The Cause, The Effect Of The Cause On The Affected, And What Caused It...

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Confessions of a Cab Driver, Part 4: Yes! I know You've had a Crap Day...

I know you've had a hard week. Your boss who's still not old enough to shave yet has been pissing on your efforts and nicking your best ideas as his own and Imogen in accounts has accidentally Cc'd you in a company wide email telling everybody what a dick you are and what a small penis you have. Please when consoling your sorry life, for once, have one or maybe ten less drinks tonight and don't mix all your drugs into a vodka and red bullock and down it. Because tonight, I will be the sole beneficiary of all your bitterness, fashion mistakes and possibly your unbridled latent gay sexual tendencies and prove that, maybe Imogen in accounts was right. You ARE a dick.

Oh! You need reminding what you did recently? You can't remember? well, last time...


You danced and dicked about in your seat to my banging quality tunes and let's face it, you're more than a bit fat. I had to turn the music off.  I didn't want uneven tyre wear and give my auto self adjusting headlights a fit.

You got in the cab with your bucket of chicken and ask me if I wanted to see your giblets.

You punched my cab as I drove by. According to top physicists and anyone with a brain, mass times velocity etc, equals it must have feckin' hurt loads...

You wore stockings to that annual gimp n' flog dinner in town and they weren't even a matching pair! The vision of you tucking the excess fat into the tops of your fat hairy thighs and asking me to help still haunts me...

You fell asleep on my bonnet dribbling, I deposited you on to a nearby pile of dogs crap and regurgitated kebab meat. I am quite proud of my reversing skills and do it with a sushi chef like spatula precision.


You wobbled towards me covered in sick with a foot long saliva drip hanging from your lip in the hope of getting in my cab. I reversed slowly to match your speed to deliberately fuck with your head.  The vision of you punching your legs and shouting at them to hurry up is one of the highlights of my existence.

You acting like an idiot because you've been mixing your drugs, got you kicked out, you were far from home AND you didn't have any money. I normally provide a hoop and stick to continue your journey, but this is subject to stock availability and paying a heavy deposit and whether or not I can be arsed.

Nb: A fake Rolex may be considered as a deposit if it has all the correct markings and is designed to fool an expert. The ones designed to fool a chav on holiday in Turkey won't be accepted.

No, I don't know where his wallet is.

You fell into an unconscious drunken heap between two parked cars and flopped out your arms for a stretch JUST as I drove past. I, of course stopped and reversed over them again to see what I have just driven over. Sorry about that

You got in my Cab and after a while you put your hand between my thighs and stupidly asked "What shall I put as my facebook status in the morning hmm?" I suggested "Deceased" as I made a hole in your hand with my pen.

You asked, No. Menacingly demanded that I wait whilst you go back in to the bar, finish your drink and kiss all your friends goodbye...twice. I did wait, so when you eventually came out, you watched me drive off giving you my surface to air middle finger missile thing that only I think is funny.

Oh! Bollox... Forget all of the above. You're not going to pay attention to anything I've said are you? Just pay me that's all I ask. I'll even laugh at your jokes and carry you to your door. Just pay me that's all...

I know! I know! I'm fickle and lack conviction... Oh! And my least favourite phrase? "Don't worry driver, I won't be sick." Because that's my cue to power slide, stop and push you out into a nettle bush because you're about to be sick...


This has been published in the SabotageTimes.com

East End Royalty and Me... Honest Guv...

East End royalty. My associations with the great and the dodgy are far reaching and by some, too far fetched to be believed. But no, my little bunnies of doubt, they are in fact all true...


In the mid fifties my Dad's half of the family descended on Bethnal Green from Ireland, they did their bit and succeeded to overpopulate an already overly populated East End. My grandad's sister spawned a sprog that spawned Patsy Palmer, 'er of EastEnders fame.


I was given over to the nuns at the school of our Lady of Assumption to be caned and abused for a few years. Whilst there my fellow abusee and classmate Bernadette  had a brother that grew into the Tommy Walsh that does all that gardening and building malarkey on the telly.


In the early 60's aged five I was pushed aside by one of the Kray Twins cronies outside Pellichi's Cafe in Bethnal Green Road. My mum said the crony got a slap from Reggie and I got a pat on the head from Ronnie and a strawberry sarsaparilla.


As a teenager my girlfriend Joanne's sister went on to marry WBC World Flyweight champion Charlie Magri. While watching Charlie's "This is your life" tribute on the telly in 1983, my new young ex wife wasn't best pleased when I recalled the intimate details of my time with Charlie's sister in law, I slept on the settee for a couple of nights. I last heard he ran the Victoria pub in Bow, a pub I have had at least two fights in myself. It is now used by the trendy checked shirt and black jeans brigade and muso's that have been kicked out of Shoreditch for not being trendy enough.


My secondary school, now closed, is the set for the CBBC children's program M.I. High. Nope! I haven't a bleedin' clue what that is either. I frequented my school albeit quite infrequently with Michael Cashman ex EastEnders actor, gay rights charity founder of Stonewall and Labour MEP for the West Midlands. He would have been smashed and bashed if we found out that he had parliamentary tendencies back then.


In the 70's I occasionally played with an all too willing big breasted plaything in the stairwell of the flats I was dragged up in. My mate Terry who lined up to cop a feel AFTER me, had a little git of a brother who annoyingly always turned up when my fondling of this amply breasted prize was in full grope.  That little brother is now the Royally commanded comedian Micky Flanagan.  I'll give him bleedin' "out out"


Billy Ocean worked in the same rag trade sweatshop in Bethnal Green Road as my sister and mum. Billy still regularly says hello to my ex wife, why? I don't know. His ex touring and recording saxophonist Wes Magoogan famed for his alto sax solo on Hazel O'Connor's track "Will you" and the Ska revivalist band "The Beat" is a person of my acquaintance, he too was dragged up near me. He sadly chopped his fingers off with a chop saw.

I recall these and other ditties from the cities arse end of London now and again if I can indeed be arsed. I do have a captive audience seeing as I have control of the volume knob and the central locking and as I'm licensed to carry no more than four persons by the council of horrors down my way, I could entertain and give vast monologues of complete bollox all night long.  But, I am oft dumbfounded and entertained more by the very minor and the very ordinary instead.

Reflections...

Some of the people I meet whilst doing my job, are not, perhaps the type you would want to meet, or the type you would want to have a coffee with. These people you probably wouldn't even sit next to on a train, maybe its the sixth sense you have to keep away from that "sort." They have strife ridden lives, like the woman you nearly sat next to on the bus this morning, or the anonymous lady with the bad odour that has just brushed past you in the shop, or maybe the angry young man that swore at nothing, just across the street from you...

There is a soul...

Its a time of year I often use for reflection, trying not to be selfish in a world that encourages you to be selfish. Indeed, my own immediate thoughts recently seem to be organising a trip to London to see the men and women that are my own children. But I needed to stop and reflect, still nagging in the back of my mind are the vulnerable people I've met doing my job. They are not remarkable people, their stories are not any more harrowing than the horrors you read in the papers, but they are however, no less unimportant either. I want to tell you about a few of these souls, I hope they and in fact all those that haven't got any family and friends to help them, get a break in life and a little bit of peace...

I recently took a young girl to her home that looked all of 12 yrs of age but was in fact 17 and now all too regularly self harms. She had her year old daughter taken from her by social services and adopted because of the abusive actions of a vicious boyfriend. She found out too late that abuse wasn't a normal part of life and even now that the abuser boyfriend is no longer around, she will never see her daughter again.


I also recall recently listening to a well spoken 73 year old woman who was unkempt, unwashed and unloved, she had lived in rural Ireland for 30 years with her husband who ousted her out onto the street with nothing. A 25 year old imported Thai replaced her. On the same night I met a woman that was made redundant recently and found a cleaning job that brought in just £10 too much a week on top of her meagre benefits and now has a criminal record for just trying to pay bills.

There is a soul in those eyes...


