I hate taxi drivers. No, let me be more specific - I hate London
’Hackney carriage’ drivers.
You know how it is. You’re standing on a street corner at the dead of
night, rain pissing down your neck, and after what seems like hours a
yellow light swims towards you through the murk.
One of two things now happens: the taxi speeds past as you wave like a
frantic muppet. Or, more rarely, the driver stops and lowers the
window.
This is a tense moment. You tell him where you want to go. Then you
listen to the excuses. ’I’m going the other way. There’s too much
traffic.’ Never the truth. Never: ’I can’t be arsed unless it’s the West
End.’ Or: ’I’m terrified to go there because I have an irrational fear
of black people.’
You could try telling the driver he is legally obliged to take you
within seven miles of the pick-up point. It won’t do you any good. He’ll
either accelerate away, or punch you. So you set off in search of a
mini-cab.
The following day, you hear one of the arseholes on the radio, telling
us that we shouldn’t take mini-cabs because ’they are stealing
traditional cabbies’ business’.
Hypocritical tossers. These days I avoid black cabs, because they are
driven by lazy miserable racists who seem unwilling to fulfil the one
function of their job.
Got something to rant about? Call 0208-267 4702 or e-mail
mark.tungate@haynet.com.
