I’m one of the few taxi drivers that didn’t take up the offer of free HGV Class I training offered a couple of years ago (had to have appendix out, long story).
So I stayed.
But it’s true, the calibre of work has gone right down the pan these last few years. I’m lucky enough not to get abusive passengers (touch wood) but runners and pukers and generally not feeling safe with who I pick up is definitely making me reconsider working nights these days.
In my opinion, people these days are just angry and entitled. Lockdown has been years of being told what we can’t do, and where we can’t go, and we’ve had enough.
So I get it. I get why.
But it’s a vicious circle. If people are assholes, then taxi drivers don’t want to work at night. And if there aren’t enough taxis, people get angry and competitive.
Actually, it’s a little known fact, but the miserable-looking bloke on the Mondeo advert, you know, the one set in Venice, is actually a Salesman for Buitoni – in their Condiments Division.
The reason why he looks so miserable is that the air conditioning system in his car has been installed with a “Parmesan Filter”, you know, like a pollen filter.
The expression which we see as misery, or sadness, is actually nausea, because he can smell Parmesan cheese everywhere he goes in Venice, and it reminds him of sick.
He smiles briefly when he sees a little girl – but this is for sinister reasons..
There’s a bit in the advert where a barge sails past full of newly-weds, and the crowd are throwing handfuls of what appears to be confetti over them…..
Well… It isn’t confetti………..
When he gets back into his Mondeo, the smell disappears because of the Parmesan Filter, and so do his feelings of nausea!
You even see him inhale and smile as he sits down and grabs the steering wheel and drives off into the Parmesan-free sunset.
Robert Spring, 76, a retired sperm-counter from Harrogate, was reported to be “comfortable” last week after buying a new armchair.
Pubic health officials in Penge are said to be “suspicious”, mainly due to the fact that the overpowering smell of Parmesan coming from the local factory smells like something else.
Mrs Josie Leftleg is said to be helping Police with their enquiries due to a lack of switchboard operators at the local nick.
Things I claim to have seen
A Sea King Helicopter Manual – which was quite hard to read!
Peter Hook, out of New Order on a step-ladder inhaling Mustard gas next to a very super speedy snail.
A couple of odd racoons laughing at the rarity of choice in the third world.
A John Inman lookalike cursing the day he was born.
The latest offering from Pickwick – “Mood Music For Manic Mormons”.
A photo of Norman Wisdom’s Arm.
Some old galoshes.
A man suffering from a really bad headache because he tried to wear a Dutch Cap.
A massive Richard Briers strawberry head lamp.
Things people have told me are true
Apparently, the local hospitals are full of people who tried to imitate Michael Barrymore when he was on Gladiators.
Last week I failed my recent unsuccessful attempt to land my Hindenburg at London Piccadilly.
YOU KNOW WHO YOU ARE.
One (not) to tell your kids at Christmas
There’s a story I heard about this bloke who used to stuff turkey-meat up his bottom.
When asked why he did this he replied, “Well I can’t stand eating the stuff, I’ve got to get rid of it somehow!”
So I got a job to Galgate about 4am this morning. It was -3° outside.
The back lane was pale, glittering and deadly so I kept my speed down.
Hurtling up behind me in my rear-view came another taxi. He had a car full of passengers as well. He started flashing me to hurry up.
I mean – WTF?!
The female passenger sat behind me becomes enraged so subsequently sticks her head out of the window – presumably her head instantly froze like a Birdseye cauliflower floret, due to windchill – and shouted several things at the ‘professional driver’ behind me pertaining to the poor quality of his driving. Or words to that effect.
As we coincidentally stopped at the same place in Galgate she got out of the car and continued to berate the driver. She then got back in the car (as she wanted to continue the journey to Skerton for cigs then onwards to Marsh)
Apparently the driver said to her “He can’t be a proper taxi driver going that slowly.”
So. One of us got a fare scraping the coat-tails of £30, and one of us is a fucking arsehole that is probably going to end up roof-down, with his passengers on board, in a ditch.
