Today, Amy is eleven. She is a bright and smiley and she's sitting quietly behind me with her sister, her mum is telling me what a shit time they all had in Florida.
Today, I get a poster put up on the office wall, its a picture of a kitten with BIG blue eyes, scribbled on it is "We love Keith! luv Amy"
Today, I took her to her first day at secondary school, she is chatty and excitable. Boys have been discovered I'm thinking...
Today, Amy is with three of her best friends they are going to a party, it's her first one that's not chaperoned. Much later I find her with with a group of boys and a cigarette is being puffed on like the grown ups do. I pick her up and take her home.
Today, her Mum started work at our place. Amy now has a mobile phone, she is texting her friends and sits in the office waiting for her mum. She ignores me completely. Mid teen angst and frown firmly in place, she is tutting at her mum to hurry up.
Today, I took her to where the bars are in town, she is slightly under-age, but mum says it's ok and she has to be in by eleven pm. Her mum being a force of nature that the physicists haven't discovered yet, it's probably wise she does as she says. I pick her up and take her home at twelve thirty, her mum is at the door...
Today, I pick her up from college, she is on the phone again, bit tearful, I think it's man trouble. She says her mum will pay, doesn't say goodbye and slams the car door.
Today, is the last day of college, she is out on the town, I've picked her up and she's happy and the energy is bouncing off her. She pays me and throws herself into the heady summer night air. I pick her up at four in the morning, she has found herself a man, on behalf of her mum I give him the "Look" If your a man you'll know the look I mean.
Today, I picked her up from work, ignores me again. Thumbs are clacking away at her phone in a text fury, not even sure she is aware I am here, but that's ok I'm the taxi driver, I'm just doing my job.
Today, her mum remarries, I'm invited to the wedding, I have to work but I make the effort and pop in to the reception in the evening for a short while, everyone is happy. Amy is a woman now and we exchange grown up pleasantries. I much later take them all to their new family home.
Today, I pick her up from work, she has been there two years now, again she is on the phone, facebook demands it... I tell her how many years I have been picking her up, this time she stops texting and we chat and laugh about times gone by. Amy doesn't really know me at all, I've just sort of have been there in the background all this time. Times arrow is swift. I have just watched a young girl grow into a woman doing my job.
Today, I picked Amy up from work, she tells me she is moving to Brighton to work and live with her boyfriend hopefully in a couple of months and she is going on holiday in September. She is telling me all this while her thumbs are paying homage to facebook, connecting to her world albeit in a digital format as we speak. I tell her about my writing of this and that, don't think she listened, after all I'm just the bloke that takes her home now and again and that's ok because that's all I've ever done in her version of her world.
Today, I picked her up from work, she is working out her two week notice and is moving to Brighton in less than a couple of weeks, I wish her good luck and to tell her mum I said hello. She got her worn grown up purse from her bag, paid me and walked away. I said goodbye to Amy, maybe for the last time, she didn't hear me but that's ok, I'm just doing my job...
Friday, 3 June 2011
Tuesday, 31 May 2011
Thirteen, Unlucky For Some...
Thirteen! THIRTEEN! I have to press the...
No...wait... I...I... think they are joking...
They could be the same four men as last week...
Do I press the emergency button...?
I Can't find it on the menu...
Damn console...
Can't think...
Adrenalin surging...
Scared...
The banging I can hear is my pulse beating in my ears...
They hurt my colleague, I KNOW it's them...
Was that a punch in the back of my head? Head stinging. Can't think...
I've forgotten where I am... adrenalin too high... hard to breath...
Another punch, they are shouting at me to stop you cunt.
Drive into the wall, take them all out... That's what I've always told other cabbies I'll do...
Clarity. Time my colleagues helped me on this...
I'm trying to drill down through the menu to find and press the emergency button...
Another slap to my face, still somehow driving... Too far away from help...
PRESS THE FUCKING EMERGENCY BUTTON!!
No response...
Console telling me to try again...
Out of radio and data range...
No one is coming...Again...
Oh Fuck...
Oh...
F u c k...
Beaten.
Robbed.
I'm tired of fear.
How was your day at work?
The introduction above isn't a dribbling written bit of fiction, It's an example of the actual moments in the mind of a Cab driver as he is about to be robbed or beaten or every other combination of fear that's in between. The Thirteen? That's the call sign of a cab that doesn't exist down my part of the world. It's a code that means there is an emergency, not the usual three times a week idiot that runs off without paying me. It isn't the unconscious muppet that has been thrust upon me by the police to get him out of town. I'm talking about real fear, instinct for survival that's kicking in. Because my mind is in survival mode and not paying attention I am now a missile on four wheels, I have forgotten where I am on the grand map in my mind, I'm now only thinking about getting out of this insane reality.
I'm not a trained killing machine that the armed forces spews out to ply their trade in the world of sand and flies. A police officer gets good training and more importantly eternal permission to fight back if needed and handle this situation. I am not allowed to even partly use aggression or put other road users in danger. I don't know what to do, how hard to kick, punch and bite. I'm thinking about these thug's mothers and fathers, wondering if they have children, not believing that evil is so... Local.
They sit next to me anonymously, comfortable in that fact and not unlike the internet, the dark side of human nature can deviously, devilishly take hold for a short while. I am not anonymous however, I have an ID badge. I am more heavily regulated than someone out on parole, my every small rule break reported with fines and penalty points for putting two wheels on a pavement, eating, drinking, wearing budgie smugglers and baseball caps.
In my pretend perfect little cabby world, I would like to see anonymity to be a pre paid premium fare to get in my cab, I don't know you, so it's my risk. not the perceived public risk. There are more murders and assaults on Cab drivers than the rare but no less important customer murdered or assaulted by a taxi driver gone nuts. Pay by debit card and some form of I.D and you get me cheap and happy in the knowledge that I know who you are.
My Local Council regulate, badly, the business I am in, they talk only to a Cab association that has never made itself known to me or to any driver that I know. Despite the knowledge of 357 years of the taxi business under our collective belts, you would think we would be self regulating by now. They have recently produced an absurd document in conjunction with a faceless clearly ill informed, Police liaison officer to help cab drivers to cope in "Difficult" situations. The first important bit of advice he offers is, "Always be polite." The second piece of important advice is, "Always retain control." The last piece of advice they offer is, "That it is best if someone sits behind me." The whole reason security companies build screens for taxis is because we get attacked from behind most of the time. These stupid laughable absurdities do not even come close to help resolve the alarming but common situation in the first paragraph.
 |
| The little fella in the cage is the cab driver |
I recently watched as my colleague had his left arm snapped below the elbow after a small gang of multi ethnic thugs waged war on his body treating it like a trampoline. A "Thirteen" wasn't called, no time. Myself and a few cabbies from other daddies came to his aid and corralled them, we phoned the police and after we clearly identified them all, they were arrested and taken away.
Three months later I am driven to the ID suite in Brighton, shown photographs on a laptop by people who sub contract their services to the police and I couldn't recognise any of the now shaven headed and hair coloured trainee killers. Six months later they are all told charges are to be dropped, I'm never told this, I hear it in a conversation at work, it seems I am not important enough to be told and the thugs I helped capture are let free and now pass me smirking almost daily. I have in my time as a Cabbie been kicked under my cab, slashed at with a knife, drop kicked, cigarettes put out on my arms neck and hands, held hostage for a couple of hours and a father and his sons drag me out of my cab and beat me for missing a turning. I have numerous others involving spitting, scratching, y'now small stuff. The list sadly is too long.
Please don't tell me to change my job. This is not a career this is my business. I do have the right to work without fear, we all do. The impact that the cheap alcohol filled and well informed empowered social miscreants have on you and me is starting to be felt now. Maybe a vigilante will surface. Maybe someone is about to break and fight back. Maybe they've had enough of being beaten down and ignored. I genuinely pray everyday that I remain calm enough that it won't be me. I'm no Travis Bickle, but I understand fear enough now that it could be me...or you.