I also remember I spent a moment in time talking with a woman that saw her toddler walk out of a first floor window to his death on the pavement below. She is fed up of telling people why she only now has two children and wants to stop retelling and reliving that terrible moment. I told her maybe she should just tell them she has three children, always and forever three.


I've met women who have to prostitute themselves to keep their partner stocked with the latest computer games, beer money and the daily little wrap of crack he craves. I meet women that have such low esteem, they will do anything just to make their partner smile at them every now and again. I've met women that drink to forget the times they tried and failed to make a relationship work, because they felt it was their duty, not their partners, to indeed make it work.

There is a soul in those eyes you have just looked away from.

Some people, desperate people, I've met doing my job, will do anything to protect the family, they will steal, prostitute and beg to put food on the table. More often than not they forget they also need to look after themselves. Thankfully these days, most of us don't even have to think about doing such things, would you if you had to? I have equally met callous people that wouldn't care less for any of the above.

The song says only women bleed, sometimes it does seem that way doesn't it.

Here are some helpful numbers, I used Cruse more than once, they are wonderful caring people.

Samaritans helpline 08457 90 90 90

Cruse bereavement care 0844 4779400

Childline 0800 1111

Confessions of a Cab Driver Part 7: Loose Women And I Don't Mean Them On The Telly...

Here are ten ladies of little or no virtue that have been in the cab in the last twelve months. As my wife may decide to crunch my nuts with the 10oz flowery printed hammer she waves at me now and again, this could well be my last top ten involving women. So, here are the ladies that even the most desperate would say no to.

I certainly did... Er, say no I mean...

1. Whilst attempting to show a young lady how to alight and enter a vehicle in a more ladylike manner, I was forced to watch her front ladies bits wink at me as she got in and out of the cab about ten times... or was it 15 times? Or... maybe it was twenty...


2. Three young triple bellied ladies, that obviously didn't fall far from the ugly tree Jabba the hut must now live in, did the "Lets embarrass the taxi man thing" by all getting their large thrupenny bits out...


3. An extremely drunk lady in a tutu was offering various sexual delights if I let her in the cab, she continually banged on the window and was quite determined to get in. Thing is, I wasn't in my cab, it was locked and empty. Myself and other cabbies from other daddies were happily watching this vision of kebab grease dripping loveliness through the window of my office as we all enjoyed a nice cup of tea.


4. An elderly lady gave me her back door key and asked me to pop round after my shift. She mumbled something about "Her little bitch" I never did find out if she meant I was her new little bitch, or if she had given me her key to walk her dog. I still have the key tho...


5. Woman got in my cab wearing a strap on dildo. She said she wore it all evening at a party and offered to "Do me" with it, of course I refused. Pointing at the strap-on, she continued and said "Do me then"  I did feel a bit insulted that my natural god given appendage wasn't required. Not that I would have, but y'now my ego and a bag of change is all I have...


6. Not all of the morally irresponsible are female. A gay guy wanting to lick me and taste me, but he made the mistake of invading my personal space which is not unlike an international exclusion zone. As I dragged him out of the cab he was wailing "Don't do my face" So I didn't. Grown men crying at the roadside is so pathetic. And his shoes SO didn't match his outfit...


7. Young lady told me I was quite screwable, As I looked at this five stone eager temptress I did wonder into what? I told her I don't screw very well though, as I have a bayonet fitting...


8. A deal I was recently presented with, was I could have the cab fare, but I had to reach into her underwear and pull out the money. As I am always fiscally challenged and have to do things I'm not proud of to ensure my mortgage is paid, I lifted her tummy up and pulled out the neatly folded tenner and gave her the change. Antibacterial gel is so handy isn't it?


9. A middle aged man offered me the "Opportunity" to "Enjoy" his wife whom was also sitting in the back, as long as he could watch. The last time I was asked this I pretended to be gay, but that ended up with the wife wanting to watch...


10. Scottish woman tapped on the window and straight away offered me sex, right now. She said she wanted to "Live for today" I told her I only live for tomorrow and drove off...

10a. Young lady said she wanted to get dirty and naughty before she gets home. Excitedly, I suggested we could kick over a wheelie bin. But she got out with the hump calling me an unmentionable thing I really cannot divulge.


I have dozens of occasions that are rather too graphic and sick to be published. Don't try to get me to tell, because I most certainly will not. Well... Alright! Offers over £50 quid gets you all the filth... and I'll even email it with a plain brown paper packaging type background.


Disclaimer.

With the exception of putting my hand down a ladies under garment to retrieve a tenner, (remember, I am fiscally challenged) I didn't use a strap-on or lick and touch any of these rough morally challenged ladies of little virtue in the making of this article. I am clearly a victim and my trauma wasn't covered by any injury lawyers for me type insurance policy either. I may have potentially invited a divorce hearing from Mrs T. M. (again) and I hope the hell I went through this year to bring you this article is appreciated.

Crack whores in twin sets and bum cracks in cabs, dew drops on noses and whisky on baps, coke in brown paper that's tied up with string, these are a few of my favorite things. Your humming this aren't you...

I am getting a better class of  artificially sexed up females high on crack, smack, coke and a smoke in the cab these days. Classic fashion statements are De rigueur for your average local crack whore. She is dressed in refinements, twin sets and good shoes...and a nice handbag. A perfect complexion that's straight out of the most expensive tin she could buy. Not your usual depiction of a crack whore is it? But with a decent disposable income, it separates you from the skank with more skin showing than clothing...or does it?



It's generally drugs that drives these women to offer the sometimes unofferable, they often want to fuck and it's gotta happen now. Now I doubt its the close proximity to my fabulous aftershave, or my perfectly manicured nails and expensive brogues that's causing these well dressed druggies to be so readily moistened and act so inappropriately.  In general, my normally well turned out good self, attracts the fifty something gay man that wants to be my daddy.

____________________________________________________________

"admittedly without a drug testing kit and their written permission it's hard to tell what these moist pantied lovelies are on at all sometimes."

____________________________________________________________

Probably the cause of this behaviour is more likely to be the poor quality of chemically produced alcopophol, and your good old honest crack cocaine that instigates the fumbling of false nailed fingers grabbing my jewels, but admittedly without a drug testing kit and their written permission it's hard to tell what these moist pantied lovelies are on at all.


It may well be that in times of austerity it brings out another new culture of refinement, I think back to the well and expensively dressed teddy boys and girls of the fifties, oh what drugged up fiends they were hmm?


I also can't tell who is going to run off without paying, or who's going to get violent, these acts of lawlessness were normally reserved for the young and daring, or students. There isn't a "type" anymore. I can't look out for someone "dodgy" I'm more likely to get scammed or beaten by men in a lovely worsted single breasted Italian suit with the made by hand label in Italian still attached to the sleeve. Hoodies tend to wear "hoods" because that's what most sports shops sell these days.


It's normal now for me to do the early evening drug run, the twin setted females and clone labelled men getting their orders in for the night, I pick up Mr X and friend (there's always "a friend") from a vague address and take him to another corner of another road, wait, then take them to another vague address to drop off the "playstation-xpoxy game" that their "mate" wants.


What about the skanky looking ho types dressed in nothing but a belt and a handkerchief then?  Nah! They're wearing what the Nextnewprimart Look group tell 'em to wear... Clothing is designed to shock any parents generation, anyway, the average teen or early twenty something wouldn't be seen dead dressed in sensible crack whore clothing now would they?




Until next time...

A Sunday Morning in Brick Lane...

You may have read a previous piece of mine on my blog here titled "Mirror in the bathroom." (Find it if you wish in the search bar. It's about my brief time as a runaway, living and surviving out of bins in the West End of London etc... In it you will have read about my battle to free myself from a tyrannical mother and how our relationship changed.

This piece is about a very brief moment in time one Sunday morning years after I ran away and subsequently came back home. It's 1981, I've been married for three years and I have a two year old daughter. I work in the West End as a trendy snotty boutique manager and every day I pass the bins I ate out of when I was a not so snotty broken and put upon 14 year old...

