Ho chuffing Ho

All through the year I'm usually a fairly 'glass half empty' kind guy but at this time of year a change comes over me and I turn into the bastard love child of the Grinch and Ebeneezer Scrooge.
So I offer you my Christmas carol and in the words of the much missed Dave Allen
"May your God go with you"

“Chestnuts roasting on an open fire”

No, being sold by some scabby little pillock who has to fight the rats off the trolley before flogging them to you at about a quid a chestnut.

“Jack Frost nipping at your nose.”

Nose be buggered, that’s the least of your worries, two nuts that have practically reversed puberty and a dick that’s hiding so far back it’s like a mouse in a football sock and resisting all attempts to get a hold as your dying for a pee.

“Yuletide carols being sung by a choir”

Three pre-pubescent prototype muggers in hoods banging on your door as soon as you’ve sat down for your well earned evening glass of hooch. First line of Good King Wenceslas, and hands thrust out expecting nothing less than a quid, each, unless you know a good glazier.


“and folks dressed up like Eskimos”

No just the local tangoed slappers in dresses just a bikini wax this side of decent and  shoes that need a ladder to get on and oxygen to stay on all centrally heated by a case of WKD each.

“Everybody knows a turkey and some mistletoe,
Help to make the season bright.”

Enough bloody turkey and pud to anchor you down so you stand no chance of leaping up to grab any totty wandering under the limp sprig of mistletoe on the hat stand and every chance of being pinned into the chair by Aunty Flo with the halitosis and loose false teeth clutching a bunch big enough to hide a buzzard.

 “Tiny tots with their eyes all aglow,
Will find it hard to sleep tonight.”

Brandy in the milk, bit of a waste but works every time.

 “They know that Santa's on his way;
He's loaded lots of toys and goodies on his sleigh”

Santa my arse, two solid months of retail dementia. “Did you get him the Ipod yet? Oh it looks so small, we’ll have to get him something bigger as well because his sisters TV and DVD player looks so much bigger and then we’ll need some more stocking fillers and we need something for Nanny and Grandads always so hard to choose something for and I’m sure there’s someone I’ve forgotten Oh I know………….”

“And every mother's child is going to spy,
To see if reindeer really know how to fly.”

Thank Christ they can’t have you seen what comes out of the rear end of them.
Plenty of evidence to leave though.
“Come on eat the mince pies and leave some crumbs and snap the carrots in half, now bite the end off”
“What!”
“Bite the end off, they need to see some teeth marks”
“Sod the fucking carrots you do them I’m having the sherry”


“And so I'm offering this simple phrase,
To kids from one to ninety-two,
Although its been said many times, many ways,

Christmas my arse
Roll on Easter.

It's a dogs life

I've decided that if such a thing as transmogrification exists I want to come back as a dog, specifically, my dog.

The family gets up in the morning rushes around getting ready for work or school and without thinking stepping over a large golden lump lying on the landing. Feet flying past it's ears, landing on the carpet millimeters in front of it's nose. Movement? If your lucky maybe a raised eyebrow or a desultory single wag of the tail if someone mentions his name. Even when the food bowl is rattling as his breakfast is served not a twitch. Maybe a few minutes later a leisurely rise, stretch and a slow saunter downstairs to see whats on offer. If the cat seems to find his bowl more attractive than it's own does he rush, growl, snap, snarl? No just a look over his shoulder at me with that "Well are you gonna do something about that" look.
Then just amble out and stand by the kitchen door looking out, he has us well trained, "D'you want to go out mate". Doesn't even look, 'What d'you think I'm stood here for'. Sometimes he'll just walk slowly out and have a sniff round. Other days he hits the garden at a rush going for the back fence with a single long woooof, chasing something only he can see, then pads back happy that he's seen whatever it was off his patch.

Then to the important business of the day, sleeping. The ability of this mutt to chill out and stack Z's is awesome to behold. Anywhere will do, draught excluding the front door (added bonus he knows whose in and out) or if someone's dumb enough to leave the front room door open he'll be on the sofa. If I get back in when he's been on his own the head appears round the door before my keys out of the door.
"Oh Hi there"
"You've been on the sofa haven't you"
"Who me? nah"
"It's still warm"
"The cat did it"
"The cat doesn't make half the damn couch warm"
"So sue me, any chance of a biscuit"
I'm still not entirely sure who owns who in this relationship but I'm damn sure who goes out and works himself to death and who would rather be sparko on the sofa.