Wednesday, 4 May 2011
The Year I Woke Up
Young, Ambitious but Arrogant and Untouchable? Something big one day will make itself known to you and will slide you down the big snake on life's big board game. You will find yourself at the bottom of the ladder back where you started.
It's the year 1990 I am ensconced in my office, there is a peculiar small square hole in the top left wall of my office, through it I can hear typewriters clacking, yes. Typewriters. Queries are being answered on the phones manned by some of the best logistic men in the business. All is well in my world. I've just had lunch with a big Italian American, having been flown over especially to dispense his wisdom on "How we do it over there" to me. I smugly know I do it better. My driver picks us up from the R.S.Hispaniola moored on the embankment, where I have spent the afternoon being fed and watered. The big Italian stopped the car and he bought a plastic police helmet from a souvenir stall underneath one of the bridges that cross the Thames for his son in New York. Stopping a car on the embankment is never a good idea. got a ticket, chucked it out of the window and drove off laughing.
After leaving the world of back biting, metaphorically knife wielding bitchiness of the fashion industry, running one of the biggest and fastest growing specialist logistic companies in England was easy for me. My team I created were miracle workers, magicians that could solve anything, we were untouchable, the directors of the company meekly turned up every now and again to see if every thing was ok, of course everything was ok, I was in charge, everything will always be ok.
I bought a new house in one of the quays in Rotherhithe by the Thames in south London. My ex secretary, now my live in partner, is a sexy bright legal secretary, we are both earning salaries that would disgust most people, obscene even.
New years eve, most of our customers are shut, we, like some of our larger blue chip clients are eternally open. A big brash driver, feared by some, but on time, loyal, never let us down is told to do one extra important pick up, instead of refusing to do it, not answering the phone or feigning sickness, turned up at my office, whilst coincidently, after hearing about his displeasure in not wanting to do it, I was tapping out, one fingered, a new contract for him that would have extended his hours by five a week and made him richer by one hundred pounds a week.
I woke up in Guys hospital A&E, a glass ashtray was still partially embedded in my skull, the nurse was sewing up the last of eighteen stitches, a young policeman wearing an identical replica of the plastic helmet the big Italian bought recently was hovering nearby. Mr Brash the driver and his son decided to pay me a visit. Cowardly and from behind, they succeeded after several attempts to break the aforementioned ashtray, y'now one of them old pub type really large ones. The pain in my ribs and back are from from the kicking I got whilst unconscious. They also wrecked the office, threatened me and others not to ever say a word.
The police had them in custody within the hour, charged with section 24 of something or other, apparently that's serious, (no shit Sherlock.) Six months later in Southwark Crown Court, they walk away with a suspended 2 year prison sentence. Yes, I don't know why either.
It is now late June, 1990. The now, not so sexy legal secretary partner of mine moves out and shacks up with the driving instructor that is training her to be an ADI, she leaves me with a massive mortgage. A week later my little sister dies.
I'm think I'm coping quite well, I have just let out my beautiful quayside home and move onto a housing estate just off Borough High St near London Bridge not too shabby really, s'ok I'd thought. A month later one of my two cats are run over, the second goes blind from leukaemia and my stupid arse sentimentality wouldn't let me do the decent thing and let him die. He slowly dies instead. That was big of me wasn't it?
I was "Promoted" at work to run the head office operations, but politically that was to remove me from the power base of the city of London operations where I really did my "Thing." Apparently my cracks were beginning to show, the "Boy wonder" wasn't so wondrous anymore and by Xmas I was gone, made redundant. After contributing building the company from a handful of cars to a multi national with nearing a thousand commercial vehicles it was over. A guilty senior director gave me a cheque, a big one and a free cab all the way home. I left the company car, pension, private medical insurance and a "Whatever" expenses account behind. I also left what was making me bad.
It's a year that's all, twelve divisible months broken into four or five week segments. I started at the top of a tree, untouchable. The year finished with me driving a van for a courier company for a pittance a week. I tried to get a job with some of the other logistics giants but they could get a uni graduate to do it on half the money I was getting. Strange at first that my colleagues never said goodbye, no leaving card or party, no contact. Its as if I no longer existed. They didn't call because I was a true son of a bitch. I took too many of them down as I trampled over them to get to the top of my little tree. Evaluating that year has taken me twenty years. It was the year that replayed the most in my mind, like a torturous and hideous mocking haha! from the past.
My arrogance and failure to deal with my emotions cost me my job, Did I mention the wife and two children I'd left? Although the reasons were outside my control, It was doomed to fail, married at nineteen, by the time I was 31, twelve years of marriage was over and a third of my young life gone. I missed my children during all that time, made difficult to see, and I being too busy to see them. I was wrapped up in arrogance and my self denial that I even had a soul. Didn't need one.
It was the passing of my little sister that did the most damage, unknown damage, the viciousness of grief tore at me and my psyche, changing my DNA strand by strand, slowly revealing my secret real self to me. I realise now I am on a journey of some of the most rawest emotions known to man, I stop at all of them, experience them, indulge in them, disgust myself because of them. I am not a victim of them, just an observer. I have since lost both my parents and nieces and nephews of my other siblings. Yet, crushingly another beloved little sister. Someone in particular, because of our closeness in age, understood the nuances of our early lives that is continuing to either shape me or beat me.
My own cancer gave me a surf on the edge of a wave of death, I have learnt one important thing. Nothing stays the same. Everything and person is in a transient state of decay, if it's good it won't be for very long. So, I now enjoy the moment I am in. No doubt I have a lot more lessons yet to be shown to me. Is this maturity speaking? Maybe, or maybe it's a cosmic mindfuck I'm having, a worse case scenario on my life that's being played out for real. The angel of death showing me what will happen if I don't change. Maybe, I'm still in my office with the square hole in the top left corner of the wall having my own small apocalyptic nightmare of how my life will pan out during a quick smug nap after a fancy lunch with a fat Italian American who's just bought a stupid plastic hat. Maybe.
It's the year 1990 I am ensconced in my office, there is a peculiar small square hole in the top left wall of my office, through it I can hear typewriters clacking, yes. Typewriters. Queries are being answered on the phones manned by some of the best logistic men in the business. All is well in my world. I've just had lunch with a big Italian American, having been flown over especially to dispense his wisdom on "How we do it over there" to me. I smugly know I do it better. My driver picks us up from the R.S.Hispaniola moored on the embankment, where I have spent the afternoon being fed and watered. The big Italian stopped the car and he bought a plastic police helmet from a souvenir stall underneath one of the bridges that cross the Thames for his son in New York. Stopping a car on the embankment is never a good idea. got a ticket, chucked it out of the window and drove off laughing.
 |
| Nice Lunch |
After leaving the world of back biting, metaphorically knife wielding bitchiness of the fashion industry, running one of the biggest and fastest growing specialist logistic companies in England was easy for me. My team I created were miracle workers, magicians that could solve anything, we were untouchable, the directors of the company meekly turned up every now and again to see if every thing was ok, of course everything was ok, I was in charge, everything will always be ok.
I bought a new house in one of the quays in Rotherhithe by the Thames in south London. My ex secretary, now my live in partner, is a sexy bright legal secretary, we are both earning salaries that would disgust most people, obscene even.
New years eve, most of our customers are shut, we, like some of our larger blue chip clients are eternally open. A big brash driver, feared by some, but on time, loyal, never let us down is told to do one extra important pick up, instead of refusing to do it, not answering the phone or feigning sickness, turned up at my office, whilst coincidently, after hearing about his displeasure in not wanting to do it, I was tapping out, one fingered, a new contract for him that would have extended his hours by five a week and made him richer by one hundred pounds a week.
