We're all going on a summer holiday

It’s almost summer time again and the roads in London are beginning to get just that little bit more congested, if that were possible, and hoards of day-trippers, and holidaymakers are descending upon us to sample the Capital’s many delights. As I have lived in London all my life and work here every day of the week, I know just what pulling power the place has, so who can blame all these strange folk for coming? Apart from out – of – town Brits, I see all manner of nationalities here and aren’t some of them weird. Last week outside Buckingham Palace I saw two Japanese men literally fighting to scale a lampost to take snaps of the ceremonials and on the same day I caught sight of two kids, no more than seven years old attempting to climb on one of the horses at Horseguards while mummy and daddy looked on laughing. I notice though that the Americans appear to be the missing nation since 9/11; they just don’t seem to come in great numbers any more. Shame. But for me, as I drive around and observe the activity in town, I detect more and more Middle East nationals coming here to holiday and I think to myself … what a wonderful world? No! Actually, What I think is, are these the same people who bitterly protest about ‘the West’, routinely burn effigies of Tony Blair and mob handedly trample on our flag? And this is the circle that I just can’t square. I love to see all these different nationalities here admiring our wonderful city and I absolutely welcome them with open arms, but you can’t help feeling that really they don’t like us very much. They love our lifestyle and our country, but not us. Is it any wonder then that this feeling is reciprocated by large sections of our population? What I say is call a truce, shake hands and hug an Arab. Obviously politics and violence don’t work, and as we’re running out of Union Jacks, what the hell have we got to lose?

You bet!

More than thirty thousand people a week in the UK seek help for a gambling addiction. That’s a truly frightening number. Last week I picked up a guy in Limehouse who asked me to take him to a casino in Piccadilly. I know this place very well, obviously, but also because I used to go there myself quite regularly until my bank manager insisted that it would be quite nice if I put the money into my account BEFORE I wrote the cheques! Anyway, the guy told me that he was a reformed gambler and he hadn’t had a bet for over a year. I asked him why then was he going to this place? He replied quite casually that he went there every night and stood at the door trying to persuade people not to go in. I thought this a very odd way to spend one’s evening, but hey, each to his own. After a little further probing, he confessed to me that in his estimation he had gambled away somewhere in the region of three hundred grand in the past ten years, but only now after losing his job, his house and his family did he realise just what a mug’s game it is and if he ever went into a gambling den again, he would go home and blow his brains out. I felt for this guy; I could tell he was a genuine character and here was a man who was and is getting his life well and truly together. Good on you matey I thought. Well we got to Piccadilly and after imparting yet another heart wrenching tale about having once sold his dog to raise stake money, whilst still insisting that his dark days were behind him, he alighted my cab. “Thirteen eighty please” I said, my hand outstretched. He looked me dead in the eye, poked his head into my passenger window and whispered, “double or nothing mate?”

Time for change

I’ve been dragging my old cab around London since 1969 and if you were to ask me what the single most irritating thing about the job is, I would have no hesitation in telling you straight. It’s not the traffic, I aint bovvered! I don’t care about the fact that most of the toilets in town have been removed and I’ve been reduced to peeing outside diplomatic buildings. I aint bovvered! I don’t give a monkey’s armpit about over zealous traffic wardens who wander the streets in packs dressed in fluorescent jump suits. I simply just aint bovvered! No, without a shadow of a doubt the most irritating and aggravating feature in the life of a modern day London taxi driver is the number of punters who think that my illuminated orange sign on the top of my cab reads BUREAU and not TAXI. Try this for an example. I pick up three separate jobs and all take journeys of around three to four pounds and each one gives me a twenty-pound note. In just those few jobs I have given up in change the best part of forty quid. This will be my float, my lunch money, my day’s diesel and tomorrow’s dinner money for the kids. What am I left with? Sixty quid in three notes, that’s what. So what can I do? Well, only one thing. I find a place to park, I put a pound of my own money into the meter, I go into a bank and stand in the queue behind another six cab drivers and I change my twenties for smaller notes and coins. And all this in my own time. So my question to you dear punter is … if I can do that, why the bloody hell can’t you?

I'm not a celebrity...don't let me in here!

