I picked up four lads who were on a stag do in rural Norfolk. They were staying on a boat on the Broads, but wanted to go into Norwich for the last few hours of drinking. Rather than going the long way round via the main roads, I chose instead to take the back roads to our fine city.
As we travelled through the winding lanes in the pitch black countryside, one of the lads looked up, and surveyed the landscape with confusion.
“Where the @&£% are we?” he exclaimed. “I have no @&£%ing idea where we are.”
Before I could answer, he eyed me with suspicion. “You’re not taking us dogging, are you?”
I picked up two customers, one of whom seemed somewhat “chemically preoccupied”.
We were talking about music festivals, as I had just returned from Drum Camp (www.drumcamp.co.uk) in Suffolk.
My rather befuddled customer was quite into his festivals, and had been to Glastonbury last year.
“It was really good,” he said. “When it finished, I stayed on and picked up litter, just to help them out, and they gave me two tickets for this year.”
“Nice,” I remarked.
“Yes, he said. “I’m really looking forward to it.”
My other customer and I paused to reflect upon his words.
“Erm…” I began reluctantly, not wanting to burst his little happy bubble of anticipation.
My other customer was more forthright. “Mate,” he declared emphatically, “I hate to break it to you, but you’ve missed it!”
I picked up a very drunk older man, who was Very Pleased Indeed that he had a female driver. He made a number of (almost) complimentary remarks about me, and made it very apparent exactly how attractive he found me. He looked like he could be the lovechild of Benny Hill and Les Dawson, and had an expressively mobile face. He asked my name. I told him, and enquired as to his own name.
“Sexy Bobby!” he leered.
I don’t think that my shout of laughter was quite the response that he expected. Bless.