I woke up in Guys hospital A&E, a glass ashtray was still partially embedded in my skull, the nurse was sewing up the last of eighteen stitches, a young policeman wearing an identical replica of the plastic helmet the big Italian bought recently was hovering nearby. Mr Brash the driver and his son decided to pay me a visit. Cowardly and from behind, they succeeded after several attempts to break the aforementioned ashtray, y'now one of them old pub type really large ones. The pain in my ribs and back are from from the kicking I got whilst unconscious. They also wrecked the office, threatened me and others not to ever say a word.
 |
| Heavy and satisfying for some... |
The police had them in custody within the hour, charged with section 24 of something or other, apparently that's serious, (no shit Sherlock.) Six months later in Southwark Crown Court, they walk away with a suspended 2 year prison sentence. Yes, I don't know why either.
It is now late June, 1990. The now, not so sexy legal secretary partner of mine moves out and shacks up with the driving instructor that is training her to be an ADI, she leaves me with a massive mortgage. A week later my little sister dies.
I'm think I'm coping quite well, I have just let out my beautiful quayside home and move onto a housing estate just off Borough High St near London Bridge not too shabby really, s'ok I'd thought. A month later one of my two cats are run over, the second goes blind from leukaemia and my stupid arse sentimentality wouldn't let me do the decent thing and let him die. He slowly dies instead. That was big of me wasn't it?
I was "Promoted" at work to run the head office operations, but politically that was to remove me from the power base of the city of London operations where I really did my "Thing." Apparently my cracks were beginning to show, the "Boy wonder" wasn't so wondrous anymore and by Xmas I was gone, made redundant. After contributing building the company from a handful of cars to a multi national with nearing a thousand commercial vehicles it was over. A guilty senior director gave me a cheque, a big one and a free cab all the way home. I left the company car, pension, private medical insurance and a "Whatever" expenses account behind. I also left what was making me bad.
It's a year that's all, twelve divisible months broken into four or five week segments. I started at the top of a tree, untouchable. The year finished with me driving a van for a courier company for a pittance a week. I tried to get a job with some of the other logistics giants but they could get a uni graduate to do it on half the money I was getting. Strange at first that my colleagues never said goodbye, no leaving card or party, no contact. Its as if I no longer existed. They didn't call because I was a true son of a bitch. I took too many of them down as I trampled over them to get to the top of my little tree. Evaluating that year has taken me twenty years. It was the year that replayed the most in my mind, like a torturous and hideous mocking haha! from the past.
My arrogance and failure to deal with my emotions cost me my job, Did I mention the wife and two children I'd left? Although the reasons were outside my control, It was doomed to fail, married at nineteen, by the time I was 31, twelve years of marriage was over and a third of my young life gone. I missed my children during all that time, made difficult to see, and I being too busy to see them. I was wrapped up in arrogance and my self denial that I even had a soul. Didn't need one.
It was the passing of my little sister that did the most damage, unknown damage, the viciousness of grief tore at me and my psyche, changing my DNA strand by strand, slowly revealing my secret real self to me. I realise now I am on a journey of some of the most rawest emotions known to man, I stop at all of them, experience them, indulge in them, disgust myself because of them. I am not a victim of them, just an observer. I have since lost both my parents and nieces and nephews of my other siblings. Yet, crushingly another beloved little sister. Someone in particular, because of our closeness in age, understood the nuances of our early lives that is continuing to either shape me or beat me.
My own cancer gave me a surf on the edge of a wave of death, I have learnt one important thing. Nothing stays the same. Everything and person is in a transient state of decay, if it's good it won't be for very long. So, I now enjoy the moment I am in. No doubt I have a lot more lessons yet to be shown to me. Is this maturity speaking? Maybe, or maybe it's a cosmic mindfuck I'm having, a worse case scenario on my life that's being played out for real. The angel of death showing me what will happen if I don't change. Maybe, I'm still in my office with the square hole in the top left corner of the wall having my own small apocalyptic nightmare of how my life will pan out during a quick smug nap after a fancy lunch with a fat Italian American who's just bought a stupid plastic hat. Maybe.
Tuesday, 26 April 2011
Poly Styrene Oh Cancer! Up Yours!
Today is my birthday and last night the plan was I'd wake up at whatever time, have a big breakfast and sit in my garden and ponder whether I can be arsed to write something, anything that an editor might be interested in reading. That was the grand plan for today.
I wear a nice silver bangle on my right wrist, haven't taken it off for years. I awoke earlier than planned because I smacked myself in the mouth with my bangle so hard it drew blood and made my lower lip swell. Well, I did wear it, but after it being chucked at the bedroom wall, it is now sitting on the chest of drawers being taught a lesson. I slid downstairs and after opening my birthday cards, (I got a lovely one from the Mrs) the kettle was on for a cuppa, I got twenty messages on Twitter full of well wishes, made me smile, nice of them to make the effort I thought.
A tweet on twitter caught my eye by Kathryn Flett, a fellow Random-on-Sea inmate who is more than a little bit good at the writing and journalism thing. We talk...or more accurately tweet random polite bollox every now and again. The tweet said...
She was someone that waited two hours for me to pick her up from the airport years ago because she didn't want to pay silly money for the airport taxis to take her home. Someone that craftily negotiated a good deal on some chairs in a second hand shop we were in. Someone that could dress so innocuously, you wouldn't have given her a second look in the street. (The fame thing, by choice wasn't really that big a deal for her.) Someone that could dress so stunningly she would blow me away. Simple and classically expensive twin sets with an edge only Poly Styrene could pull off. Hair so amazingly glossy... well, you can tell I was more than a bit enamoured by her.
There is a lot I could tell you about Marianne Joan Elliott-Said, but I'll keep that to myself out of respect for her family and friends. I will tell you she launched her new album "Generation Indigo" from her hospice bed nearby, she wrote, recorded and promoted it dying from that cunt cancer. Something we both battled and I, have made it thus far...
She was truly someone born to make a difference, to influence, her legacy is... Well, Google away to your hearts content on that one and judge for yourself. This isn't really a eulogy about a career and a true Icon of our times, it's about a little lady that lived around the corner from me in a place affectionately renamed by Kate Flett as "Random-on-Sea." A place that Poly styrene knew could be magical in the morning and frustrating in the afternoon.
This is a clip of Poly Styrene explaining her new album track by track, important to note her back was broken in two places and she was heavily medicated and dying of cancer during the filming of this interview. If this little piece means anything to anyone you will know that positivity and courage is something she had an abundance of.
I wear a nice silver bangle on my right wrist, haven't taken it off for years. I awoke earlier than planned because I smacked myself in the mouth with my bangle so hard it drew blood and made my lower lip swell. Well, I did wear it, but after it being chucked at the bedroom wall, it is now sitting on the chest of drawers being taught a lesson. I slid downstairs and after opening my birthday cards, (I got a lovely one from the Mrs) the kettle was on for a cuppa, I got twenty messages on Twitter full of well wishes, made me smile, nice of them to make the effort I thought.
A tweet on twitter caught my eye by Kathryn Flett, a fellow Random-on-Sea inmate who is more than a little bit good at the writing and journalism thing. We talk...or more accurately tweet random polite bollox every now and again. The tweet said...
"Am saddened by the death of (Random-on-Sea resident and punk icon) Poly Styrene."My day came crashing down. Punk Icon Poly Styrene of the X-ray Spex, someone I have known for years, had died. She lived a street away from me, she came back to the seaside to look after her mum she once told me a long time ago. She was someone a bit special.