It is a cold Sunday morning in Brick Lane market.  A regular trip for me to grab some  bargains for Christmas. I was brought up in this market, being now not so far away from my own dotage, I can now at last proudly lay claim to being a proper cockney, at the time alas I was not so proud of it at all because of my enviable position as a manager of one of the best fashion houses in the West End, I even retrained my voice with a much more pleasing one that my clientèle expected.  Hiding my bastard heritage was a good thing right?

I caught sight of a familiar face in a heavy shuffling crowd of breath, brollies and winter hats.  It was my little Mam.  The crowd parted as I got nearer to surprise her and only then did the full sight of what was happening fill me with a gut ripping shame that picked me up and threw me back down onto the wet ancient cobbled streets I denied I was even from.


My mother was standing with her little shopping pram, in it were the ornaments I looked at on the mantelpiece all through my childhood, these were the special ones that didn't get thrown at you.  In her hands were the jewellery and trinkets she had collected over the years, she'd draped them over her small cold fingers neatly like a hand model to give maximum selling impact, her face ruddied with the cold. This strong powerful matriarch of my family was quietly mouthing something or other to get the attention of some of the passing throng to notice her.


I didn't speak, I pushed through the crowd consumed with rage and embarrassment to get to her.  My mother.  My one time nemesis.  A woman that could stop a man cold with just a stare was reduced to begging for someone to buy her loved trinkets.  A man was offering her "A fiver for the lot," I pounced on him telling him to fuck off, pushed and watched him disappear into the sea of shuffling wet coats.  I grabbed my Mam by the hand with her small metal grey shopping pram bouncing behind her and bulldozed my way through the browsers of tat.  I now realise it was the first time she had held my hand tight, instead of mine holding hers.

I took her away from the uneven broken ground we were on, a place even today you will find people selling stuff that maybe shouldn't be sold.  We stopped outside the Jolly Butchers Arms pub in Brick Lane and I bought both of us a polystyrene cup of hot steamy tea from a stall. She stared as if in a trance at the pub, it being full now of the merry and the cold.  She then snapped back into reality and looked at me with her bright blue teary eyes and told in her still rich Dublin brogue of the debt she was in and why she was trying to sell her little treasures...


I gave her most of my weeks wages right there and then.  She was promising me she wouldn't do it again, I realised by the look she gave me this probably wasn't the first time she put on her coat and scarf and "Nipped out for a while." I didn't explain to my now ex young wife why I came back empty handed from the market, but on Monday morning dressed in my usual expensive Italian finery I did give myself a loan from the till... a bit more cockney than I was when I locked up this mecca of fashion two days before.  I ran it for others that will always have more money than me.  Fuck 'em I thought as I folded the money into my pocket to feed my kids and pay my bills. Fuck 'em they could afford it...

This is a late edition to the above, I'm reminded about the Jolly Butchers Arms pub in the penultimate paragraph above, I have written about this place before, a long, long, time ago...This REALLY is my beginning, This is about my Mum.  Shall I continue with it? Or let it just fade away...

We have enough religion to make us hate, but not enough to make us love one another.

                                                                                            -Jonathan swift

Chapter one

It's the late fifties, a sterile tiled room, in it was my soon to be Mam...

She was pushing as hard as she could, felt herself tearing from the effort. The room was lifeless and grey. The only colour was the blood on the bed. Sister Mary, the head of the home, was as impatient and still as cold as she was when she opened the door to her 21-year-old sister, whom three weeks ago was kicked out of her home in Ballyfermot, Dublin, with just the fare and an address in north London of her sister to go to. Her mother was not able to face the neighbours and the church, with the sheer shame of it all. Anne was expecting maybe a crumb of comfort when she finally arrived at the St Augustines mother’s home after the gruelling trip across an unforgiving Irish sea, but instead got the vilest look of disgust from her eldest sibling.  The now black robed Sister Mary. After a lecture on how evil my soon to be Mam was to even be here, she was escorted to her room. Her penances for her sins where about to begin.

 ‘Push Anne push’ said Sister Mary ‘I hope you remember this pain, it will serve you well the next time you want to act like a harlot’

Anne wanted to put her sister on the tiled cold floor with her fist and used that anger and adrenaline to push me into this world in one final guttural scream. They fussed and cleaned and one of other nun’s handed Anne the new bundle, ‘Feed him before he goes’ young Anne tried and succeeded. The papers were signed and the adoptive couple were ready in the next room and excited to take their baby home.  Anne could hear them, it was the first laughter she had heard between the constant prayers she did with the sisters. "I want to laugh" she thought, wrapped me up and quietly and quickly went to her room, My new Mam put her coat and shoes on, opened the window to the crisp April night air, climbed out… and ran.

Sister Mary, despite being young Anne’s older sister, was a cold heartless servile of God, she went to her bed that night and failed to pray for her frightened and broken little sister, whom was about to get lost and swallowed up by an even bigger bitch, the city of London.

Blood still running down her legs and feeling exhausted, she stood at the bus stop not knowing where she was to go. Twenty minutes later carrying a bag and the new sleeping bundle, she walked down Brick Lane in East London after going as far as three pence would take her. She fell into the Jolly Butcher’s Arms public house. My step father whom she was yet to meet when awake, picked her and the silent little cold bundle off the floor…

 
I have added this first chapter of a much larger book I have done about my life, no, my family's life... it remains raw and unfinished. My personal rise and fall, the  deaths of my sisters, my parents, and other loved ones. It may be too much emotion to put on a piece of paper, Who knows, maybe one day I'll finish it, put it in a drawer and walk away...



Until next time...

Let it not snow! Let it not snow! Let it not snow!

This is a locally specific rant, and originally appeared online at hastingsobserver.co.uk  don't worry, I'm chemically calm now...

I'm comforted to see that Hastings council, my local "authority" at 1300hrs today (weds 1st December) announced on Twitter that they will take a "sympathetic approach" to anyone that leaves their car in any of the car parks in Hastings because of the weather.


I read this as an opportunity to do some shopping and not worry about getting back to the car because the ticket ran out. As you will know, council's don't like you spending money in town centre's, because they would rather you bugger off half way through your knicker shopping and self promised decent coffee and walnut cake in the bullet cafe, so someone else can use your hastily vacated parking spot, so they in turn can half finish their shopping as well.


I have a problem though, to enable me to take advantage of this one off offer of free sympathetic parking - I have to get out of my drive! and I can't do that because I'm snowed in, in fact I can't get out of my bloody road because that's snowed in too.

*Friday 3rd Dec still snowed in, sorry to interrupt your reading, I'll be quiet now...


In actual fact I won't be able to do my job as a cab driver today and possibly tomorrow too, the job that incidentally costs me over a £100+ pounds a year in fees to the same council that's offering a sympathetic park in one of there lovely car parks today. the staff that open and close these facilities are all buggering off home at 15:30 anyway...No one around to slap on that ticket is there mmm?


Not working because of lack of grit hurts, as I am constantly fiscally challenged, the last time I had a price rise, (y'now in line with utility bills and fuel, you can't use inflation figures because that's just silly) was unbelievably in July 2003! Not that I'd want you to care about that, because I don't want you adding me to the reasons why you can't have that holiday now can I?


So Hastings council will probably defer the blame to the REAL authority that deals with the roads, East Sussex County Council, but they are dozens and dozens of miles away and at time of writing have probably all buggered off home on a snow tractor giggling like girlie's...


Until next time...


...or when I can dig myself out...Oh! And happy Hanukkah!

Confessions of a Cab Driver Part 3: Through The Night Darkly...

 This is not a work of fiction...

I know all about you... Yes you! You're the one reading this aren't you? You're the one that walked on by when I was being beaten weren't you? Surely you must remember when the crowd from the pub that were drinking a toast to their dead father, came out and kicked me under my cab? Ooo! how many men and women was it that beat and kicked me and my fellow cabby from another daddy? Twenty five? Thirty? yes really! That many! Don't you remember?