From where I sit, celebrity is a modern day no-brain disease and if you’re one of those saddo’s who can’t wait to rush out in the morning to buy your Super Sun to read up on the latest from the 3am girls, then you’re as dim as the next dumbo sitting next to you on the train. I remember growing up in a world where a genius was someone who invented something, brilliant was a term used to describe an individual of outstanding achievement in his or her chosen field and a celebrity? Well a celebrity was a well known artiste whose face regularly appeared on TV or in the papers for reasons of outstanding talent in films, music or sport. Those were the golden days when to have appeared in what’s now called ‘the media’, one would have reached some kind of pinnacle, or near as damn it. In 21st century UK however, it’s far different. If you’re a tart who has slept with a footie player, you’re a celeb. You might be a bloke in a uniform who works for a cheap flight airline behind a ticket desk at LA (Luton Airport), and if you are, hey man you’re a celeb. Frankly I don’t give a toss if you earn more than I do in the cab, ‘cause if you do, you must be doing very well thanks, but because I have high standards, there are limits and depths to which I will not sink just to be a celebrity. I’ll tell you that the Heathrow Express isn’t running today so it would be best if I take you all the way to the Airport for fifty quid or maybe I’ll assure you that to get to Chelsea from Marshwall we have to use two bridges or I just might take your twenty and swear blind you only gave me ten. But, and it’s a big but, I will not compromise my principals by dropping my shorts the next time I set down at the Savoy, nor will I get my wife to take photos of my man breasts to post them on U tube in the name of celebrity. I’m not and don’t want to be a celebrity, so don’t let me in here!

A Sign of the Times

It seems to be common amongst my cab driving colleagues to have all manner of printed signs on the partition window these days. The NO SMOKING sign is a must and has been for a number of years, but over recent times my friends have chosen to display all sorts of weird and wonderful messages designed to advise their passengers just what they can or can’t do in the back of their vehicle. NO EATING OR DRINKING is popular as is ALL CREDIT CARDS TAKEN, or not as the case may be. Many seem to be displaying FEET OFF SEATS nowadays too. But there appears to be a growing tendency, for reasons which totally escape me, to want to inform clients that IF YOU HAVE A PREFERRED ROUTE PLEASE TELL THE DRIVER AT THE BEGINNING OF THE JOURNEY. Now this is the one sign that above all others really bothers me. We’ve all done the knowledge of London; that is after all how we reach such a high standard of professionalism, so why I ask do we have to rely on the passenger to tell us which way to go? I’ve seen cabbies with SatNav’s too. Why? Do they really need them? Are we now into a litigation culture where if we don’t go the right way we’ll be sued? This trend just has to stop and it starts with me, now! From tomorrow I’ll be displaying the following sign in my cab just so all my passengers know where I stand (or even sit) on the matter of route choice. IF YOU HAVE A PREFERRED ROUTE PLEASE DON’T TELL THE DRIVER AS HE’S A PROFESSIONAL WHO HAS DONE THE KNOWLEDGE AND REALLY DOESN’T NEED YOUR HELP. PLEASE KEEP YOUR UNWANTED OPINIONS TO YOURSELF, SIT BACK AND ENJOY THE TRAFFIC. Thank you!

You can't lick the lollipop lady

Remember the days when we had rights and privileges, while in other areas of the world controlled by vile despots, people were oppressed and cowed into believing that freedom was not an automatic right? My oh my, how things have changed! I was following a bus yesterday and was absolutely gobsmacked by the advert/message displayed on its rear. Basically, I the oppressed, put upon, overtaxed motorist, was informed that from now on, when approaching a person in a cap and a white coat and holding a ‘stop’ sign outside a school crossing – hitherto known as a lollipop man/lady – I had to obey their instruction or I would be either fined, endorsed or get this, disqualified should I fail to do so. I want to state right now that I have never ever failed to stop when a lollipop person has asked me to do so. In fact I don’t know anybody who doesn’t, but when I wonder did some faceless nobody sitting in an office somewhere decide that we, a wholly democratic, peaceful society must be threatened into doing something or other for fear of being punished lest we do so? Am I the only one who believes that it is entirely unnecessary for the ‘authorities’ to bully whole swathes of society in such a manner? But more importantly, is this behaviour an unhealthy growth area in this ninny nanny state of ours that appears to be spreading? Lets see, we have instant penalties for dropping litter, fines if we smack our kids, cameras watching us every minute of the day and ASBO’s for unruly pensioners! My God, have the loonies taken over the bloody asylum? I like this development one little bit. Not! And all I really want is to live in peace with my passengers. Is it little wonder then that many of us are packing up and leaving this once great country for a new bright start elsewhere. I know it won’t be too long before I do so myself. Now let’s see, I’m looking for somewhere that can offer me the weather, a decent standard of living, a caring regime that looks after its elderly and preferably one that believes in freedom. Tell you, from where I sit mate, Libya or Kazakhstan looks tempting!