She was someone that waited two hours for me to pick her up from the airport years ago because she didn't want to pay silly money for the airport taxis to take her home. Someone that craftily negotiated a good deal on some chairs in a second hand shop we were in. Someone that could dress so innocuously, you wouldn't have given her a second look in the street. (The fame thing, by choice wasn't really that big a deal for her.) Someone that could dress so stunningly she would blow me away. Simple and classically expensive twin sets with an edge only Poly Styrene could pull off. Hair so amazingly glossy... well, you can tell I was more than a bit enamoured by her.
There is a lot I could tell you about Marianne Joan Elliott-Said, but I'll keep that to myself out of respect for her family and friends. I will tell you she launched her new album "Generation Indigo" from her hospice bed nearby, she wrote, recorded and promoted it dying from that cunt cancer. Something we both battled and I, have made it thus far...
She was truly someone born to make a difference, to influence, her legacy is... Well, Google away to your hearts content on that one and judge for yourself. This isn't really a eulogy about a career and a true Icon of our times, it's about a little lady that lived around the corner from me in a place affectionately renamed by Kate Flett as "Random-on-Sea." A place that Poly styrene knew could be magical in the morning and frustrating in the afternoon.
This is a clip of Poly Styrene explaining her new album track by track, important to note her back was broken in two places and she was heavily medicated and dying of cancer during the filming of this interview. If this little piece means anything to anyone you will know that positivity and courage is something she had an abundance of.
Poly Styrene, Punk Icon. Marianne, Daughter, Mother, Friend.
3 July 1957 – 25 April 2011
Thursday, 21 April 2011
Men! We are at War...
Pippa's Arse this, Pippa's pert bottom that, What is the matter with you lot? Pippa Middleton's arse is not a religious icon, admittedly though, it was discovered by the world in a big church. Get a grip men, it's part of their plan for us to focus on her derrière whilst the rest of them take over the world. Confused? You should be, you and I mister are in the middle of a long war...
What am I talking about? Women. Birds. Babes. Chicks. or Oi! Whatever your favourite cute slang word for them may be, you don't understand them do you? You throw your hands up in the air and accept the age old bollox that men are from Mars and women are from another galaxy, Andromeda probably, that's near but far enough away isn't it?
You've seen him right? We all have, the pug ugly bloke with the stunner on his arm, what's he got you haven't hmm?
The answer is not what he has, it's how he talks to women. He is a general. One of our glorious leaders in the war. Men judge other men, ie; I feel better because I'm taller, dress well, and have more money than him. Women have created that reoccurring thought beast.
A woman doesn't really think like that. Ever. To attract a female and proceed into the upper ranks of manhood is far more basic and simple for most beaten submissive men to understand. Now your thinking come on then Mr Big Bollox what is this great magical secret?
Three words. The only ammo we will ever need in this war. Pippa's arse? Pah! I would have slapped it and sent her on ahead to get the beers in.
Leer and you get nowhere. Yes, women love to be told they are attractive, do it in a slimy way and they gain control over you and the battle is lost. Women love MEN, not men that mirror a woman.
Even if you are in a "Relationship" the war is raging on...(what the fuck happened to the concept of boyfriend and girlfriend? It doesn't even appear as an option on facebook! Not even noticed that have you?) The word "Relationship" is a heavy armoured weapon they use to smash you quickly into being a submissive twat. Its a word that YOU should own to flatten her into submission when you feel the time is right to take the next step, not her.
Confidence gentlemen and a bit of patience is the key. Oh! Women will tell you this article is a load of bollox. Ignore their ploy and subterfuge. Men, there is a war going on.
Take the Piss and do it well men. It's a war and they are winning, they almost have you where they want you, as a servile lap dog, the irony is they love a bad boy, whilst they demand YOU comply, they yearn for the bad boy, in their dreams and secret thoughts.
One day in a not too distant future, our glorious fallen flat capped forefathers will salute their sons for retaking this battlefield. Pubs will be back, women will be in the snug as grateful girlfriends and Bars will be Banks again. And only then, will you be a man my son...
What am I talking about? Women. Birds. Babes. Chicks. or Oi! Whatever your favourite cute slang word for them may be, you don't understand them do you? You throw your hands up in the air and accept the age old bollox that men are from Mars and women are from another galaxy, Andromeda probably, that's near but far enough away isn't it?
You've seen him right? We all have, the pug ugly bloke with the stunner on his arm, what's he got you haven't hmm?
 |
| My commander in chief. |
A woman doesn't really think like that. Ever. To attract a female and proceed into the upper ranks of manhood is far more basic and simple for most beaten submissive men to understand. Now your thinking come on then Mr Big Bollox what is this great magical secret?
Take The Piss.
Three words. The only ammo we will ever need in this war. Pippa's arse? Pah! I would have slapped it and sent her on ahead to get the beers in.
Successful Battle Strategy Example: 1.1 section 1. first paragraph, taken from the blue book of being a man, which is green by the way...
"At a bar, you've seen a filly you'd like to um... Talk to. Walk up to her, (she is already preprogrammed with a selection of laughs, put down's and cold icy stares at your weak line of chat) buy yourself a drink. Never, ever, buy her a drink. Instigate eye contact and say something simple like, "Your top doesn't match your shoes" and walk away, don't make any more eye contact or look back. Guaranteed during the course of the evening she will approach and ask YOU what you meant.
 |
| Your hair colour is clashing with me shirt |
Ok, she has finally approached you, now what? Remember she is probably an admiral of her local fleet of fillies, like the navy, there are more admirals than captains. Note: she is ready to fire off a diatribe at you that is rapid and well rehearsed. Tell her someone as stunning as her should really buy better shoes. Stop. Tell her you have to talk to a friend and walk away from her a second time.
You have now thrown her the equivalent of a stun grenade, she is standing there outside her comfort zone. You have complimented her and rejected her, she is confused. You haven't disrespected her. You haven't invaded her space or made any sexual innuendos. She has a highly sophisticated inbuilt defend and destroy system to use on you. But her system has just crashed. The "Blue screen of death" to coin a phrase has just gone off in her head.
Walk back immediately during her reboot, be quick, they reactivate pretty damn fast. look at your watch, make sure it's a good one as women naturally have good profiling skills, Lorus and Timex and anything that can be bought from the Argos catalogue tells them you are a dick. Tell her to put your number in her phone, explain you are busy for the next couple of days, but to ring you and maybe you'll have a coffee at a place of your choosing and if you're free and have the time. You have not relinquished any control. You have not been threatening or demanding. You have told her nothing about you, but you HAVE told her you're in charge and you are not needy or wanting. She now believes she is dealing with a senior officer. You told her she was stunning and she wants to hear more...
End of communication.
Leer and you get nowhere. Yes, women love to be told they are attractive, do it in a slimy way and they gain control over you and the battle is lost. Women love MEN, not men that mirror a woman.
Even if you are in a "Relationship" the war is raging on...(what the fuck happened to the concept of boyfriend and girlfriend? It doesn't even appear as an option on facebook! Not even noticed that have you?) The word "Relationship" is a heavy armoured weapon they use to smash you quickly into being a submissive twat. Its a word that YOU should own to flatten her into submission when you feel the time is right to take the next step, not her.
The Battle Plans: excerpt from section 3.2. "Living with the enemy"
A cheeky but effective way to keep your "Relationship" from sinking, Why not phone your partner at work, convince her to remove her undies and post them to YOUR workplace. (Next day open the envelope to a FULL viewing office, say nothing and put the undies in your drawer, act as if this is normal.) This is the same as getting a promotion by the way. She will be coming home wearing no underwear, she will be expecting something and make sure you give it to her.
NB: DON'T send your pants in the post to her. The post-room boys will open it and hand them to her in front of a full office. THIS is not the same kudos as YOU got. And don't be expecting something when she gets home, well, apart from a jab in the ging gangs with a stiletto. You lose this one soldier.