Or remember the time when you were peeking out of your curtains to see a lone cab driver being hacked at with a large kitchen knife by your neighbour, I KNOW you remember that one! Because you told me about it months later when you got in my cab, and laughingly recalled the scared Cab driver running down the road. I must admit you was a bit shocked to learn I was that Cab driver, but... how we laughed eh?

"He acknowledged my right to clean lungs, y'now, the ones he was gonna tear out of my chest, yes, those ones..."

Still shaking your head hmm? Maybe this will jog your memory. Do you remember when that father and two of his sons dragged me out of my cab and threatened to kill me? What was that for? Umm...That's it! I remember now! They did it because I missed their turning by a whopping margin of about ten metres, thankfully for me they were going on holiday that weekend and the father was persuaded not to gut me because that meant him missing the family vacation, Oh! Now you remember! Haha! I still pass by your door on the odd occasion, y'now, the one you hid behind.

You SURELY must remember this? Remember when the customer got in and head butted the dash? You were right outside pointing at him, remember? I calmed him down and drove him to where I thought was his home, you saw him crying outside your house didn't you, a couple of your friends had a look as well, good thing I drove off then, you may have had to witness when he had me in that judo type hand and neck hold, and watching me cry out in pain would have brought more of your friends to the window to have a look I suspect hmm!


Didn't finish there though did it? He took me to a further four houses, my hand and neck in this constant painful hold, funny? You were there at each one, listening to his cries, screams and ranting at you over his times with his family in the house where you now live. I was the only person that that heard that he was going to kill me when we stopped, AND felt the tendons in my hand and my neck, decide that they couldn't take much more pain, was only me though, wasn't it?


I remember you in the police car, I didn't see your face, but I'm sure you saw me, I was the one flashing you when he had his head in his hands crying, you must have had something more important to do I'm sure, maybe my eyes didn't have enough fear in them yet...


Ooo! how long was I gone? An hour and a half-ish? I ended up in bexhill in a back street outside your flat don't you remember? The time had come to kill me I was being told, but not without him having a fag first, he asked me if he could smoke in the cab, I have no idea why I said no, but I did, maybe when your worn down enough you just want it to end. courteously, he acknowledged my right to clean lungs, y'now, the ones he was gonna tear out of my chest, yes, those ones...


He had one foot on the ground and one in the foot-well when he lit his fag, It was at the exact moment I also floored the accelerator, he bounced off my cab and two other cars like a pinball before finally rolling to a stop, and as I turned the corner, I could feel my cancer ramping up brownie stress points. My cancer? I'm thinking it's none of your business at the moment, I have told of it elsewhere.

I went back to my office mad as hell, demanding why no one even missed me. The guy laying outside my office threw a bottle of something at me as I left, a final humiliating we don't fucking care salute, you were there as well, I still see you in your cosy police car from time to time...

Oh! I've seen this madman that tortured me for an hour and a half a couple of times since then, laughing and joking with his friends, he doesn't come to my cab office that he used to frequent so often in the past anymore...


I've got pages and pages of incidences of your punches and digs, and your spittle dripping down my face, and like many tens of thousands of Cab drivers all over the world, they will have too.


You were there every time something happened, you watched AND took part, its not the others, there are no others! It was just you... and me.


Did you find this quite uncomfortable to read? I imagine your adrenaline levels spiked just a little, may have even got your back up a bit. I'm sorry, but spare a thought for the fifty four taxi drivers that have been murdered in the UK in the last eighteen months or so, fifty four men that got ready for work, and kissed their families goodbye for what was really the last time.


You were there too, don't you remember?



This has been subsequently published in the Sabotagetimes.com

Confessions of a Cab Driver, Part 6: Saturday Night Fever.

I was going to walk you through one of my recent, yet gruelling normal Saturday nights on an almost minute by minute basis, but that article was a yard and a half long and the internet isn't that big, I also realised your scrolling finger will probably get cramp, so I've cut this down quite a bit.

-18:15 Kicked the tyres, my left toe noticed a 15.02 lbs per square inch discrepancy in the offside rear tyre. my ingrown toe nail is now killing me and after checking the cab mirror 62 times, realised it's time see the doctor again about my OCD.

-18:30 I Went back indoors, I'd forgotten my phone and my bag containing the hip flask, emergency tent and flares I might one day need.  I set off for work again. I log on with my onboard console, the Controller said something unspeakable on the radio to me and logged me back off, but I persisted and end up crashing the computer at the office again. I drive into town, what a lovely evening...

-18:40 I returned home, I'd forgotten my money bag, tip box and hairspray, I left the “Do not disturb” sign at home,  I usually put it on the dash when I'm having a kip. Off to work again... and wonder if I locked the door and turned the gas off…

-18:57 …Off to work (again) I buy some milk, get home, (again) I realised I was supposed to be going to work...

-19:20 I still have the milk I bought earlier, the Controller thanked me for being so thoughtful and to put it with the other 9 pints in the fridge, he bemoaned there is no tea or coffee though.  I notice a giant chocolate bar in the fridge and I devise a plan to get my treat for the evening...

-19:25 I'm caught nicking chocolate bar out of the fridge and I'm dragged to my Cab and told to feck off somewhere else…

-19:26 Bored… No customers yet, I drive off to a quiet spot and rest my eyes for just a second or two...

-19:40 I was woken by a paramedic trying to get in the cab, a passer-by thought I'd had a stroke, trying to explain to him that my face always goes like that when I'm having a kip. My office has also rung me 14 times...

"I don't verbally take the piss out of men who, if they sat on me, wouldn't even notice me rammed up their crack..."  

-19:50 I drive to pick up my first fare of the night and it's a young mum and her 3 year old daughter, who says, "Mum, I want bacon for dinner." Her mum replied, "We've got smoky bacon sausages!" Sternly and with the coldest stare I've only seen in the Exorcist film the 3 year old said, "If they don’t taste like bacon, you're in so much trouble."

-20:00 Small dog in a Diamanté pooch carrier has pooped itself. The owner holds it out of the cab window to stop me from heaving and being sick, dog poops itself even more as traffic is heading towards him at a combined speed of sixty miles an hour.

-20:30 I take typhoid Mary home to Bexhill, she's sniffing and sneezing all the way there, I keep saying bless you mechanically for maybe a hundred times. She grabs my thigh with her bony shaky hand... not sure if the thigh squeeze was to steady herself as she got out though...

-21:00 I Had to have words with a gay guy about his bad language, I realised too late, after he minced off that I had my hand on my hip as I was telling him off, now people outside the bar think I've had a row with my boyfriend…

Between 21:15 and 22:00 I take the usual parade of coked up drunks to their favourite pubs where their drug dealers reside and trade...

-22:15 Guy asked me where he can get a shag, so I took him to the tobacconist, I told him he can get ready rubbed there too. Judging by the look on his face, I don't think he understood the concept of tobaccony.


-22:45 I dropped off a twat in a hat in Battle High Street.  On returning, I take the sweeping right hand bend by the Abbey a little too fast, power sliding is not my forte and I end up pointing in the wrong direction.  I blame the bloody Normans, they could have built that Abbey 50 yards more to the right, at least the Romans did straight lines…

-22:55 The lap dancing lady is changing for work in the back of the cab, her boyfriend thinks she is babysitting, and I'm the official patent black stiletto boots holder and looker afterer...

-23:05 I'm off to Bexhill with a bespectacled fidgety old man, and he unbelievably strokes my thigh! After I told him to fuck right off,  he tried to escape, but I have to help him out of the cab because he is quite old.  I also check to see if my colleagues have put a "Stroke the drivers thigh" sign anywhere on the cab.


-00:15 An obese man barely got in the hole where my passenger door normally sits, he's SO BIG he gets in backwards, it was like squeezing a large marshmallow into a small hole and couldn't help doing the "Beep, beep, vehicle reversing" sound  in my mind, that's because I don't verbally take the piss out of men who, if they sat on me, wouldn't even notice me rammed up their crack...

-01:15 I ran over a seagull and a thoughtful kebab munching female puts her empty yellow polystyrene kebab box over it's lifeless body in the road.  As it was desperately trying to take off when I drove over it, It's wings were still outstretched. A crowd gathered around to mourn what now looks like a kebab angel... Sad.