It was pretty near the end of my shift. I picked up a guy on his own outside The Lounge, a nightclub in Lancaster.
He wanted to go to Garstang, 10 miles south on the A6, which, when he asked me how much it would be, I told him it would be about £26.
He asked me to take him to a cash machine on the way, so we stopped at a petrol station just before we left Lancaster.
Unfortunately, the cash machine only gave him £10.
He fished about in his pockets, produced a £2 in pound coins, and asked me to take him as far as £12 would get him.
I told him that it would probably only get him to Galgate, which is about 4 miles south of Lancaster.
“Okay then, no worries.” he said, “It looks like I’ll have to run.”
Impressed by this, I drove him to Galgate.
When we pulled up at the Spar in the middle of Galgate he got out, said “See you then” and started to walk off.
I said “Hang on a sec, mate, you still need to pay me for this bit.”
And he ran off down an alley! Cheeky bugger.
Wait a minute… he’s got a bit of a long way to go…
I set off in the direction of Garstang, at normal speed – perhaps with a little angry rev – to indicate my displeasure. Then as I got out of earshot I slowed down a bit, then drove round the roundabout just south of Galgate, and headed back there.
Sure enough – my new friend was walking along the main road, trying to wake somebody up in Garstang, presumably, to come and take him home.
“Hiya mate!” I said cheerfully as I pulled up.
He scurried along the A6 South towards the roundabout I just mentioned, and ultimately Garstang.
During the day I would have had to find a safe place to turn around so I could follow him – the A6 is a particularly busy road during the day. There is a lot of traffic, heavy goods vehicles, etc,
But this was 0430 in the morning.
I’d recently purchased Grand Theft Auto V so was used to mowing down pedestrians and driving like a lunatic etc, so I just put the car in reverse and raced ahead of him.
He darted back towards Galgate.
So I drove forwards again, quickly catching up with him.
He tried to climb through a bush, looking for all intents and purposes just like a pissed fox, or an inebriated hedgehog.
No dice.
Scratched and tired out he turned around. He was hunched over a bit with his hands on his knees, gasping at his exertion.
“This is not going to end well, mister.” I said. ” You’ve got six more miles to run, and you’ve got a pissed off taxi driver with a full tank of diesel in his warm car. Also I’m at the end of my shift and I’m NOT going to give up. This ends now.”
Hello again. It’s been a while I know, and I kind of hope I’ve been missed.
Harrison ready to start school.
But here’s the thing. My son started school last October and because of this it became necessary to bid farewell to driving a taxi at night because, well, I just wouldn’t get to see the little fella very much.
So I traded the world of drunken conversations, vomit, and rude passengers – the stuff of my book, in other words, for shopping bags, prams, wheelchairs and walking frames.
Which is why I’ve been a bit quiet.
Not much to write about, you see..
Except for this week..
Oh.. This week.
In reverse order then..
I picked up a couple of people from Lancaster University to take them to Lancaster Railway Station. At rush hour, with to be honest, not very long to get them there.. my work was cut out for me, but I love a challenge.
As we reached the inevitable lines of brake-lights I asked:
“Would you like me to cut down this side-road? It is slightly further, but at 15 pence per minute stuck in that traffic, it will be slightly cheaper, and you won’t miss your train.”
By the way, they were a bit posh, not students, that I could tell, not parents either..
The older one, a woman, wearing an odd Ascot style hat said “Oh, please get us there so we don’t miss the train.”
So we got there with a comfortable few minutes to spare. The fare came to £7.95.
My son thinks this is real money..
Now, I usually just round down to the nearest ten pence, because as you probably know – I really can’t be arsed with small change. I keep a few 5 pences and a bit of copper in my pocket, in case when fuelling, the pump drips a penny… don’t you just hate it when it goes to £15.01?!
But today, for some reason – I didn’t. I guess I wanted something to write about. Looking back, I may have provoked this.
But you benefit, so sod the tight arsed cow!
I said “£7.95 please.”
She handed me a £10 note. And waited.
