THE offence itself is bad enough: through the bus driver's protective screen, the youth spat at him. In response to a reasonable request to show his half-fare pass, the hooded 17-year-old had already called the driver a "smack head".

So far, so deplorable. Then we learn that the youth, from Stanley, was on his way to the local magistrates' court for another offence.

Imagine yourself heading for an appearance in the dock. Would you be in the mood to be abusive to anyone, even supposing abuse was ever on your agenda? More likely you would be wracked with anxiety, wishing to be as anonymous and invisible as possible.

But that Stanley hoodie is a sign of our time.

Coincidental with the report of the spitting incident came an account of how a gang of youths in Rotherham threw traffic cones at a car, trapping its young woman driver.

A day or two earlier, in Sudbury, Suffolk, a man challenged a trio of ten-year-olds who were riding on a busy pavement. They bellowed at him: "pervert", "poofter", "paedo". One of them kicked over the man's bike, propped up while he shopped.

More high-profile than these incidents, of course, have been the death of a father stoned by a teenage gang while playing cricket with his son, and the shooting of 11-year-old Rhys Jones by another youngster.

The reason why the shooting of Rhys has struck such a chord with the public is that it symbolises Britain today: the crushing of something good, here a caring family, by something bad - the anarchy of youngsters devoid of feelings for others, except perhaps of hate.

Found guilty of manslaughter, which has become a too easy cop-out for violent deaths, the stone-throwing louts were at least brought to court. So was the Stanley yob, fortunate to escape a custodial sentence. Hopefully the killer of Rhys will be far less lucky.

But - guess what? - it was law-abiding citizens who were chastised over the other offences.

The 32-year-old boyfriend of the woman trapped in her car was reprimanded by the police for branding the offenders "hoodie scum".

"That doesn't give the right impression."

The man who challenged the cyclists, to the extent of chasing and catching the one who had knocked over his (the man's) bike, was told he should instead have summoned the police.

IF unlikely ever to have spat, shot, or thrown stones at anyone, perhaps at ten you and I might have ridden on a pavement. And maybe even tried to evade capture. But, when the adult grabbed our jumper, we would not have rasped, like the Sudbury lad, "I'm going to have you for holding me."

Yes, the yobs hold the whip hand. The change was also brought home to me when I leafed through my yellowing copy of The Mersey Sound, the classic anthology of the Liverpool poets, published 40 years ago. Brian Patten's Little Johnny's Confession reads:

"This morning/ being rather young and foolish/ I borrowed a machine gun my father/ had kept hidden since the war, went out/ and eliminated a number of small enemies./ Since then I have not returned home.../ the trackerdogs will sniff me out,/ they have my lollipops."

Today's seven-year-old Liverpudlian Little Johnnys are brandishing machine guns for real. Just about.