I didn't take this pic btw...well I did, from somebody else's blog... I wanted to illustrate the importance of seatbelts obviously

-02:15 I get back to my office and fight my way through the usual baying throng of customers, of which some try to bribe me with cash, snogs and/or straight sex to get a cab quicker, I endure this to reach my prize, the chocolate bar in the fridge.  I knew the Controller would be too busy to notice me, he's being abused by a trio of ladies trying to get through the steel bars and steel door in my office to beat him up.

-02:45 I couldn't eat any more of my pillaged chocolate, so I use what's left to bribe two gobby fat girls in tutu's to shut up. It of course works...

-03:00 A stupefyingly drunken prick tries to pay me twice. A clear case of penile dementia...The idiot now thinks he got a free cab and said he will be using me again.

-04:00 Woman in the back asked me if I find her attractive. I really must remember next time I'm asked it's shabby chic and not chubby chick...

-05:00 I find out from my colleagues that the Controller has been telling all my customers if they stroke my thigh they will get the fare cheaper... Next week I'm leaving laxative chocolate dressed as a "normal" type in the fridge for him. bastard...

There it is, 11 hours of the ordinary and the chaotic blended into one blur of a night. I did 35 jobs and only told you about a few, the sun refuses to come up and I toddle off home. I make myself a deserving cup of tea, open my fridge and realise why I bought milk eleven hours ago. Black tea and porridge made with coffeemate for me then...

The Taxi chronicles Part III of LXXII OR tweetius from the taxius

More tweets from my cab, lightly expanded upon for more clarity...


Off to work then...The hordes are amassing on the hills above me, but I've got febreze and mints. Onward, you taxi warrior, onward...

Outside the Pig in paradise pub waiting for the temporary lights to change, and three lads are doing me a booty dance at the front  passenger window, what ever happened to cleaning car windscreens eh? 

I'm waiting for them to finish their drinks, I'm outside, Oh! I'm not taking them home now! It's been too long! I just want them to see me drive off... 

Just stressed out a couple of emo's, I high fived myself a couple of times in the Cab, I must have looked like an over excited gay guy clapping over a wonderful top I just bought...

A little coinage has just been thrust into my grubby... well... quite perfectly manicured manly man hands actually! 

Impossibly large woman on impossibly high stilettos just walked by, I'm impressed with the pounds per square inch these pavements can take...

He's got a doner kebab, she has a shish kebab, he says to her "I didn't know you was a classy bird" she says, "I have expensive tastes" ha! 

"I had a menswear shop in shepherds bush, I sold shoes to the Harlem globetrotters, and once hired the whole shop out to the BBC" *

*The above has got nothing to do with this article whatsoever... so moving on then...

Did a drug run, after the cab fare, they only had enough cash for one chicken and chips. So... saving up for the drug BMW will take a while then... 

Staring at me, She's Like wow! So I'm like what? So she's like, Ooo! So I'm like, what! So she's like, "you look like my dog!" So I'm like, wha...?

Well! Just taken two gynacoloj... ginacoll... gynacoll... er... two fanny doctors to their leaving party at the Porters bar In the old town. Lovely ladies! 

Took drug dealer to his local pub, poor thing looked vulnerable without his support staff, that's dog not person... 

The last woman customer wanted me to lubricate her back door, why assume I can get my hands on a can of WD40 at this time of night eh?

Guy jumps into the cab and says "drive" so I assume its a word association game and I say "path" he called me a c##t and got out...

"Fuck off you cock!" Is not what I wanted to hear when I told him what the fare was, he got out, and didn't pay me, He left his phone, ...so I made sure it hit a wall at 30mph...

A validation on how clean my shiny cab is, a local muppet just spat out of what he thought was my open window, which of course is closed... 

I Had my defiant face on as the police drove by, then realised I was parked legally, I did the face for nuthin'...Arse! 

"I'mafeduptiredcoveredinsquirtyfoamtaxidriver"

Arse! I think I ran over a Sun newspaper, I reversed over it to check though... and yes it was, but It's mush now... no change there then.

Overheard between two women, "you know how to satisfy my husband don't you?" you have him tomorrow nite, "It'll give me a chance to catch up with chores"

 Big lump of a bloke says he is training for a marathon, what as I'm thinking? A crowd control barrier?

Wife to husband in the back, "See that great ape on the telly holding a leaf over his head because it was raining?" That's you that is, you idiot...

And now a special true three parter... 

On the seafront a man is chatting to his friend by the road near the zebra crossing, his little dog is on an extendible lead, and it wandered to the centre of the zebra crossing, and I'm heading for it... 

I am aware of the people near the road but unaware the little white dog is on the white part of the crossing in the middle of the road, and the first time I see the dog is when when it flies past my windscreen attached to it's lead as I drive past the crossing...

The owner must have seen me and pulled on the lead so hard the dog flew thru the air, but... I think it landed in the sea, probably with a broken neck... didn't stop, didn't slow down, happened in seconds.

The end.

...And this is a short section dedicated to the gay community of my town

Lesbian couple at each others throats as they got in, had to referee the dispute, all ok and mwah mwah kissy kiss now. Cue super bloke music...

I'm flattered you find me SO attractive! thank you, and no, I'm not gay, yes I'm sure. (His shoes were SO wrong with that top) 

Just took four guys to the Camping site, surprised me, as they looked like they needed the mincing site a bit further on...


Slung out a foreign student who asked me to help him find his banana, I left him crying at the side of the road. Later, I found a bandana down the side of the seat, this may have been what he was going on about...oops!


So he's like, "Can I lick you?" So I'm like, "No!" So he's like, "Oh pweese!" So I'm like, stopped the cab, and dragged him out, so he's like, whaaaaa! So I'm like, whatever...

Next week, part IV...

Confessions of a Cab Driver Part 2: My Zen Metaphysics Of Quality In A Taxi OR How To Flippin' Behave In A Cab

*This has also been published in the Sabotagetimes.com

After years of research, this list has been compiled in a matter of minutes, so read on...


To be a good "customer" or "punter" as we say in our now 356 year old profession, just follow these simple rules.


1. Avoid mouth breathing, your gob is bigger than your little nostrils, therefore sucking in too much oxygen and depriving the driver and the air-con of the valuable nitrogen/oxygen mix for both to work within safe parameters.

2. Only speak after the driver has finished his important monologue.


3. If you break wind, inform the driver immediately, the driver will then open the window, and will not feel by doing so, any admission of guilt on his part.


4. Keep your bodily fluids inside your OWN body, avoid sharing them with the driver and the expensive velour seat coverings (if you are in South Africa you will have found out by now that the driver is armed)


"No matter how funny you think you have been, or how many acres of flesh you have wobbled at him, he won't remember you...ever"


5. Be impressed when the driver shares his knowledge of everything with you, he is a finely tuned professional with an unnaturally large hippocampus and will spot nonchalance quickly and may not avoid bumps in the road because of this.

6. The driver has pre selected music according to your social type, weight and general demeanour, and is convinced his choice will be the soundtrack of  your weary day or night, or when out on the pull. Tap enthusiastically and hum where necessary.

7. Never, ever, ever, ask a Taxi driver if he or she has been busy, or what time do they finish, it will reinforce his resolve to hunt down Peter Kay.

8. Do not tell the driver how to get to your destination, if he is going the wrong way it will still be your fault... always.

9. Showing your breasts (male or female) or mooning to a bus/crowd/your mum/police etc, will not impress the driver, he has seen more body parts than a coroner.

10. Taxis are the only form of transport that you pay AFTER you have had the journey, do it promptly, don't spend ten minutes looking through your unconscious girlfriends purse, do not barter or do a deal, or do the "ten pounds for cash" thing because no one knows what that means. The driver has no interest in your fake Timex or your girlfriends knock off Gucci handbag. he wants you out, gone, and no matter how funny you think you have been or acres of flesh you have wobbled at him, he won't remember you...ever.