I said “Bear with me a moment, my 5 pences are in my pocket.”
By the way – I know it’s only 5 pence, but at this point, if she’d have said “No it’s ok, make it £8” she would have passed the test.
Test? I should explain.
If I had rounded it down to £7.90, as I usually do, I suspected that she would have waited for the 10 pence too. A tip is not expected or required, it’s just that in this job, when you make the effort to give good customer service (i.e. save them money and get them to their train on time) then you kind of feel a bit put out when your act of kindness is not acknowledged in any way.
And it is an act of kindness – and I let them know it was by letting them know that their chances of catching their train were slim, and it would have cost them more in waiting time.
If I was a mercenary individual, I could quite happily have thought “Fuck them, I’m gonna sit in this traffic jam – it’s the shortest route, so I’m not doing anything wrong. They’ll spend more and miss their train, but on the plus side, I’ll make more money, so I’m alright Jack!”
Does that sound like something I’d do?
Okay, ask me in another eight years.. I’m kidding.
Seriously though – it’s not how I am.
I help people if I can. It’s my default setting, you see.
I let people out at junctions, I let people cross the road, On a narrow street, I flash cars coming towards me to let them through first.
And I am unthanked.
The car drives out of the junction, the driver doesn’t make eye contact.
It gets me mad.
A parade of slow walking shoppers traipse (I still love that word) across the zebra crossing I’ve stopped at. One of them may wave a hand. Even a nod and a grin would do.
Most do not.
It makes me want to shout out of the window “YOU’RE FUCKING WELCOME!” But I just simmer. As usual.
The car I’ve flashed through the narrow road has a few mates tailing him.
Two, three, four cars.
All.
Blanking.
Me.
This has happened an awful lot recently, since I started driving a taxi in the day, mainly.
One thing I have to say – and I’m sure this doesn’t apply to you personally, but in eight years of driving a taxi at night, you daytime road users really have evolved into a bunch of selfish tossers, haven’t you?
Like I say, I’m sure that doesn’t include you – does it?
Okay, I know it doesn’t help when the other road users know you’re driving a taxi, you hate us all, we drive around like we own the road and so on, yadda yadda, Jack The Ripper. Whatever.
By the way – I’m thinking of writing to the Ministry of Defence with an idea I’ve had regarding a new type of stealth technology.
Want your military vehicle/aircraft/ship to become invisible to other ground/air/sea users?
Cover it in taxi stickers – no fucker will see it!
Watch this space.
But this lack of gratitude I’ve noticed recently has really been burning me up. Can you tell?
When I’m blanked or not acknowledged this feeling comes over me that I can’t describe – it doesn’t even have a real word – I looked it up. I’ll try and describe it for you.
When I do something for somebody as a favour and they don’t thank me or even acknowledge me this mixture of feelings passes over me:
Ignorant Sod.
I am angry at you for not thanking me for being kind.
I wish I hadn’t been kind.
I wish I could take it back.
I am angry at myself for being so bloody petty.
As you can tell, this was really doing me harm.
It’s ok, I’m not going to go off the rails, wear a tea-cosy on my head and make my head stink of PG Tips.
Not yet.
I’ll get used to it.
Just not today.
So, back to my £7.95 lady. I got a 5p out of my pocket, and passed it over.
I said “Bear with me, I’ll just get the £2 for you.”
Which was in a cash bag. In 5 pences. I passed it over.
She said “What’s this?”
“It’s £2 – in 5 pences” I replied.
“But I don’t want all of those!” she said.
“Well, I’m sorry but you gave me the impression that 5 pences were important to you – feel free to count it, but you might be late for your train.”
Actually, it’s a little known fact, but the miserable-looking bloke on the Mondeo advert, you know, the one set in Venice, is actually a Salesman for Buitoni – in their Condiments Division.
When he gets back into his Mondeo, the smell disappears because of the Parmesan Filter, and so do his feelings of nausea!
When asked why he did this he replied, “Well I can’t stand eating the stuff, I’ve got to get rid of it somehow!”
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