Confidence gentlemen and a bit of patience is the key. Oh! Women will tell you this article is a load of bollox. Ignore their ploy and subterfuge. Men, there is a war going on.
Take the Piss and do it well men. It's a war and they are winning, they almost have you where they want you, as a servile lap dog, the irony is they love a bad boy, whilst they demand YOU comply, they yearn for the bad boy, in their dreams and secret thoughts.
Rules of Engagement: excerpt from section 4.1
Attire, Buy good clobber, expensive always clean brogues, spend at least a months salary on a decent watch, Invest in a nail cleaning kit thing women have and keep nails and your teeth clean at all times.
 |
| She can handle any size weapon |
Misbehave, don't disrespect. Throw a tantrum, don't be violent. And for fucks sake, man up! Lets stop this age of men showing women their female side, show her your manhood and show it often. Then stop. Throw her a googly, show her tenderness, love and little acts of beauty. (Don't buy her flowers, only do that for your mum or nan) YOU own all these weapons. So start using them now, She will only unconditionally surrender and end this damn war to the man that has these qualities.
One day in a not too distant future, our glorious fallen flat capped forefathers will salute their sons for retaking this battlefield. Pubs will be back, women will be in the snug as grateful girlfriends and Bars will be Banks again. And only then, will you be a man my son...
Friday, 25 March 2011
I Was a Strippers Runner.
It's 1973. There is an oil crisis in the middle east. The IRA are blowing up anything and everything. Richard Reid the shoe bomber is unfortunately being born and J. R. R. Tolkien has unfortunately just died. There is a secondary banking crisis that causes negative equity in the housing market and the UK has finally admitted to being within 30 miles of the near continent and has joined the European community. A new value added tax has been stuck to everything and the Conservatives are in power and Sunderland only go and beat Leeds 1-0 in the FA cup final. Sort of sounds a bit familiar doesn't it.
It was during these series of events I trip and fall on a feisty and now angry stripper on a chilly and crisp November afternoon just off Soho Square in the West End of London...
After being called something clearly physically impossible to do by myself, I offered to carry her heavy bag as an apology. She accepted and pushed me into the club shouting at me to hurry the fuck up, I pass the big fat Greek doorman and followed her down the red lit stairs. "Look after my bag" I was instructed with a red painted long finger nail pointing within an inch of my eye, she warned me not to move. I sat and didn't move...
Another reason I didn't move was because I was in the second row of a smoky and dark, sparsely attended strip club watching a brightly lit stripper do what strippers do. As I haven't seen many naked woman in the flesh, this became an instant highlight of the last four days.
My next surprise was Cathy. A brunette, pale skinned and curvy, full lips with the reddest of lipstick, was now wearing a blonde afro wig and on stage taking her clothes off to the now iconic song "Walk on the wild side" by Lou reed. That song still stops me in my tracks at whatever I'm doing. I still remember her perfectly arched back and fine arse moving and gyrating to it.
I felt compelled to make myself useful for the privilege of watching her unbelievably perfect bottom and picked up the knickers and basque thrown to the side near the front of the small stage and I put them in her bag. Within minutes Cathy the stripper now minus the wig, was marching towards me on the way out of the door, grabbed the bag I was holding and sped off past me, I followed her out willing my hard on to go away.
She watched me collect her outfit and gave me fifty pence, thanked me and rushed off. I ran after her and asked were she was off to next. she was already speed walking to another strip club 100 yards up the street, one of about fifteen or so she would perform in rotation most nights.
So the deal was done. Cathy often called me a cheeky little bastard, but I got £2 a night from her and in turn saved her money buying new outfits because either the top or the bottoms on most of them were nicked during a performance by the other girls or snatched away by paying punters wanting souvenirs. I was a goal keeper of knickers, the comedic fighter of old men to rescue a bra. I even ending up on my arse on one occasion with two old men fighting it out over her black satin knickers, I say "Old" anyone over thirty at my nearly fifteen years of life would have been old to me. One fight even stopped the show and Cathy and three other strippers on the stage were wetting themselves laughing at the tug of war I was having with her now stretched and torn frillies.
I'd like to think she regales her exploits to her grown up children today. Maybe, she tells the tale of a young man who she once paid to pick up her knickers. Maybe, she has never ever told a living soul of her life as a stripper. Maybe...
Why was seeing naked women the highlight of those last four days when I fell over Cathy? Apart from the bleedin' heterosexual obvious, I was going "Home" every night to my bits of cardboard I stashed away to sleep in. I was homeless. A runaway. I slept with one eye and a two inch penknife open in my oft shivering young fist.
The £2 a night deal with Cathy kept me fed on a breakfast, lunch and dinner from Wimpy's and bought me a warmer coat, she probably saved my life from the heroin oblivion that I was offered by gay pimps and some of my fellow street sleepers. In fact she never knew I slept on a cardboard mattress near Centre Point underneath the warm air ducts that kept me in a constant state of damp...
Less than ten years later I was running some of the more exclusive menswear boutiques of the day in the west end of London. I was dressing a multitude of major and minor celebrities, minor royalty and had Esq printed on my business cards. Everyday I passed some of the doorways and strip clubs I slept and frequented on my way to work. My own shop doorway had its homeless sleepers, I kicked them out and got rid of their cardboard, I didn't give them a second thought. Ever.
During my time as a perfectly dressed, groomed and manicured twat I even masked my cockney accent with something more agreeable for my clientèle. Now of course, I am full of eternal contrition and until now I have never really told of it in any great detail. I have had some amazing careers in my life, adapting and reinventing myself as required, I think those days on the streets and now my life as a Taxi Driver and budding writer are as close to the real me as I'm ever likely to get. I am also aware that I'm only ever a pound away from being homeless. Indeed, we all are....
And I often wonder If Cathy still has a fit arse...
Update! This has since been published in The Observer on Sunday Magazine Broad sheet pull out special on Soho in the West End of London. (May 2015) it also had up to 7000 likes on their online version including The Guardian site.
NB: This is an expanded upon narrative from a previous piece I did called "Mirror In The Bathroom..." It can be found on your right in the popular posts section (eighth down) it goes into more detail about my time as a runaway and homeless teenager.
Thanks for reading.
This has been published on the Sabotagetimes.com.
It was during these series of events I trip and fall on a feisty and now angry stripper on a chilly and crisp November afternoon just off Soho Square in the West End of London...
Another reason I didn't move was because I was in the second row of a smoky and dark, sparsely attended strip club watching a brightly lit stripper do what strippers do. As I haven't seen many naked woman in the flesh, this became an instant highlight of the last four days.
My next surprise was Cathy. A brunette, pale skinned and curvy, full lips with the reddest of lipstick, was now wearing a blonde afro wig and on stage taking her clothes off to the now iconic song "Walk on the wild side" by Lou reed. That song still stops me in my tracks at whatever I'm doing. I still remember her perfectly arched back and fine arse moving and gyrating to it.I felt compelled to make myself useful for the privilege of watching her unbelievably perfect bottom and picked up the knickers and basque thrown to the side near the front of the small stage and I put them in her bag. Within minutes Cathy the stripper now minus the wig, was marching towards me on the way out of the door, grabbed the bag I was holding and sped off past me, I followed her out willing my hard on to go away.
She watched me collect her outfit and gave me fifty pence, thanked me and rushed off. I ran after her and asked were she was off to next. she was already speed walking to another strip club 100 yards up the street, one of about fifteen or so she would perform in rotation most nights.
