?"

"Don't you effing start," groans the driver.

"And we should have had an effing penalty at the end," screams the mad woman. The tension is relaxed. People sigh. The whole bus and the queue outside murmur in agreement. The tribe is back together again. The community is one with the world. Even the mad woman has a place. She stands up, savouring her moment of oneness with the crowd, and starts shouting as loudly as she can: "Shoe army! Shoe army! Shoe army!"

I miss my train.