The wheels on the bus go... bleurgh

The night bus.
A Dublin institution.

With EUR6.70 left in my pocket after a busy and messy night (one that would make playing leapfrog with two vials of nitroglycerin in my back pockets a haven of peace and stability), I opted for the reasonably priced and highly entertaining night bus home.

The fact that I stank of spilled Guinness (I can still recall that mini black and white tsunami headed my way, which I dodged with the agility of a chloroform-sniffing sloth) helped me to blend in.

From left to right we have:
- Last chance saloon rocker whose solid middle class background is betrayed by the raised little finger on the hand that clutches the can of lager
- Middle class Munchies Girl. The hat was already a give away but then I heard her saying that the bread had "gone oarf"
- Middle class spliffer. So engrossed in his skinning up (a mix of burgeoning skills, drunkenness and rocky journey in a double decker driven by Lewis Hamilton in a hurry to get back home after his last trip) that he asked if we were in Blackroack yet as we were speeding through Monkstown.

A refreshing change from the Nite Cut Throat to Kilbarrack.

I was definitely the dodgiest character on board.