And remember we taxi drivers are always fiscally challenged, so monetary tips are always welcome. Tips on driving, reading maps, working a sat nav, hair, nails, decorating and quality of velour these days are not.

Next week: How to return velour seat covers that are coated in vomit and bodily fluids back to Argos.

The Taxi Chronicles part II of LXXII

This is part II of LXXII of the true twitter chronicles. They are a completely random selection of thousands of tweets I have done in my cab.


Tonight I've been called a motherfucker, prick and wanker. But I've also been called love, sexy and a diamond. A balanced evening all in...

Tracksuited young chap walked past me wearing quality shiny black shoes, either upgrading gradually or been mugging again... 

Drunk fell on my bonnet and fell asleep! I reversed slowly till he plopped onto the road, I knew my pancake spatula skills would come in handy...

Sad Idiot wants me to be his friend said he'd pay me £20 a week! Ahh! Thing is... do I give him my direct debit details or take cash? 

She's like mmm... So I'm like, no! So she's like oh pweese! So I'm like, that's the last time I open a packet of maltezers in front of a customer.


Blimey! This blokes is so big my auto adjust headlights are having a fit...

At Morrisons, and a twat is chucking apples at the security man (who owes me £5), anyhoo! I don't get involved in fruit based riots, not since Spitafeilds '72...


Big Russian asked me where he can get Smirnoff light? Bloody lightweight...

Drunken man with one leg trying to fight the bouncer at the spar shop... yes I said bouncer...

This is a dud lead pound coin mate! Yes I know Its got the queens head on it, but so has the bleedin' pub down the road...
 
Do I do cashback? Oh! You ain't getting it back matey, its all mine now...

He's like wadderfuculoolookinat? So I'm like, what? So he's like, wadderumeenufucbastard! So I'm like, what? So he's like, arghhhh! And got out...

Man has just punched my cab as I drove by! Trying to do the physics of it all, mass times velocity etc, equals it must've fuckin' hurt loads...

Whats going on at that Rob Brydon gig in town? No one has come out!  D'ya Think he's brain washing them into thinking he's funny? 


He's like STOP! I'm like whoa! He's like, "you gone past it innit" so I'm like "have you never heard of physics?" So he's like, I didn't do Physical education at school did I?

Mum with child who wants to be a Pyrex! I said what do you want to be a casserole dish for? Silence... then I realized he said pirate. gone a bit red.

Mum with young lad waving a light saber in back, he wanted me to beep his Nan, I told him his Jedi mind tricks wont work on me...

Bloke asked me what can he use to get rid of old wine... his kidneys I would have thought...

1 billion seconds ago was May 1975... the month I met my first wife, blimey! 1 billion times I've gone arghhhhh! 

Fat bloke was dancing in his seat to a song... so I turned the radio off. I don't want uneven tyre wear do I? 

At the weekend there was a lot of white powder on the back seat, a lady got in, wet her finger and dabbed it up! That is so rough... 

Amazing! At Heathrow Picking up a guy from St Petersberg where its minus 1,000,000 Celsius, and I cant get out of the car park cos its a little frosty...

Four burger wielding, chip engorged women staying at Bannatynes health spa... not taking this seriously are they? 

Lady asked if I have anything to drink, I told her the attendant will be along shortly with a fine selection of crisps and beverages...

Waiting for my pack of biscuits tip from Mrs mills, hope its shorties... I like a soaking wet shortie with me tea...

Took newly retired ex forces chap home, happily talking about shooting people so they looked like jam on the walls... I actually don't know what to say...

Driving a spare taxi last week and the driver has a cosh and chairleg and a large bolt under the seat, he must do carpentry and other assorted trades as well...

Found a love letter on the floor, it was heart wrenching and soulful, I don't know who dropped it, opened the window and I let the wind take it...

The Taxi Chronicles part I of LXXII

This is part I of LXXII of the true mr_taxi_man chronicles found on twitter I've arranged them into XII volumes. I can see straight away this is going to take a while. So I might skip a few L's and X's, no one will notice.

Here are a few twitobservations, see what I did then? I combined "twitter and observations" and... Oh! Bollox never mind...

I have just seen a Kebab angel, (that's a squashed seagull in the road with a kebab box over it) a strong portent that is... I'll bet I slip on a chilli now... 


I love big women, despite the uneven tyre wear aspect too! Big couples in the back are always best, better grip on icy roads...

Guy wanted a shag, so I took him to a tobacconist, he can get ready rubbed there too, I do hope he understands the concept of tobaccony.

I had a prenuptial disagreement with a pensioner who wanted me...y'now, in that way, she wouldn't sign, so I said no...

A Blonde very rude Muppet with his hair in braids has just got out, he looks like he's wearing a sisal carpet sample on his head...

Is burli...burlesk...burly... are big women in Basques fashionable now? Seen "loads" tonite... see what I did then! Big? Loads? Oh! Never mind...


Arse! Took the skin off my fingers trying to get a pound coin from down the side of the seat, It's only a love heart with "your mine" written on it...

Impossibly large woman on impossibly high stilettos just walked on by, I'm impressed with the pounds per square inch these pavements can take...

Cabby from another daddy suggested they should have rode around on horses wearing gorilla suits like in planet of the apes when the Chilean miners came up...

I don't take girlfriends as deposits anymore, I prefer garden ornaments and statues, hardy perennials, boats, (big ones) and strawberry chewits.

I have found out taking peoples passports because I'm owed money is illegal! And I've still got that big box of customers girlfriends in the attic that were given to me as deposits, they don't feed themselves you know!.. Well! They can't... because they are tied up, but you know what I mean...

An anagram of Dom Joly is Mold Joy, So... he's a happy opportunistic pathogen eh? *I've not forgotten your comments  about Hastings mouldy boy*

Sitting in the back, and she's like, "You want me don't you", so I'm like, ha! Your 'avin a larf Mrs! So she's like, I'm not talking to you idiot! I'm on the phone to my boyfriend..oops!

...So she steps out of her dress and throws it at him... Gets back in, I take her home, she pays me and walks up her drive with just a handbag...

I must remember that its shabby chic and not chubby chick next time a woman asks me if I find her attractive.

 Next, Part II. Sigh... this is gonna take me ages...

Cabbyish things...

This originally appeared on my weekly column for the Hastings Observer.co.uk


Hello again!

I’ve had lots of  feedback (All three of them) about my last attempt to inform and enlighten about all that is cabbyish, like, “who let him loose with a pen?”  also, “Is the Observer letters of complaints page going to be a separate pull out now?” and, “Oh dear! Google apparently keeps track of him, what a waste of resources” and that’s just the positive comments, I wont dwell on the threatening ones the Observer boys with their stay sharp suits and pointy pens send me, they are SO picky!

Apologies if you recognise yourself here or even on my Twitter page on the interweb, your secrets are safe with me, (but shared with thousands all around the world!) umm.. unless it’s illegal, but then they will be written down on a statement sheet down at the local nickery wont they!

Shall we introduce anonymously, the daft honourable citizens of this general geographical area? Ok! Here are some of my tweets that refer to some of our lovely residents…

How about this mathematical genius?

Guy worked out his beers are 30% Cheaper in Morrison's than Londis, Then gets a Cab there and back for Just 3 cans! ..Clever bloke eh?

Or this Gent,

A nice little Scottish man with a cap left me a handful of steaming doner meat on my dashboard as a tip, he cried at his kindness… I cried at the hot fat dribbling onto my leg.

Or this chap with his foot in his mouth,
 
A Cringe moment for one of my regulars, My step daughter bent down, waved at me blew a kiss and walked off, My regular then blokey nudge winked at me.... I then told him who she was…

Oh! I have my blokey moments as well, Oh yes!

I dropped my saveloy down the side of the seat, picked the fluff off, drama over... Phew!

Ooo! I found a penny and… a strawberry chewit! A bit squashed but do-able! Woohoo! Nom nom!