So the deal was done. Cathy often called me a cheeky little bastard, but I got £2 a night from her and in turn saved her money buying new outfits because either the top or the bottoms on most of them were nicked during a performance by the other girls or snatched away by paying punters wanting souvenirs. I was a goal keeper of knickers, the comedic fighter of old men to rescue a bra. I even ending up on my arse on one occasion with two old men fighting it out over her black satin knickers, I say "Old" anyone over thirty at my nearly fifteen years of life would have been old to me. One fight even stopped the show and Cathy and three other strippers on the stage were wetting themselves laughing at the tug of war I was having with her now stretched and torn frillies.
I'd like to think she regales her exploits to her grown up children today. Maybe, she tells the tale of a young man who she once paid to pick up her knickers. Maybe, she has never ever told a living soul of her life as a stripper. Maybe...
Why was seeing naked women the highlight of those last four days when I fell over Cathy? Apart from the bleedin' heterosexual obvious, I was going "Home" every night to my bits of cardboard I stashed away to sleep in. I was homeless. A runaway. I slept with one eye and a two inch penknife open in my oft shivering young fist.
The £2 a night deal with Cathy kept me fed on a breakfast, lunch and dinner from Wimpy's and bought me a warmer coat, she probably saved my life from the heroin oblivion that I was offered by gay pimps and some of my fellow street sleepers. In fact she never knew I slept on a cardboard mattress near Centre Point underneath the warm air ducts that kept me in a constant state of damp...
Less than ten years later I was running some of the more exclusive menswear boutiques of the day in the west end of London. I was dressing a multitude of major and minor celebrities, minor royalty and had Esq printed on my business cards. Everyday I passed some of the doorways and strip clubs I slept and frequented on my way to work. My own shop doorway had its homeless sleepers, I kicked them out and got rid of their cardboard, I didn't give them a second thought. Ever.
During my time as a perfectly dressed, groomed and manicured twat I even masked my cockney accent with something more agreeable for my clientèle. Now of course, I am full of eternal contrition and until now I have never really told of it in any great detail. I have had some amazing careers in my life, adapting and reinventing myself as required, I think those days on the streets and now my life as a Taxi Driver and budding writer are as close to the real me as I'm ever likely to get. I am also aware that I'm only ever a pound away from being homeless. Indeed, we all are....
And I often wonder If Cathy still has a fit arse...
Update! This has since been published in The Observer on Sunday Magazine Broad sheet pull out special on Soho in the West End of London. (May 2015) it also had up to 7000 likes on their online version including The Guardian site.
NB: This is an expanded upon narrative from a previous piece I did called "Mirror In The Bathroom..." It can be found on your right in the popular posts section (eighth down) it goes into more detail about my time as a runaway and homeless teenager.
Thanks for reading.
This has been published on the Sabotagetimes.com.
Tuesday, 15 March 2011
I Hate Football...
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| Hackney Marshes, Europe's largest playing field. 1,500 players every Sunday. |
I remember the smell of sweat, liniment and the heat that came off my dad and his mates. All this boredom took place crazily in mid winter, when a fall meant a bloodied gash on your legs from a frozen solid ground. I recall twenty two men creating a fog of steam on the pitch from breath and body. I was immersed in football, a grounding in the game that would make other kids jealous. But, I fucking hated football. I didn't get it then and I am in as much in the dark about it now.
 |
| Jimmy Greaves |
Someone recently asked me in the Cab what did I think of Spurs, and to deliberately stupefy this eager and drunk football fan I told him I had no interest in horse ephemera, he paid me, called me a cunt and got out. All that happened when I deliberately antagonized this fan of overpaid and over here football playing egotists, was to enforce my belief further that punditry and fandom for football, is at best a distraction from sorry little dramas in their lives.
I miss my Dad, he hadn't been to Spurs in many years. he couldn't afford it and to my eternal shame I couldn't afford the time. I should have took him. I should have stood with him in the same spot we occupied faithfully come rain or shine all those years ago. I never did.
Recently, sadly, my brothers, sister and family members were standing outside the City of London crematorium by the hearse carrying my father. It was resplendently covered with flowery footballs, personal tributes and the Spurs insignia, all faithfully crafted and recreated in carnations. One of those inexplicable moments happened that can never be explained in life. Spurs manager Harry Redknapp walked on by to visit a loved one, he looked over, clapped and saluted my Dad and then continued on his walk to his own private destination of remembrance.
I missed this final poignant little tribute to my Dad, a footballer and lifetime fan of it. I was looking away staring at the wind making shapes in the green grass, reminiscing...
I hate football...
Published in Sabotagetimes.com
Tuesday, 8 March 2011
The Women Of The World Unite And Make Some Pancakes Day.
Pancake day eh? Strangely, albeit humorously coinciding with International Women's Day and "Booty Appreciation Day!" UK women just don't Get the "Booty Appreciation Day" thing by the way, they'll probably be thinking its yet another new car or toddler shoe-wear promotion at Mothercare or something. But what's happening today? Thousands of tweets on Twitter from women being all stand uppish and globally arsey about pancakes?
International Women's Day. A noble UN recognised institution going back over a century. The Suffragette battles for equality, nameless women standing up for their oppressed sisters. Noble and noteworthy indeed one and all. But what do I hear and read this morning? Women moaning about making pancakes! On this century old day of campaigning for woman's equal rights, instead of bemoaning your lot in life why don't you go out and buy the ingredients needed to make some lovely pancakes?
Ooo! Have I got your back up now? Let me remind you it's normally the matriarch of a family that pass traditions down to the next generation. If my dear old Mum was still alive today, I'd have driven to East London to sit in her kitchen and stuff myself with her pancakes, it was one of the very few things I looked forward to as a child and those yummy smelling memories will make me smile forever.
 | ||
| I'm just saying if anyone wants to buy me this.. |
You go ahead and rebel, all you self promoting do-gooding trendy women of the UK. You're the ones missing the point of how special today is. Confusing your roles as mothers and matriarchs with your bemoaning of low pay and lack of status in the workplace is a crime against all your children, men, relatives AND friends that have no mums. Yes, dads make great pancakes too, I know I do! But when your mum makes them...sigh.
So why not bang your drum tomorrow hmm? Of course, it being Ash Wednesday you will probably hijack the day and moan about fags won't you? AND ignore the fact its the start of Lent for millions of people. Get in the kitchen today and create some new memories for your children and rekindle some old ones for others... And invite some of us orphans around while you're at it...
Oh! Annie Lennox, Stop banging drums for every cause on the planet and toddle off home and make your kids some pancakes there's a love...
Tuesday, 15 February 2011
What Do You Want To Do When You Grow Up?
 |
| Out with the old... |
 |
| In with the new... |
I'm trying not to make eye contact with the boring hairy faced man posing the question to me. Instead I'm fiddling about in my blazer pocket trying to dig out a rogue sherbet pip that was lodged in the corner. I'm wondering how to get it to my mouth without this idiot with a shelf of an eyebrow from noticing. That eyebrow, it went from crows foot to crows foot, a continuous track of hair. Dam my thirteen year old mind if only I could focus for more than three sec... Ooo! Look! A fly..."Who do you want to be like Boy?"
"Gary Glitter sir" I replied.I don't know why I said Gary Glitter, because that was a new rhyming slang for a shitter - that's toilet in middle English if you're not up to speed with East Anglian pre-Roman dialects. I meant to say Lou Reed, which is still slightly toilet like I suppose.
"Gary who?" he says with his face scrunched up and all of his facial hair meeting in the middle of his face.
"Glitter sir," with a heavy sigh wishing I'd said Lou Reed.
I can't remember beyond that. Asking a hormonal and oft distracted 13 year old boy with a semi permanent hard-on what he wants to do and who he wants to be like when he grows up is like asking a woman to quickly choose wallpaper, or a handbag or tampon size for the first time. You get my drift.
 |
| 36 is a good age |
Thirty six was the age I left London for Hastings on the south coast. I had a business, and after a couple of years, drove it into the HM Customs official receivers wall. Yes, thirty six is a good age. You've probably been in a crap job for a while now, and maybe like me, have been hiding from the tax man and vat people. Divorced and permanently bitter. Your scowl has the makings of scar like wrinkles in your face and you have decided, that maybe its time to do what YOU want in life. Which for me meant becoming a Taxi driver for a few months while I decided this next phase in my life, just to tide me over you understand. I'm still driving a Cab twelve years later.