I will admit that one of the best parts of the day is the walk in the park. Any one of several clues gets him bouncing. The obvious lead, putting my boots on, he even knows the sound of me picking up my Ipod.
Then into the back of the car, eventually. Same routine every time, stands there and looks at me.
"Don't you think thats a bit high"
"Well I ain't lifting ya, you weigh as much as a small house"
"Oh alright"

A nice day in the park, no rain for a couple of weeks. Doesn't matter, he'll find it and take a run from 20 yards. Puuuuuudddddle. Not any more it's not. What's not over him is blossoming outward in a wave that a surfer would die for. On rainy days the Golden Retriever is definitely not Golden but a delicate shade of mud having been through every pool of standing muddy water and had a good roll around for good measure. And what is it with dogs and arse sniffing? He's had his nose up more backsides than the average politician. Like a politician in more ways than one because if it's a bitch in heat that's it. Total deaf mode switches in I could scream myself hoarse and still get no reaction. Eventually get him back on the lead and walk him halfway round the park and think that's far enough away to slip the lead off again. Like a cruise missile in a dead straight line to the last known position scattering old women and children that happen to get in the way. The extra exercise I get in spring chasing that hound. He's a retriever by breed not inclination throw him a stick and he'll be after it like any normal dog, grab it and come padding back. Until he gets about 15 feet away then the realisation kicks in.
'No way, your gonna throw it again, I just ran after that, I'll just put it down over there, you go and get it'

Then back home where he drops in the corner like a thrown wet towel. That's it just drops no shuffling round to get comfortable, no minor wriggling to get the knots out that we would do. Just drops and every single muscle is instantly relaxed and he doesn't give a stuff that he's caked in crap. Why should he it'll drop out when he's dry and some other mug will sweep it up.

The cat walks straight past his nose and meows to be let out and is met by a raised eyebrow as he looks at me and then at the cat.
"How come you get to go out on your own"
"Because I'm superior and more intelligent than you"
"Yeh! well at least I've still got my nuts"

I may have just found a flaw in my argument.

Driving me mad

Remember. Mirror, signal, manoeuvre. Watch your speed this is a thirty limit. Now slow down we're approaching a hazard, check your mirror and indicate to move round it if it's safe to do so.
We've all done some kind of driver training and passed or are going to try and pass a test.
But they test you in the day time before all the Changlings and Werewolves get behind the wheel.

Late at night it's different.
That's the steering wheel, that'll take you left and right and round any ignorant git who's ignoring your horn and flashing lights. Pedals, the one on the right makes it go quicker, just regard it as an on off switch, floor it or leave it alone. The one in the middles a brake you'll only really need that at the end of a journey, not a good idea to ram your mates gate when you arrive. The left one? Thats for changing gear I know it says you've got five but fifths only for wimps who can't afford the petrol unless your pushing for that bit over three figures down the high street. You can get by on just second and fourth if you can't be arsed changing.
Stalks? the one on the right is for flashing your lights at any dozy sod that drops below sixty, the one on the left is the indicators but you wont need them, you'll be up their arse and past them before they know it and the only thing that'll keep up with you will be the cops and you don't want to tell them where your going do you.
Test? Licence? Nah, don't bother, they've got to catch you to ask for it.

You may have realised that the Blog title is a line from Nothing Ever Happens by Del Amitri and it's so true. Once your into the early hours the roads are largely given over to Cabs, Cops and Criminals. Traffic control seems limited to speed cameras and we all know where they are so everyone slams on and halves their speed for a hundred yards or so before tearing off again. Regular alerts over the cab radio as to where the bold boys in blue are hiding that night and it usually shows a lack of imagination as they're creatures of habit.
Priorities seem completely skewed as well but I suppose pulling someone for turning right in a bus only lane on an empty road at 2 am when all the buses are tucked up in their garages is an easy nick and goes on the crime figures. Whereas doing something about the roaming groups of hoodies who delight in heaving bricks at any passing vehicle (every night in at least a couple of locations) or blocking the side roads to try and rob whoever is dumb enough to stop may take a bit more thought and paperwork but we'll save the subject of feral yoof for another blog post.
Meanwhile if you see a cab exceeding the speed limit late at night but still being passed by everything short of a milk float it may well be me.

