It's 2007 in Dublin on a Sunday evening

The bus driver missed his turn. It was Sunday. We were going along a motorway, the evening time, getting cold. He missed his turn off. He'll take the next one, I thought. Net result, I walk for five or maybe ten minutes more than I'd planned. Hey. It was Sunday. The week coming to a happy end. The Dubs won. No need to fret.

Up ahead of me on the bus, it was an old one because Dublin Bus don't send the posh buses out to Dublin West, it was old and green and rickety and there was just me and some old woman and a family up ahead of me.

The woman head of the family blew her top.

-You missed the turn, she screamed.

The bus driver mumbled something back.

-You blacks always fuckin do this, she said. What's your fuckin number, I'm sick of you black cunts, what's your fucking number I wanna report you.

And I'm thinking alright lady that's a bit much. And I'm gonna say something but before I can she screams to me.

-These fuckin blacks I'm sick of them. Every fuckin week they do this.

She was burning up with rage. A peroxide blonde. Well turned out in her Sunday best. High pitched. Accent stomping all over her etiquette. Probably works local. Her son about 6 sitting there, grinning. Her husband turned out like a Burtons advertisement, egging her on. This woman. I'm thinking - you're a fuckin racist. I don't wanna judge her. I don't excuse that horrible shit but fair play - people lose their temper. But she wasn't finished. And her husband hadn't started.

Go back to the jungle, he shouted, outdoing his wife for wit and virulence. The son, only a youngfella, looked down the bus, nervous, afraid to challenge his mother, but afraid to cheer her on. I starred at him. But I didn't budge. I knew it was all wrong, of course I did. But that psycho and her husband wanted to kick someone's head in and I've been there before. No thanks.

We pull up to the stop and as he's getting out the husband tells the bus driver to go back to the jungle. He tells him how lucky he is that he doesn't kick his head in. He starts making monkey noises. It's 2007. It's 1987. We're at an English football match. Everton fans are throwing bananas at John Barnes and making monkey noises. It's 1987.

It's 2007.

Hands up. I bottled it. I did the best I could with what I had. I told the husband as we were getting off to fuck off, that he'd gone way too far. Your man just made a mistake. I told the bus driver I was sorry he had to listen to that shit. He said thanks man and closed the door.