Protesting about the protest

The sun is shining and the daffs are out and as I drive my old groaner round Parliament Square admiring the ambience and architecture, which is sublime, the world seems kinda good. Then as I turn on to the south side, the side facing Parliament, it assaults my eyes, offends my senses and you probably know by now that I’m talking about the protest, that protest! It’s led by Brian Haw who has been sitting, standing, laying and leaning there since June 2001. Mr Haw I believe is a seasoned peace protester who prior to his taking up residency in the square, campaigned for the rights of the Iraqi people, but after prolonged bombing by both the US and the UK widened his protest and took to the street. Now I have a view on Mr Haw’s activities and sadly it’s not what I would call a glowing endorsement. I like to moan along with the next man, but to give up six years of ones life - albeit for a noble cause - just seems to me to be a tad extreme. Mr Haw has a wife and seven children waiting for him to come home every night, but his home for now is Parliament square, so who I wonder keeps Mrs Haw in the style to which she is accustomed? Who I wonder gives his kids a cuddle at bedtime? And who I wonder is paying for the upkeep of his family while he is away ‘on duty’? It’s difficult not to admire him for his commitment, but the man is an embarrassment as I observe tourists looking, pointing and laughing at him and his enlisted army of layabouts displaying their ridiculous meaningless banners in the square that now resembles a council rubbish tip! He’s had victories in court and in the process has seen off many a police chief, but I wonder how long he feels he has to keep this protest up. Surely, if he hasn’t got his point across by now, he never will.

Cranes, cones and blame

I was born in the East End and lived there right up until I got married. I passed my knowledge in 1968, have worked in London all my life and the changes I have witnessed in that time have been truly breathtaking. Samuel Johnson said, “When a man is tired of London he is tired of life itself”. Well the old man didn’t live in the London I know today, but if he had, I doubt very much he’d say such a thing. Before I’d started my knowledge I hadn’t ever set foot outside my native Poplar, and later when I went out with girls, I always stayed local. But the knowledge really opened my eyes to the beauty and charm of the Capital and I suppose my love affair with it started right there. Like all good things though, the affair had to end because of another man! Yes, a man separated me from my beloved London and he goes by the name of Ken. This Mayor of a man came on to the scene in 2000 and promised both of us a new, bright, exciting future, but sadly, like all people who desperately crave fame, power, attention and er… votes, he failed to deliver on his promise. If old Mr Johnson looked around the place now, he would see a city in a terrible mess. Literally! Congested roads that lead to nowhere and filthy streets that resemble building sites. The beauty of our wonderful city has disappeared and been replaced by cones, cranes and scaffolding along with builder’s skips and tipper lorries that clog up the Capital’s vital arteries like a cancer which mercilessly attacks the human body. I’m not tired of London Mr Johnson, well not yet, but what I am tired of is seeing the world’s greatest city slide into a cement induced abyss brought about by lack of planning, lack of co-ordination and as far as Mr Livingstone is concerned, a lack of talent.

Eat Drink and Be Hairy

It can’t be only me that has noticed. No surely not! But have you seen the size of these merchants who ride courier motorbikes in town these days? I mean, a laugh is a laugh, but just looking at some of these individuals, don’t you wonder what feat of balance and dexterity keeps them aboard the infernal machine? Last night whilst dropping at the Ritz, I glanced upon a leather clad Neanderthal who just happened to be sitting to the side of me, and I swear I was in a state of utter bewilderment as my eyes were inexplicably drawn to his rear end. How on earth I thought, did he manage to fit the entire bulk of his lower frame astride his two-wheeled death machine. Let’s face it, the people who ride these things are generally speaking, well, er, come on now, not the most attractive types in the global system and is it any wonder when you see them on the side of the road, machine leaning like a doped up Grand National outsider, whilst holding a fully loaded triple decker chargrilled something or other in readiness to plunge into its mouth? I say halve a biker’s weekly food intake and the nation’s obesity problem would be slashed overnight. One other thing that concerns me about the biking fraternity is what appears to be a regulation laid down somewhere or other that anybody who wishes to climb aboard one on these things with the intention of disrupting the general calm of London’s roadways, has got to be in possession of a full or part beard. If such a rule applies to lady bikers too, I don’t know, but to be absolutely honest, gender doesn’t appear to be a significant consideration! So my strong advice to any driver in imminent danger of a collision with a helmeted person, is should the rider and motorcycle become disengaged, pray that the one to hit you is the machine and not the rider as should it not, you have less of a chance of getting up and walking away!