Man about town

Here coming towards us we have the typical Bon viveur and man about town.
After a pleasant night out with his friends for a few drinks and a lot of laughs he's now making his way home but having felt a bit peckish he's stopped in a well known town centre chippy. This is a difficult three cushion shot, off the door frame into the side wall slide along the counter and into another late night face filler.
After the traditional greeting of 'Whachulookinat' he's bought the usual English late night delicacy of pie and chips having emptied out a pocket full of change and allowed the staff to separate out the right amount like a tourist in his own country and having managed something between a run and an unsuccessful fall through the door is now sampling this culinary delight as he starts to make his way to the bus stop.
He cuts a rakish figure (he thinks) in the standard dress of shoes that would look acceptable and unremarkable below any business suit, trousers that probably took a day of shopping to finally select but look just the same as everyone else's and all topped off with a short sleeved shirt which took the same care and attention to pick and a passer by will have forgotten the instant they looked away.
It's the end of the night now though and things are looking a little less perfect than when he was slapping on the aftershave before leaving home.
Bacardi Breezer does not go well with a check shirt but if he wont take no for an answer then that's going to happen. What the hell. If she can't recognise a good thing when it's breathing beer and fags down her ear then sod her.
The shoes are looking a bit scuffed on the toes as the council persist in putting bloody great steep curbs in all round town and why do they have to put the replacements in at night whilst he's out enjoying himself.
Trousers so carefully selected were now perhaps not quite the right choice as cream tends to show up the damp patch on the inside of the thigh whose origin is best left uninvestigated.
We've identified the competitor, described his colours and now for the nights regional Pie Juggling heat.

As a warm up he's delving into the vinegar dampened paper and going for the chips, an easy starter for 10 you may think but the hand hovering over the container like the grab in a fairground gift machine is less than steady. Several attempts to grab a chip having come to nought he attempts a wider grip and a lunge and Yes! four chips in the hand. Now for the mouth steady, steady, Oh bad luck. Half a chip in the mouth and the rest across the cheek and off onto the floor. Undaunted he's in for another go. The technique now learned, wide grip, lunge and another handful. More this time and something in the primordial memory suggests a change of tactic. Mouth agape, head on one side, he attempts to lower them into the maw again like the fairground crane dropping the grabbed toy into the dispenser and.....with about as much success. a couple in and the closing mouth chops off the rest which fall to the floor. Still a satisfied smile as he chomps on those chips that made it.
Now for the main event, the pie.
Grasping the pie he starts to lift it to his mouth and sinks his remaining teeth into the corner only to flick it skywards, surprise surprise, it's hot. He manages to keep it airborne for a second or two with a couple of flailing attempts to retrieve it but loses sight and interest.  Blowing air and half chewed chip through his burnt lips and onto his burnt fingers as he mutters slurred obscenities he maneuvers for a second attempt. No pie. This takes a while to register as the two brain cells that remain working attempt to find each other but he's now staring at the pile of chips, minus pie. The fact that it's landed on his shoe takes a while to register as the heat transmits through the slip on. Luckily it's on the one foot that is staying rooted to the spot and not the one thats' being constantly thrown around to maintain at least the resemblance of an upright stance.
He bends, slowly, to retrieve the pie and as he raises it tentatively to his mouth topples slowly forward until his head rests on the chip shop window.
Finally happy having achieved balance with both feet splayed apart and head against the glass he remains there, with a stupified grin, finishing the pie and chips with Cherry Blossom relish.

Expensive Politicians.

