Deer students

On a night when I was feeling rough, full of the symptoms of the onset of a horrible cold, I got a job to pick up some students, to take them to the LCR. I wasn’t exactly feeling party-tastic, but I decided to make the effort and put on Chase and Status to help keep them feeling lively on their way to their Student Union.

The four girls were (predictably) garbed in fancy dress costumes, and kept me waiting nearly 10 minutes, which, when you’re a taxi driver, is exasperating at the best of times. Finally, we set off.

As I approached a side road, I spotted a mother Muntjac deer with her young, hesitating in the road. I stopped to make sure they didn’t panic and run into the road, and the girls in my car squealed in astonishment.

“Look, a deer!” one exclaimed.
“I’ve never seen one before!” said another.
“Are you sure it’s not a fox?” asked the third girl.

Stoic at the best of times in the face of unbelievable student f***wittery, as an Honours Zoology graduate I was simply unable to contain my feelings.

“Oh, dear GOD!” I exclaimed, and smote my forehead with my palm, in despair.

They didn’t notice, all too busy caught up in their own little drama of having annoyed their poor neighbours with their noisy pre-drinks.

We got to UEA. The fare was more than they had anticipated, with the charge for waiting time. Hah. The girl in the front paid the £6.50 fare with a ten pound note, and then insisted that the three girls in the back gave her £2 each.

“But that comes to £8,” protested one of the others, working out the total sum if each passenger contributed the same amount.

“No,” said the girl in the front, who was evidently far from popular with the other girls. “Because two times three is 6.”

Despair reigned.

Essex

I picked up three students: two female friends returning home together from a night out, and one of those random drunk lads that hangs around kebab shops after the clubs shut, to try and cadge a free lift home with fellow students.

He was trying hard to impress the girls. The girls were obviously underwhelmed by him and his transparent antics. After a few failed attempts, he gave up trying to persuade the girls to let him accompany them to their flat, and asked to be dropped off en route.

During the journey, the cabcrasher and one of the girls discovered that they were both from Essex. She was from Braintree. He announced that he was from Colchester.

The other girl remarked, “I got a train that went through Colchester once. So many freaks got off in Colchester, it was unreal.”

As I smiled to myself, they began to debate which place was the biggest sh*thole: Braintree or Colchester.

The girl from Braintree declared emphatically, “Colchester is the biggest sh*thole. By far. Everybody in Colchester has been stabbed. Everybody.”

The lad in the back protested, “I’m from Colchester, and I’ve never been stabbed.”

Undeterred, Miss Braintree continued: “Yes, you HAVE been stabbed. You’re just too stupid to have noticed.”

A short while later, Mr Colchester got out of the taxi, without offering to contribute anything towards the fare. The girls were surprised and indignant. I was not.

As if…

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?”

Leery

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.

What Zoologists do…

I just had a very lively carful of three young lads and a girl, talking about job opportunities and their plans for work and holidays.
The lad in the middle decided to include me in the conversation.
“Have you lived here all of your life?” he asked.
“No,” I replied. “I lived in Manchester for 8 years.”
“Manchester?!” he exclaimed. “What did you do there?”
“I studied Zoology at Manchester University,” I told him.
“You did ZOOLOGY?! Oh my God, that’s so cool.”
He turned to his friends, “She can revive ZEBRAS!!”

Casual violence

I went to pick up a customer from a local pub. A group of people were standing outside, smoking and talking, and a short way away, a woman was standing by herself, casually waiting for a taxi. She was striking, with funky pink hair, and interesting clothes. As I pressed the “ringback” button on my datahead, I glanced at her again, and suddenly realised that her face and top were covered in blood.

I ran my eyes over the group near her. A blonde woman was standing amongst them, next to the large male bouncer, and she, too, had gouges and blood on her face, head and clothing. The two women had obviously had a vicious fight, been separated, and woman with pink hair was now making her way home. The bouncer clearly had the situation under remarkable control.

The woman with the pink hair came to my window. “Are you going to …..?” she asked calmly, naming a road in the city centre.

“Sorry, but no,” I replied, truthfully, and she retreated back to the doorway before I could say anything more. My mind whirred, but then my customer appeared. I switched into taxi driver mode, and whisked him home, without mentioning what I had just noticed. Several other customers followed in quick succession, and the incident faded to the back of my mind.

Some time later in the evening, I picked up a lively, tattooed woman with gorgeous, shiny hair. “So what have you been up to tonight?” I asked.

She smiled. “I’ve been up the Brickmakers pub for a charity event,” she explained. “We’ve been filming scenes for The Norwich Zombie Project. There were loads of people made up as zombies, with fake blood and everything. It was great!”

I burst out laughing, and explained what I had seen earlier. Relief washed over me as I realised that what I had thought was the aftermath of an exceptionally brutal fight was nothing more than excellent makeup! Phew. It also explained why everyone was so unbelievably nonchalant, including the women with the hideous injuries!

Speechless

was recently rendered speechless by a mother of teenage children, who was a customer in my taxi. We were talking about young people and their drinking exploits.


“Alcohol is weird,” she said. “It’s almost like they put something in it to make you drunk. Like a drug, or something. But it’s only a liquid.”

