I wasn’t sure if Dublin Bus could get any worse than the incident with my travel pass last week, but I guess I thought wrong – seeing as tonight was probably the worst journey back home to Dunboyne from college ever.

So, seeing as I had to leave very quickly this morning and wasn’t able to clean up the kitchen downstairs before I left, I told myself I’d go back home much earlier than normal tonight and get it done, as well as maybe making something for dinner with the random crap lying around in the fridge or freezer. With the aim and intention of getting the 1950 to be home by around nine, I left at around a quarter past seven.

Now while services from DCU to town are plentiful and regular, they still tend to come in a clump. And when those clumps generally mean that you only have twenty minutes to get into town and you have no idea how bad the traffic and/or demand for the bus will be, you have the hard choice of risking it in town, or going through Phibsborough and then hopping on one from there to Cabra where you can meet with the bus you actually want. Which is what I did, since I wanted to actually get back home.

So, I arrive in town at just before a quarter to eight, and check the timetable for the 38, which shows one having left town at 1940. Grand so, it’ll be here in about ten minutes, and I can be up at Cabra Cross within another five, meaning I’d only have about a ten minute wait for my 70. Ten to eight – no sign. Probably just slow out. Five to eight – nothing. Eight o’clock – still nothing. OK, maybe he’s just around the corner and I can’t see him and it’s been a torrid night getting out. Five minutes past fucking eight (actually 8:04 to be precise) and he shows up, not even half-full. Right, let’s get on and get the fuck up to the top of the road already. If I’d have known it would have taken so long, I probably would have gotten the 122 that went by about ten minutes ago.

A very slow drive to the top of the road, not helped by a bunch of old ladies (obviously a bingo party) getting on halfway, and we reach Cabra Cross – only to see a bus coming from Stoneybatter-way and going ahead. As I was near the back of the bus, I couldn’t make out the number on the back too well (from far away 39 and 70 do look alike), and was seriously hoping that it was the one I didn’t need.
A minute later when we got close to the back – fuckit. It was my 70. The 38 lost those ten minutes to the 70 somehow for some unknown fucking reason on the way to Phibsborough. At least I was hoping that we’d eventually catch up to it while stopped somewhere, or even overtaking it.

Well, that plan got off to a high when the 70 stopped at the next stop up, outside the Navan Road entrance to Coláiste Mhuire (where I used to get on/off the bus to and from Blanchardstown every morning for the last three years of my secondary education) – and was scuppered almost immediately when the guy who got off it flagged down the 38. And it was only made worse and worse, so that by the time the 70 had arrived at the last possible stop I could have changed at – the stop outside St. Brigids GAA Club on the dual-carriageway – we were stuck down the other end, passing by the Phoenix Park racecourse apartments.

So I give the parent a ring asking if she can drop down and pick me up since I’ve no chance of getting back soon – and I get a response saying there’s not a chance of it happening as the place was left in a state and that I should probably just get a taxi back.

Which destined me to at least an hour and a bit wandering around Blanchardstown while I waited for the next 70 to come, which leaves town at twenty past fucking nine. After wandering for said time frame, including getting dinner in KFC since I knew I’d be home late. So, I sit down at the stop at the Blanchardstown Centre at about nine-forty and wait for him to come.

And wait.

And wait some more.

Until at ten past ten, me and two others who had been waiting on it, give up resigned to the fact that the driver was a lazy ass and decided not to to through the Centre, despite that fact that every normal 70 after seven is supposed to go through it since the fucking 270 stops service at seven for some unknown fucking reason, even though it runs all the way through to midnight on Sundays! – and end up splitting a taxi home, which I could have just gotten myself originally, as despite the fact it was split with one of the others in the car, as the other one was only going to Clonee, I ended up paying him full price anyway since myself and the driver were both having a bad night with the maths.

This shit really pisses me off. Really.

Dublin Bus need to get their fucking act together, before I have to write another letter of complaint…