Well they've all had their turn standing on their hind legs.
Clegg. Wistfully looking into the distance doing his Judy Garland bit, imagining a land where Liberal Democrats rule and there's free roll neck jumpers and desert wellys for all.
Brown. Deluded, firmly convinced that someone apart from his wife loves him and that the whole country is just waiting to storm the election stations and tick his box. Methinks the lady doth protest too much. Unelected as PM and prone to more gaffs than an incompetent angler. You can't see his face without hearing the voice of Fraser "Doomed I tell'ee we're all doomed".
Cameron. Ah! fresh faced little Dave everyones favourite milk monitor. As eager to please as a new puppy and just aching for the electorate to throw him that prime ministerial bone, probably way too big for him but he's practically drooling as it's waved in front of his nose.

A few days later we're off and running again with the expenses scandal and practically every interview you hear just confirms the fact that they still don't get it.
So for your benefit Mr and Mrs Politician this is how it works. You are elected to represent us. You make the rules and pass the laws on our behalf. Whether you played fast and loose with your expenses or not you are still guilty because I do not believe that you were ignorant of the way the system was being misused and you had it within your power to change it. It had been openly touted amongst MPs by successive governments for years as a way of supplementing their income in the absence of any pay rise. Gordon Brown can not stick the political telescope up to his sightless eye and tell us "I see no slips". He was the hypocrite who only about a year ago stuck his hand on his heart and told us all "I feel your pain" at the same time as charging us for his Sky subscription. Given how far Labour had their nose up Murdochs backside I'm surprised any of them had to pay anyway.

Some nameless prat of an MP was on the radio this morning defending his claims and when asked why he had claimed for a new razor boldly stated "Because the old one was broken and I needed a new one"
Both feet and head so far in the trough that he can't hear the screaming chorus behind him.
Then put your hand in your pocket, not ours, and bloody well buy one.

I need to stop this now as I'm going to break the keyboard in a minute. Let me just offer three basic rules for any prospective MPs who think they stand a hope in hell of persuading us to trek down to the local school next May.
Take your hand out of my pocket, get your nose out of my business and your foot off of my neck.
Use that as your political slogan and I may just bother.

The Doctor (is not a Doctor)

Just a few recent passengers.
Sobbing in the back of the car. Split up from her husband after 15 years and had just dropped her young son off for his couple of days with dad for the first time.

Another split up from her Arab husband after 10 years and two kids, he buggered of back abroad with a new citizenship and both kids who she now never sees.

A little domestic starting to kick off. She had done him a favour and gone to the cash point for him the day before and he'd now gone there himself to find less than there should have been, not happy. Parting line as the row went indoors "Never trust'em with yer cashcard mate"

The usual I'm just picking something up from me mates trip except I drop him at what seems to be his work, a care home.

New students out on the lash for the first time, eyes wider than a three year old in a sweet shop. Towns full of them at this time of year. Loads in fancy dress, this week we've had PE kit and Togas.

A guy just dropping a 20 off to his mate on the way somewhere, repaying a loan or settling one, gets back in and says "He's not happy, he didn't want me to give him that in front of her ( partner leaning against door jamb) he reckons she'll go and drink it now."

A woman going into the hospital as her sister was on the critical list after an operation, long term cancer patient. Her son was in the same hospital waiting for a brain scan having had seven bells kicked out him the night before just for walking home after a night out.

None of the journeys were more than 15 mins.
What do you think, some confessional curtains or a list of consultancy fees dangling from the rear view mirror.

Sport?

You know Star Trek, not the flash new ones or the multi million dollar movies, the original one with the cardboard sets and a room full of people chucking themselves from side to side while the focus puller kicks the tripod. Remember the episode when they all think Spocks gone blind and then realise he's actually got a third eyelid that closes to shut out intense light. Well I've got one of them but it's aural not visual.
I listen to 5Live a lot as I love my sport, particularly Football, but every time someone says the word Cricket Slam! goes the aural filter and the rest just sounds like Charlie Browns teacher.

We won the ashes this year and I'm genuinely pleased for anyone that follows the sport but it gets no more reaction from me than if we'd won the world marbles championship.
Just take a step back for a minute and look at it objectively. Five test matches of five days each. Three and a half weeks of continuous cricket which could, and may have for all I remember be decided by whether it rains or not. This is England for crying out loud and we're not talking postponed or the conditions changing we are talking about the result being decided by the weather. Or apparently sometimes by two faceless names and a slide rule.
Not content with this as an encore we play another 7 full days. I can hear the Wisden obsessives gearing up with 'Well how long do the Olympics go one or the World Cup' possibly fair comment until you realise that for over a month of all day every day cricket we've been watching the same two countries. Last time I checked it's still going on apparently we're playing the same damned country in the later stages of another competition.