I was, and remain, utterly dumbfounded.

Halloween Highlights 2013

had an appropriately bizarre series of customers last night… to the point that the occasional customer who WASN’T in Halloween costume looked frankly weird.


Highlights of the festivities included:


* being reassured by an earnest and eloquent Frankenstein that his caped friend wouldn’t be sick… turned out that the cape was in fact a blanket from a volunteer paramedic, and the friend had left most of his evening expenditure in a bucket in the ambulance…


* two older witches with their partner wizards, walking up the drive of a private house… suddenly joined by a silent mass of fellow witches and wizards who were making their way up from the bus stop…


* a witch in a very short dress being boosted over a church wall… turned out that she didn’t have any knickers on :-&


* Fred Flintstone and a delightfully curvaceous Wilma, who I dropped off in fine fooling, and collected a few hours later… poor Wilma had overindulged and was feeling a bit queasy, while Fred patted her shoulder reassuringly…


* having my taxi chased by a blood-spattered man in a leather apron, much to the delight of his friends, all of whom turned out to be my customers. He then sat right behind me, and genuinely creeped me out without doing a thing…


* Seeing random lone zombies stumbling home, drunk enough to give a convincing impression that the city was being invaded by the undead…


* and finally… I pulled up at one club to discover that my customer was in a Nazi costume, complete with Swastika. The distaste on my face was evident. “Do I really have to pick YOU up?” I asked.


“You shouldn’t discriminate against people just because of how they look,” came the wonderful reply.


It transpired that he was quite a decent lad who abhorred everything that the Nazis stood for, and has chosen his costume as it represented, in his words, “the evil of all evils.”


We had a good chat about racism (which he had experienced) and gay rights, and about his costume. It turned out that he had hired the basic costume from a local shop, but that the Nazi embellishments had been made by his Mum. Really.


As I dropped him off and drove away, I was witness to the bizarre spectacle of a Second World War Nazi soldier bending down to tickle a little cat under the chin.


Happy Halloween!

Until The Cavalry Come

“Until The Cavalry Come” (MTV)


I recently met the man who composed and sings this song, when he jumped in the back of my taxi, with a battered guitar. He was on his way to play a local gig. He told me about this video, and I looked it up on YouTube. Intriguing video, beautiful voice, and lovely melody.


I loved it, and told him so when I picked him up again. He was touched, and asked if he could play it for me. Then and there, in the back of my taxi. Just him and that battered guitar.


It was one of the most unexpected, and one of the most astoundingly beautiful musical experiences of my life. The emotion in his voice brought tears to my eyes, and stillness to my soul. Incredible.

Surely Not…

I took home a wonderful, and endearingly inebriated lady doctor, who worked as a locum gynaecologist. She had just been visiting with colleagues from her university days, and they had enjoyed a fantastic night together, drinking, catching up, and swapping clinical stories. Obviously, this was too good an opportunity to miss, so I asked her if she would share her most memorable clinical incident to date.

She had been working a family planning clinic, in a rural area, when she was asked to attend to a patient in some distress. The patient was female, mortified, and reluctant to disclose her troubles. Eventually, with careful and sensitive questioning, the locum deduced that the patient had… erm… experienced an unusual accident, while alone in the privacy of her own home, which had led to an Unexpected Item becoming lodged firmly in an Unmentionable Place. The item was the lid from a roll-on deodorant bottle. The place remains unmentionable.

The poor patient was deeply embarrassed, and refused to go to the local hospital. The locum gynaecologist examined her carefully, and confirmed that indeed, the Unexpected Item was resolutely wedged in the Unmentionable Place. The locum assessed the situation with an appropriately grave demeanour.

The most appropriate course of action would be to transport the lady to the local hospital, and have the Item removed from the Place under anaesthetic. However, this was not an option for our increasingly mortified patient. The locum took pity on her. “I will get this out for you,” she vowed.

Indeed, the locum tried. She tried a whole variety of methods, involving forceps and other dastardly medical implements, manual dexterity, and exceedingly careful manipulation, but to no avail. The Unexpected Item remained securely located within the Unmentionable Place. The locum’s eyes travelled around the room, and lit upon the Mother of all Speculums. (Uninformed men, google “speculum” as an image, and let your minds contemplate the full horrors. Women, stop wincing. Men: we women all know precisely what that this undoubtably male-invented tool of torture does.)

Armed with a considerable amount of lubricant, the locum seized the contraption, and advanced upon the helpless but desperate patient. With great skill, and a spectacular turn of phrase, the locum, in her own words (which made me shout aloud with laughter as she related the tale),

“Jacked her wide open and Got It Out!”

Success!!! We celebrated together the locum’s cunning, persistence, and determination to spare the lady a trip to the local hospital, while I wiped tears of laughter (and sympathy) from my eyes. Brilliant.

Back at Base, I related this tale to my colleagues.

“A deodorant lid? Are you Sure?” quipped a driver. “Why would anyone do that?!”

“Perhaps she acted on Impulse” said our lovely telephonist.

“Poor woman,” I said. “You can see why she would want to keep Mum.”