I'm glad my careers "advisor" didn't help me in my quest for glitter and fame, even though silver lamé is relatively cheap these days. Well this idiot didn't help anyone, which is why I locked the security dogs from the next door building site in the classroom with him. And as for what girls wanted to do when they grow up? Fuck knows! I never asked one to be in my gang did I?
What do I want to be and do when I grow up? Dunno yet, watch this space... Arse! I said THAT twelve years ago didn't I? Bollox...
Tuesday, 25 January 2011
The Last Lament Of The Pub...
Not so long ago, in a pub, any pub, anywhere, there used to be a song in every Man's heart, a smile and a hearty slap that said come and join us in a drink, the females were sat at the tables smiles aplenty. The Landlord and bar staff, the orchestrator's and subjects of jocular remarks selling single malt whiskies to those that wink and know best. The lad at the bar staring at the barmaid's breasts. The clunk of dart hitting board and the Ooo's and whoops of success that one width of a wire would bring. Happy one and all. A night finished and a wander home of echoed laughter down the street, shhh's to remind us not to wake the sleeping...
Well...That's what I remember, it was where and how I served my apprenticeship of a small part of life. Learning to drink. It is where I learnt to respect old Ted and his mates. They told me stories that would leave me open mouthed in shock and wonder at their escapades during the war. A couple more single malts and they would tell stories of loose ladies, a couple more and they would tell ghost stories that would shut the pub down for ten minutes during the telling of it.
It was in a time, that from the outset the Landlord knew you were maybe six or eight months from legally being able to drink at all, but the nod from your betters and elders told the Landlord that now is the time for your apprenticeship to begin. A pint was put in your hand, gone in minutes, another, then another, yet another still...The walk home was broken with retches of your stomach trying to empty till nothing came, a silent scream your tummy was making, letting you know it doesn't like to be filled that quickly with alcohol and hops.
The apprenticeship continued. The old fellas tut tutted and you were told to apologise to the Landlord, they silently knew they orchestrated your retch filled walk home the night before. Advice to pace and not to mix your drinks came from the man that smelled of whisky and pipe smoke that had the aroma of sweets, he told you that if you want to die, do it slowly like the jaundiced quiet man who's liver is all but leather sitting alone and silent at the end of the bar. But, for most, the apprenticed learnt to drink and respect anyone older than you by a trio of decades or more.
I know a lot about drinking, I know that in 2011 getting drunk is a target that must be reached quickly and by all means possible. A drug deal in the toilet, or a little bit of something your trendy mate is bringing around will help the transition from sober to shit-faced, soon...very soon. Combine it with a case of discounted cheap beers from your local supermercado, you are indeed drunk before you hit your favourite slut or cock pulling ex bank that's licenced to sell alcohol.
The little girl who's barely over eighteen who is happily serving you into a near coma, isn't going to give any advice to stop or slow down the newly apprenticed drinker. The trendy preening fuckwit barman with skinny jeans and a peekaboo highlighted hairdo isn't going to tut tut you into slowing down either, they don't care if you are about to be smashed out of your head. The Landlord has gone corporate, he sits in his worsted suit in an office that's quite possibly hundreds or even thousands of miles away.
Follow a "procedure" and you will get a licence to sell alcohol and be legally able to slam anyone into oblivion. Responsible drinking isn't just your responsibility, it WAS all our responsibilities, it WAS the social order of things that went way down the line into the midsts of time. We are now losing thirty pubs a week in this country, all mostly Victorian, some older. Nobody builds pubs anymore to learn or apprentice in. They turn shops, banks and warehouses into bars. Nobody builds pubs.
ANY newly created drunk in the last fifteen to twenty years aren't role models of fuck all anymore. Where have all the happy drunks gone? They have been long buried, long cremated in neat little rows of stones at your local cemetery. Up the line in time, drunks are becoming vicious, uncontrollable and soon to be a burden on the National Health service that was created by the cemetried masses of our recent past.
Do I have time for any pitiful whining when a drunk gets into my cab? No, but they will complain they've drunk too much yet again and wont have learnt anything from their last spew ending binge. Most will have that smug gormless look though, after all, they think at the very least they deserve a medal for their gallant attempt to get smashed out of their heads.
If you get in a cab and your immediate thought is, this driver is a miserable bastard, it may be because he wants you out of his cab asap. He doesn't like the smell of sick breath and a dying liver. He doesn't like listening out for the sound of vomit making its way up from a bloated stomach so he has time to pull over and save his cab from a soaking of bile and piss. I know unfortunately myself and my fellow cabbies from other daddies will have to smell it again next week and the week after... until one day we are picking up their relatives from a hospital because their liver and other organs finally gave up...
 |
| Trust me, she looked good after a couple of pints... |
Well...That's what I remember, it was where and how I served my apprenticeship of a small part of life. Learning to drink. It is where I learnt to respect old Ted and his mates. They told me stories that would leave me open mouthed in shock and wonder at their escapades during the war. A couple more single malts and they would tell stories of loose ladies, a couple more and they would tell ghost stories that would shut the pub down for ten minutes during the telling of it.
It was in a time, that from the outset the Landlord knew you were maybe six or eight months from legally being able to drink at all, but the nod from your betters and elders told the Landlord that now is the time for your apprenticeship to begin. A pint was put in your hand, gone in minutes, another, then another, yet another still...The walk home was broken with retches of your stomach trying to empty till nothing came, a silent scream your tummy was making, letting you know it doesn't like to be filled that quickly with alcohol and hops.
The apprenticeship continued. The old fellas tut tutted and you were told to apologise to the Landlord, they silently knew they orchestrated your retch filled walk home the night before. Advice to pace and not to mix your drinks came from the man that smelled of whisky and pipe smoke that had the aroma of sweets, he told you that if you want to die, do it slowly like the jaundiced quiet man who's liver is all but leather sitting alone and silent at the end of the bar. But, for most, the apprenticed learnt to drink and respect anyone older than you by a trio of decades or more.
I know a lot about drinking, I know that in 2011 getting drunk is a target that must be reached quickly and by all means possible. A drug deal in the toilet, or a little bit of something your trendy mate is bringing around will help the transition from sober to shit-faced, soon...very soon. Combine it with a case of discounted cheap beers from your local supermercado, you are indeed drunk before you hit your favourite slut or cock pulling ex bank that's licenced to sell alcohol.
The little girl who's barely over eighteen who is happily serving you into a near coma, isn't going to give any advice to stop or slow down the newly apprenticed drinker. The trendy preening fuckwit barman with skinny jeans and a peekaboo highlighted hairdo isn't going to tut tut you into slowing down either, they don't care if you are about to be smashed out of your head. The Landlord has gone corporate, he sits in his worsted suit in an office that's quite possibly hundreds or even thousands of miles away.Follow a "procedure" and you will get a licence to sell alcohol and be legally able to slam anyone into oblivion. Responsible drinking isn't just your responsibility, it WAS all our responsibilities, it WAS the social order of things that went way down the line into the midsts of time. We are now losing thirty pubs a week in this country, all mostly Victorian, some older. Nobody builds pubs anymore to learn or apprentice in. They turn shops, banks and warehouses into bars. Nobody builds pubs.
Do I have time for any pitiful whining when a drunk gets into my cab? No, but they will complain they've drunk too much yet again and wont have learnt anything from their last spew ending binge. Most will have that smug gormless look though, after all, they think at the very least they deserve a medal for their gallant attempt to get smashed out of their heads.