How is it that with all this activity and constant endeavour that half of them still look as though they're panicking over the pint they left on the bar going flat before they can get back to it.
Sorry I'm off to watch the world Llama wrestling championships I gather El Hadji Diouf stands a good chance as he spits better than the Llamas do.

Stretching class

A few years ago, and not many at that, you'd see a stretch limo drive by maybe once or twice a year and everyone would look and wonder at which pop star, movie legend or world leader was in the back behind the heavily tinted glass.
Now we no longer have to wonder as they're more frequent than buses and we know who's in them as the windows are always rolled down and the heads and shoulders of more twelve or thirteen year old girls than seems possible sticking out. All screaming at a level that must frighten the local dog population as much any unfortunate passer bye. Forcing itself around the press of these just pubescent sirens is the dull thump of bass speakers the size of industrial oil barrels and the rest of a sound system with enough power to have kept Led Zepplin happy at a stadium concert.
At the front of what now more often looks like a stretched Ford Transit than something American and exotic sits the poor driver. Suited and booted, perhaps fondly having thought that he'd be chauffeuring the famous and maybe a minor royal or two when he took the job but now something between a child minder and a play leader with more than a chance of putting in a claim for hearing damage or at least the supply of some custom made ear defenders.

People must have started hiring these things for their little darlings as they thought it imbued some kind of class or style on whatever celebration is going on. It's difficult now to imagine something that lacks class more than this does unless we're talking class 3c.

Ambition

Apparently Nick Clegg wants to be Prime Minister. No real surprise there and you wouldn't expect much else really, as the leader of the third largest political party it's an obvious ambition.
I have ambitions of my own. I'd like to have Kylie Minogue massaging my sore muscles after scoring a hat trick for Arsenal as we win the European cup. Unfortunately both Mr Cleggs ambitions and mine have an equal chance of being realised and would produce the same behind the hand snigger from anyone we told. Oh dear, he did didn't he.
I suspect that is going to be his 'Go back to your constituencies and prepare for government' moment.
Oh well, Arsene and Kylie will never know what they missed and the electorate will probably remain blissfully ignorant of what a nation of Cleggies would be like.

There and back again

"We've just got to pop round to my mates and then come back is that okay driver"

His 'mate's' is usually only a few streets away, It's rarely anything over a mile.
The conversation in the back is typical, open and never whispered.

"Have you got the money cos it's fifty and don't forget Davey wants one as well did he give you his?"

"Okay Drive, just on this corner I'll only be a minute"

We're usually a good few yards down the road and the punter scuttles up the road and is back quicker than Usain Bolt could have managed.

"Okay drive, back home please"

I drop them back at the original pick up point, job done and more often than not a reasonable tip. Quite often they wont even ask you the fare but just hand over a note that more than covers it with an "Is that okay"

By now you will have realised that we are not picking up a DVD or some Asprin for that headache that he just can't shift what we are discussing are class A substances.
A scene such as this is common place and for me most nights of the week. Now I'm not unusual and I'm one of thousands of drivers in this town alone, most of the others probably get a similar amount of the same type of fares, possibly less for the day drivers but the trade goes on 24/7 so maybe not.
You can do the maths yourself for the amount of customers and trade that this represents but also consider that the supply as I mentioned is rarely more than a mile away.
Anyone who tells you that the government and police are winning the war against drugs is seriously deluded it is so commonplace and open as to raise little more comment than nipping into the all night Offy for a 6 pack or the garage for a pack of fags. I have had fares counting their stash next to me, doing a line and offering me a free hit whilst on the journey.

