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.
Friday, 23 October 2009
Sunday, 18 October 2009
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.
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.
Thursday, 15 October 2009
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.
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.
Friday, 9 October 2009
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.
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.
Friday, 2 October 2009
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.
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.
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