I had Words with gay guy about his bad language, then realised I had my hand on my hip as I was telling him off, Now people think I've had a row with my boyfriend…

Must remind myself not to pick my nose and look at it when at the lights near the Carlisle pub, I’ve just become the entertainment for about a dozen drinkers…



I overhear a lot of gossip and inappropriate comments like,

-Wife to husband: "I picked the wrong brother and I hate you“ (didn’t need aircon for that journey it was icy enough!)

-Woman talking to her friend  “They are building social Housing near me”  her friend replied “Oh dear, maybe if you talk to the council they will put that sort somewhere else”  (had to bit hard on my lip on that occasion!)

Woman to Husband: “See that monkey on the telly using a leaf as an umbrella over his head because it was raining? Husband “wha..?” wife continues “that’s you that is“…


I get called names…but there are extended variations now.. “Alright mate” was once the  greeting of choice for us working class types, they have become more family orientated, like, “Alright Bruv and Alright Cuz“, not heard Alright Unc, Alright Nan, or Alright 2nd Cuz on me dads side yet..

And sometimes I wonder…

-Why do little squeaky blokes think they can talk like Shaft when they've had too much to drink?

-Why, when I try to tell him that getting three bottles of wine to take home when the pub closes is a sign of being an alcoholic, he says it's a sign of a good disposable income...


If you would like to see more of my 4,500 micro blogs (yes, I talk a lot!) go to Twitter.com/mr_taxi_man and get the unedited versions and see a snapshot of  a working night.

Before I go, Maybe you can answer this: How could a seagull possibly know I've used the last of my screen wash?

Until next time!

Keith

Mirror in The Bathroom Please Talk Free, The Door is Locked, Just You and Me...

This is not the start of my story, but it sits somewhere just near the beginning...

...Its the early seventies and its winter time, the final straw has been placed on top of the other final straws onto my growing young shoulders, it being put there by a baying, violent when pressured, overworked mother of six of whom, I am the eldest.

My sanctuary was the bathroom, which was still a novelty even after leaving the one bedroomed house four years previously that has now been recently flattened by bulldozers. The house that never had such a thing as a bathroom or even an inside toilet, the weekly soak I had was after everybody had been in the tin bath, it otherwise resided on the wall outside in the small yard for the rest of the week. The story before I stood in the bathroom I coveted so much, is long and arduous, and may be told someday, but here I was, looking at an angrily punched mirror with shards laying in the sink, I simply and confidently chose a knife like piece and  proceeded to tear my arm apart in an unbelievable anger.


Blood rained and poured steady, my anger was still unabated, unsatisfied, unlocked the door and was face to face with my mother. I pushed past demanding my space, she said nothing, I grabbed my guitar and coat, and as I fled down the stairs to the front door. my gaze led me to my mother standing in the doorway of the bathroom, she was repeating the words Oh! Jesus, Oh! Jesus, over and over again. Only now as I write this, It has occurred to me the site that must have caused her to freeze in her tracks was the bloodbath I left behind.


Brick Lane Toilets, by a bus stop, didn't wait long, and soon jumped on a number 8 bus and headed upstairs, I sat and watched the rivulets of blood making their way down the channels in the floor, it was strangely fascinating, and watched to see if the blood would make it to the front seats.  I was unaware the bus had stopped for a while, and whispers were being whispered and it snapped me back into reality, The conductor had stopped the bus and the police were now walking up the stairs to me...

I can't remember the conversation with the police officer that I had so clearly inconvenienced, but when I got to the bottom of the stairs of the bus I ran. the fat heavy copper was no match for my unending stamina and I quickly lost him.  I found myself in the back streets of Roman road, arm aching now and feeling sick, the adrenalin of the last hour was starting to subside, I found myself, as I got my bearings, within yards of mile end hospital and coldly and logically thought this was the best place to be.


Within moments of walking into the now, long gone A+E department, I was carried to a cubicle. I had fainted...  It was warm, cosy and dreamy, I felt serenely at peace, a place I try to get to today when I sleep, but can never reproduce that feeling.  What woke me? The smell of a wet and musty policeman's uniform, he was standing over me, I kept my eyes partly closed and felt a tugging at my arm, it had obviously been numbed so that it could be sewn together, a drip of some sort was in my other arm.  The male nurse was sewing my arm. The four deep cuts were spread open, occurred to me that my skin must be a tight fit for the cuts to be open that wide, like large toothless bloody mouths.


Fifty plus stitches and clamps of some sort I much later counted, my left arm looked hairy with the ends of the stitches protruding upward. and it was about to covered in a bandage, when I heard the policeman impatiently asking and wanting to talk to me. putting on a long denim coat was difficult, and taking out what I know now was a cannula, hurt, stung and bled. The fine hairs of the stitches only amplified any feeling I had in my arm, and as the once sodden bloodied arm of my coat had now dried, it was like stiff cardboard.


My guitar and I simply walked out of the hospital, nurse and policeman involved a battle of words too busy to notice a long haired 14 year old boy slip away... I apologise that this is another long piece I seem to be writing, and god knows I don't know when it will finish either, so you AND me are on a journey to its comfortable point where I can walk away from it as well.  And to my children who never knew the full story of daddies scars, I apologise. You, me, and whoever can be bothered to read this far, will all know at the same time.



...Its been dark for a good while, the bus takes me to Tottenham court road, Its a busy thoroughfare in the west end,  I wander and wander, crowds gone now, I buy a wimpy burger with the last of my money, they lock the door as I leave.  I headed for the brightest building nearest me, which I now know was Centre point, I walked around it to find a place to sit for a while.  It wasn't long before an amazingly warm humming air duct came into view and in a line along the wall there were about ten others sitting and sleeping under it.  I sat far away from the others, but near enough to get warm and fell asleep in the light rain...


Morning came quickly didn't sleep very well, was always aware of shuffling going past me all night long, I felt some of them stopping I could see from the size of their shoes how big they may be, and if in front of me too long, I glared a stare into their eyes, A stare I'd perfected when my mother beat me on occasion, a defiant your not going to beat me stare. they walked away.  These shoes were different, small, buttoned and tip toed, a soft voice offering someone a hot drink of tea, she was talking to me, I will never forget that feeling of warmth radiating from that cup.


I learn from my peers, I learn from people that know better than me, I followed three of the less aggressive looking men that were asleep close to me and watched them sit outside Tottenham court road tube station and started to beg, I stood in the station as the warm air coming from the tunnels tickled my face and dried my hair.  After an hour or so, one of them got up and went into the wimpy, I followed him in and sat near, arm was screaming and letting me know its pain, the dried blood all over my coat was getting stares from customers and the beggar I'd followed in.


I cheekily asked for a cup of tea and a burger with every intention of bolting out of the door when I finished, but the beggar paid for my meal.  He came and sat with me, I held onto my guitar that I didn't even know how to play even tighter.  I wished at this point I could remember the beggars name for you dear reader, It would be easy to make one up but I wont.  Suffice to say he told me how to beg, He told me to use the guitar, after knowing I couldn't play it he took me to a music shop nearby and I sold it for five pounds, and I gave beggar man a pound note, this sealed our mutual silent pact, and he looked out for me over the next few days.


Aspirin and coca cola and eating out of bins was the thing I did for the next couple of days, a launderette washed my coat and shrunk it, morning of day three I had swapped it for an overcoat, from the lady that brought tea and a sandwich in the mornings, the beggar man didn't say much but gestured and showed me how to eat, and I ate quite well, begging got me a pound or more a day, keeping the four pound I had from selling my guitar almost as my back up money.


Day four, a cup of tea and sandwich, the beggar man was gone. I never saw him again. I have had people since in my life that have appeared at the right time to show me some direction. And I could almost believe in angels...almost.  Evening of day four, not gave a thought for my mum and dad, and actually happy with my new life, my scars were finally not looking so angry, although the sticky up stitches were now rock hard and driving me crazy with an itch of itches.


I fell over a young woman bent over picking stuff from her bag outside a strip club, after her cursing I offered to carry her bag, she accepted and walked into the club, shouting at me to hurry up, I followed down the stairs. " look after my bag" I was instructed with a finger pointing within an inch of my eye she warned me not to move. I didn't move...Another reason I didn't move was because I was in the second row of a strip club watching a stripper do what strippers do, not ever seeing a naked woman in the flesh and very naked, this became an instant highlight of the last four days.