Somebody somewhere needs to bite the bullet and consider what it is we as a country are throwing our money at trying to prevent this. If somebody wants to get high they are going to find a way and nothing that those in authority do is going to stop that. If someone wants to sniff, swallow or smoke something I really have no problem with that and the vast majority of these passengers are normal folk who will either the next day or after the weekend be fixing your dripping tap or scanning your Cornflakes in Tescos.
For me I'd suggest legalisation and transfer some really heavy penalties onto the consequences of any actions affected as a result of taking the stuff but as you seem to be able to kill someone whilst drunk driving and get away with minimal jail time and a ban that at least part of is served whilst in one of HM's hotels I don't hold out much hope.

Do me one favour though. If it's Weed that your on at least change your coat before you leave the house because I can smell you from the length of the front garden. No doubt the police can as well but would you put yourself in for 4 hours of paperwork just to get someone a "Naughty boy, don't do it again"?
No, neither would I.

I seem to have come over all George Dixon today.
Mind how you go.

Pots and Kettles

So Nick Clegg has called David Cameron the 'conman of British politics' well that's a surprise, the leader of one party slagging off the leader of another and so close to an election too. Have we forgotten a certain Anthony Charles Lynton Blair so soon.
Back in 1996 he was promising everything to everyone including being so full of new ideas and a desire to change the world that he promised not to change what the supposedly discredited Tories had in place for, two years was it?
If only we would just give him power. Just a little bit of power, please? Pretty please?
Oh come on just vote for me and I'll get my granny to come round and clean your house for you. In fact you can have my Granny, she's getting on a bit and frankly the smell of wee is a bit off putting while we're munching the muesli in the mornings. While we're about it you wouldn't like my Father-in Law as well would you. He's always been a bit of an embarrassment and I'm sure he could do a bit of gardening. As long as you keep the booze cabinet locked you should be fine.

....and large numbers of the public fell for it and leapt around singing 'Things can only get better' Oh yeah?
Ten plus years later exit the original mission creep to leave the country in the unelected hands of Dear Prudence a man with an almost terminal charisma bypass and a rictus grin straight out of the Richard Nixon book of political expression. The only reason his religious beliefs don't include confession is that he thinks there should be nothing left to confess once he's finished controlling and restricting everyone.

Politicians! Don't get me started.

We all have to start somewhere

I could stand a very good chance of competing at world level if they introduced procrastination as a sport. I have been intending to start this Blog for longer than I care to admit and the idea of a website has been there longer than most people have known what one is.

So first post, and by way of introduction. I spent about eleven years (all of the 80's) working for one of the largest private hire firms in London and have recently come back to the job but at the other end of the country. I do have other skills but thats for later posts and as the subjects arise.

What we have here could possibly be defined as therapy currently I'm obviously taking to myself but in the event that anyone starts following this blog you are my support group. Instead of chewing the steering wheel and fuming at the insanity's of the world or laughing at the idiocy of other drivers or pedestrians I'll be sharing it on here.


Peter Kay doesn't know the half of it.
So let's get the preliminaries out of the way first.

Been busy?
Yes.
No.
None of your bloody business.


When do you finish?
Just started.
Half way through.
Just about to go home.
Your only asking to see if I'm worth mugging.

(circle correct answer)

You can print those out and just pass them to the next driver when you take a cab, might save time all round.

I do get the same questions with practically every journey but more so, as I'm not native to this end of the country, I get the follow ons....

'You're not from round here are you'.

'How long have you been up here then and what bought you up here.'

and the real clincher 'You haven't lost your accent have you' Why would I? I was 40 before I left London and I'm not going to turn into a character from a Willy Russell play even if I'm still here while someones feeding me with a spoon and wiping the dribble from my chin.

Strange things accents some seem almost genetically ingrained. You somehow know that if Mrs Connolly had emigrated when 2 weeks pregnant it would have made no difference whatsoever to how young Billy turned out. Accents do sound different depending on your own, a fact pointed out to me by having a drunk pounding me on the shoulder for the entire journey telling me how 'we stuffed you lot'. It took the entire trip to work out that he was talking about the International Athletics and assumed I was Australian a mistake thats been made on numerous occasions since.
To the scouse ear cockneys apparently sound Aussie.
Oh well. What can you expect from someone who sounds as though they're about to cough up a hair ball every time they encounter 'ck' in a word.


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