If you get in a cab and your immediate thought is, this driver is a miserable bastard, it may be because he wants you out of his cab asap. He doesn't like the smell of sick breath and a dying liver. He doesn't like listening out for the sound of vomit making its way up from a bloated stomach so he has time to pull over and save his cab from a soaking of bile and piss. I know unfortunately myself and my fellow cabbies from other daddies will have to smell it again next week and the week after... until one day we are picking up their relatives from a hospital because their liver and other organs finally gave up...
Tuesday, 18 January 2011
I Know a Man That Tried to Assassinate a World Leader...
 | |||
| Hitler with Franco |
I don't actually KNOW the would be assassin personally, I know OF him, he lives around my way, I have even read his autobiography "Granny made me an anarchist" and his name is Stuart Christie. A Scottish international revolutionary militant, publisher, anarchist propagandist, writer, translator and editor and considered an all round subversive type. He certainly made the militant trade unionists of the seventies look like they should have been his bitches. He was also found not guilty in 1972 after one of the longest criminal trails in British history of throwing flour bombs at miss world contestants, Bombing embassies, police stations, blowing up conservative members of parliament cars and the property of a few cabinet ministers.
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| His Autobiography |
So what do I know about him that you would find interesting enough to carry on reading instead of checking your facebook status? Was he dangerous? MI6 thought he was. Interpol thought so too, General Franco was reasonably confident he was that's for sure.
Instead of being publicly garrotted to death which was normal for your assassin terrorist types in Spain at the time, he was sentenced to twenty years in the Carabanchel prison, which at the time was the biggest prison in Europe and built to house political prisoners. He was freed on Sept 21 1967 after a letter from his mum and public pressure from the likes of Bertrand Russell and Jean Paul Sartre. Who are they? Well google them you lazy bollox, what am I? Your feckin' history teacher?
He was an editor of the unauthorised British edition of Pravda. the notable Leon Trotsky was his counterpart in Russia albeit 60 plus years earlier. Christie still writes and publishes many books and articles on Anarchy. He also runs www.christiebooks.com
A quote from The Anarchist Encyclopedia:
"Christie was under constant surveillance and harassment of the police and blamed for the actions of numerous guerilla groups, such as the "First of May Group"-leading, in 1970 to eighteen months in jail before charges of "conspiracy to cause explosion" failed, when he was cleared after a long trial in 1972."
Stuart Christie
Well, there you go then, a rather short potted history of someone I have not knowingly met yet, someone that should have had a film or one of them docudrama thingamajigs done on him by now. I may even have taken him home or down to the pub in the cab. He is a Glaswegian with a history and a penchant for blowing up dictators and allegedly was organising subversive plots all over the place. He is in his retirement years now. But I suspect GCHQ still has a tap on his phone and MI6 are still sifting through his rubbish every now and again...
Will I one day have the nuts to say hello to him in the town? Nah! I've heard about them Glasgow kisses...and anyway, I get all girly and silly with people I genuinely admire. Bollox, I gave away my politics there didn't I? Oh well! That's me on the GCHQ and MI6 lists then, I'm off to burn me gas bill before they go through me bins...
The man himself actually emailed me and said he found this article "Very droll" So, according to Dictionary.com it means he found it amusing in an odd way and whimsically humorous! Er... that means he likes it right? I..I mean he isn't likely to blow bits of me up or anything is he? I mean I'm not dictatorish or anything and I'm not related to anyone in government. Well...the mrs works for the council and um... oh bollox never mind...
Friday, 14 January 2011
Confessions of a Cab Driver, Part 7: I Have Agreed To Do Bad Things...Very Bad Things....
 |
| So...you want me to kill EVERYONE in the pub |
From murder to theft. Cattle rustling to debt collection. I've been asked for my help to do it. I hope there isn't a "Bad things I've agreed to list." at the pearly gates held by a clip board tapping angelic jobs worth, if so I'm completely bolloxed. I've agreed to do bad things and some were very bad things indeed...
I've agreed to...Go back and kill everyone in the pub he has been kicked out of for him. He would, but his hand feels broken where he punched a wall and he has football in the morning.
I've agreed to...Run over a cyclist on the way back after I have dropped him and his girlfriend off because the cyclist looked like a "Poof." Got paid an extra fiver to do it too.
I've agreed to...Come back later and help him kill his next door neighbours dog. He has a spare machete I could use.
I've agreed to...Fulfilling her rape fantasy, she will leave her door open and I'm to creep in after my shift and rape her, "Any time I want."
I've agreed to...Drive to a field, be met by two men who were to give me something. I am to take this to another address. The "Something" when I got there was two struggling sheep held down by four idiots.
"If you ARE an idiot and think Taxi drivers will do anything as long as its on the meter, we would be the cheapest assassins on the planet and you would already have a calibre sized hole in your head."
I've agreed to...After I drop my customer off, go back to where we saw a dead deer, "Gut it first to keep the meat fresh." Haul the dead 3/4 ton deer stag into the boot of my cab on my own, leave it overnight hanging out of the boot parked outside my house. Take it to a butcher he knows, get the cash then drive back to his house, give him the money. He will then give me "A couple of bob for my trouble." Yes, he was that stupid.
 |
| You want me to do what? |
I've agreed to...Being shouted at outside his house so his wife could hear because he was three hours late home after fiddling with a floozy. He made me rehearse the dialogue as I drove him home, he was to shout about how late I was picking him up and I was a robbing bastard and he wasn't paying me. This actually happened without a hitch, word for word...except the bit where he hit me while his wife watched at the door in her dressing gown and slippers. That bit wasn't in the rehearsal and was a complete surprise, he did whisper sorry though. He prepaid me a tenner for that slap.
I've agreed to...Drive to a business address and simply ask "Is the cheque ready" after what seems like a panic stricken few minutes with everybody quietly running about, a cheque is thrust into my hand, I then return it back to the person that hired me. I later find out that this company uses cab drivers and couriers to get companies to pay up, they tell them they are sending the boys around. The reason it works is simple, the driver is normally so calm and polite when asking for the money he often has no idea he IS the "Menacing" boy that has been sent around.
There you have it, Cab drivers are often asked to do “Things” by the stupid AND the clever. Thing is, sometimes the stupid are clever and visa versa. What is this potential killing, raping and thievery worth? Nothing. On the meter. Base money. The cheapest option that is available to idiots to access a man and a vehicle for however long they want.
We all know if a person wants to seriously kill people and their neighbours dog and asks a complete stranger to help. THEN provides a spare machete to do it, they obviously need psychiatric assistance. If you Are an idiot and think Taxi drivers will do anything as long as its on the meter, we would be the cheapest assassins on the planet and you would already have a calibre sized hole in your head...
Apart from the debt collection and being slapped and shouted at, I didn't do any of the other things mentioned above. Obv. Scarily, they were very sincere in their offers. Trying to get a cab driver to do dodgy shenanigans for the minimum fare just highlights the level of IQ these idiots have and the small disposable income they have available, which equates to roughly my £2.50 minimum and 10p per hundred metres. Cheap ain't I?
Why agree at all? Just tell them an affirmative no! Right? I agree to this inanity to get them out of my cab quicker, easier than having a rambling often drunk and aggressive dickhead explaining his master plan to me for twenty long, mind numbing and oxygen depleting minutes.
So, St peter, I didn’t ACTUALLY do any of the very BAD things above, can you remember that when I turn up at the pearlies? The thing with the stolen milk float and the coffin we can discuss. Obv.
Thursday, 6 January 2011
The Cause, The Effect Of The Cause On The Affected, And What Caused It...
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Thursday, 30 December 2010
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.
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
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 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
Thursday, 23 December 2010
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.
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.
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