My next surprise was Cathy whose name I can remember, she was on stage taking her clothes off to walk on the wild side by Lou reed, a song that still makes me stop in my tracks and remember her to this day...I felt compelled to make myself useful and picked up her outfit and knickers thrown to the side near the front of the small stage and put them in her bag, within minutes Cathy the stripper was marching towards me on the way out of the door, grabbing the bag I was holding as she past, I followed her out.


She watched me collect her outfit and gave me 50 pence thanked me and rushed off, I rushed after her and skipping along side asked were she was off to, she was already speed walking to another strip club, one of fifteen she would perform in that night.


So the deal was done, I was about to save this young lady a small fortune buying outfits and for the next three nights I was a goal keeper of knickers, the comedic fighter of old men to rescue a bra, and once ending up on my arse with two other old men fighting it out over green satin knickers, I say "old" anyone over 3- at fourteen and a half would have been old to me.  A fight even stopped the show and Cathy on stage almost wetting herself laughing at the tug of war I was having with her frillies.

Friends on Ocean estate opposite the gas works 7th floor

Cold hard concrete wasn't good for me at all and the cardboard I used the night before was gone again. The next day and had to find new cardboard and it was so cold.  The early evening on the seventh day, I walked to centre point, and carried on past and headed for the east end. I looked back several times wondering if I should go back. I didn't. A bus to mile end, left at the Bonner pub and straight on to the ocean estate, to my best mate Mick's house. It isn't second star on the right and straight on till morning dear reader I'm afraid! and if you want to go and do something else by all means do it, I will have probably finished this if you ever want to come back.


Mick's house was always welcoming and full of laughs, we had adventures best left for another blog in the three years we knew each other. His mum, his sisters and elder brothers all listened to my tale and the telling of it made me cry for the first time.  I was given the settee to sleep on and was the best sleeps I ever had, In the early light I went out of the balcony seven floors up and looked out over the gas works, and feeling safe for the first time in what seemed weeks but was in fact, just a week.

Everyone had a "house" even if you lived in the flats, you always went up so and so's "house" regardless of what type of council abode you actually lived in, that's just the way it was.  I won't bore you with my first time in the black horse pub and the subsequent visits there after, my experience's with LSD given to me by my mate Mick's brother Bobby.. another day perhaps.

Day eight, or maybe nine, I don't know, it's nearly forty years later now dear reader and my brain is dulled by time. I went to petticoat lane to search for work, because I decided that is the way to go, first place I walked into was a clothing wholesalers above the undercover market and got a job as a packer, and started right away.  It was the three day week, worked in gas light for some part of the day packing dresses for  shops all over Britain, I got £9 a week for my 42 hours and after tax and insurance I came home with £7.52...exactly £7.52.


The Jews looked after me well, I think because of my brick lane upbringing I was practically a Jew myself, and fitted in all too well... Manny and Manny junior barked the orders, cousin Manny extracted the orders from the rails for me to pack, there were too many Manny's.  Dinner time for me was salt beef sandwiches and roll mops practically every day, I got them for the many Manny's and myself from a cafe just a short walk down Middlesex street.  The woman serving me was my mate Tony's mum and was confident she didn't know who I was...


Into week four or was it five? possibly six, I cant be sure, I was enjoying my freedom, and my money, I pulled out the now barbed wire sticking out of my arm with pliers and covered it in plenty of Vaseline. Dinner time and the usual for the many Manny's and me, but this time at the bottom of the stairs stood my Mother... If there ever was such a thing as being ripped out of your reality and into another, at the bottom of those stairs I had just experienced it.  she stood looking up at me and I stood on the top step looking down at her.  My Dad who was standing behind her, was willing her to do all the words and the actions quietly and not cause a scene, dad didn't like a scene.


"Your brother is unwell" she said almost too quietly, her Dublin brogue still strong, even after years of London life. "He misses you, and calls out for you" she said in an equally quiet manner.  My position was clear, my eyes and detachment said it all for me as I hadn't yet spoke.  I walked on to get the sandwiches and they both followed, silently.  As I walked to the sandwich shop I was beginning to realise the power my mum had over me was gone and I went in and paid and received my regular order, I sneered a lingering sneer at the snitch behind the counter whom I know now told on me... Phew! I don't know about you dear reader, but I've just stopped and got a coffee, how about you doing the same? And meeting me here in about ten minutes or so, It will give me a chance to write a final paragraph or two.


...I walked back, dropped off the sandwiches for the many Manny's and went back down.  My Mother stood face on to me, my Dad silent behind her, and what followed was a barter, an exchange of wants and gives, of deals and promises, culminating in my Dad being forced to buy me that denim jacket with a studded eagle on the back I have been lusting over.  I was fourteen and a half and going back to school never happened...ever again. Strangely and unbelievably, they never missed me, not a letter nor a visit.  I never saw my school friends ever again and to this very day I have never stopped working.


My brother? He was unwell and upon my quiet return and the happy faces of my brothers and sisters, Doctor Hymen left after prescribing warm water and a colic something or other.  Within an hour of my return, dad was back at work and mum was tending to my sick brother. He was listless, eyes somewhere else, and at fourteen and a half, I walked back out, this time to a phone box and phoned an ambulance.


The first my Mum knew I'd phoned was when an ambulance man came thru the door. discussions and guesses were made, and off went my mum and my youngest 18 month old brother to the London Hospital in Whitechapel.  He had severe peritonitis and had maybe hours left to live, he was gravely ill, my mum from that day never questioned me, never said a no, never raised a hand.   I carried on working and for years after, I gave half my money to me mam.


I still have the Xmas cards from her and put them out every year on the shelf, they say and end after the wishes of good cheer "love Mam"  just like she always did. When xmas is over I put these precious cards back in the box I keep by my bed. I miss my Mam...a lot.  My Dad has gone now and his cards too stay in my box and are put out at Xmas next to me Mams.  Two of my three sisters have sadly gone too and their cards have their place on the same shelf.


One thing I have learnt in my life is that time is short for us all, there isn't enough.  We are all to blame for the lack of it.   I could have and had the will to, walk away from my family and disappear into the abyss that is London and all of its devilish ways.  Nearly forty years have passed since I drove that mirrored knife into my arm.  The scars are quite bad and they are a daily reminder of that moment in time of such long ago. The many Manny's must all be long dead, Cathy the stripper is probably a grandmother now with tales to tell about her wild days to her shocked but admiring grand children.


The beggar man that helped me survive the impossibly cold wet streets is somewhere... I'd like to hope he is still alive. I see a street drinker now and again and I look hard... just in case, I return the favour given to me by a man from the street by buying the big issue and giving it back so they can sell it on again.  I buy the man in the underpass begging for money a burger meal and not give him cash, maybe he won't be eating out of bins tonight.



I am not a tolerant man.  I don't suffer fools and whinging whiny misfits who think the world owes them.  I can look a man in the eye and I know if there is any pain. I miss my family, and I know I miss my Mam and Dad. My little brother? He's now late in his thirties.  6ft 2, a big, brash, and boisterous man. A little scar on the frame of a giant is all that is left of his near death experiences as a baby.  I have another brother, and a sister, we don't see each other hardly at all now, the pain of the past is in each of our eyes and when we look into the eyes of each other we see it.


There is nothing cheerful or happy about my story, life's tragedies heap and wait there turn at my door and I'm sure at your door too.  But I greet each one the same. If you where expecting a treacle ladled finish then I'm sorry.

I am loved and love well, I search for the good in people and often find it, my children I am proud of and my wife festoons me with light and cheery goodness.


And I can tell a lot from peoples shoes...


Oh! By the way, your coffee is cold...

I want to acknowledge The Beat for the title of  this blog, a man of my acquaintance is Wes Magoogan, he was in The Beat and he certainly would beat me next time he sees me if I didn't mention it!