Last week I was interviewed for Weekend Sunrise which appeared on Sunday morning. Unfortunately they requested I not advertise the fact beforehand, hence the lack of notice here, so I’ll post a copy when it arrives.
One question was what had taxi driving taught me to which I nominated tolerance and heightened intuition as standout lessons. Sooner or later all cabbie attain these essential qualities, otherwise they would not survive for long.
On three occasions last night these attributes were called upon when my first instinct was to reject the fares. By applying some trust, indulgence and humour respectively, each fare worked out okay.
Firstly an elderly woman in a Kings Cross bus shelter hailed a cab travelling in front of me. When he braked then kept going something told me to stop, even though she looked homeless. She was overdressed for the warm evening and clad in the shabby, non-descript clothing favoured by street people.
With an unlit cigarette hanging from her mouth and using a walking stick she hobbled to the cab and climbed in the front seat. Immediately I was hit by the repulsing odour of stale sweat.
She paused, spaced-out like, so I waited. Finally she said, “I want to go to a restaurant, where can I go?” Even though no restaurant would accept her in that condition I suggested nearby Darlinghurst as a way of getting rid of her.
When she demurred and requested Bondi instead I wondered if she was a joy-rider. Yet she wound down the window, stuck her arm out and confidently directed me by the most direct route, indicating she knew exactly what she was doing. Thus I relaxed.
Sure enough, at Bondi she opened her purse to reveal around a $1000 in fifties! No worries.
At Central around midnight an aboriginal mother and daughter hailed me for a short fare. Even though they carried open beer bottles I let them board. Don’t ask me why but it just felt like they'd be okay. And they were.
The cops had refused them passage through the country platforms to Elizabeth Street, they called it racism but who knows. I went along with their story and suggested next time they should record such encounters on the phone. This really won them over.
They too produced a fifty dollar note, for a six dollar fare. I couldn’t change it so accepted four bucks in loose coins. Yes, it’s an old trick but sometimes something is better than nothing.
The third passenger was an American woman who, along with a friend was somewhat tired, emotional and really boisterous, bordering on belligerence. Within minutes she was screaming at me to take a certain turn. This unwarranted behaviour almost had me stopping to throw them out.
So when the old intuition suggested giving them a chance I hit the record button on the phone, just in case things went pear-shaped. And with the application of a little levity she soon settled down, making for an entertaining trip which resulted in a small tip...(click bar)
Yesterday’s Sunday Telegraphpublished a follow up to their campaign against drivers touting for fares. Of the 82 driver's number plates the paper published the Transport Department has only been able to reprimand four of those drivers. At the time I wrote,
I’m somewhat sceptical as to how the case against the drivers can be proven. Given the complainant, a journalist, is not a compliance officer it must be very doubtful whether the exchange with said drivers can be fairly tested without supporting electronic evidence.
The four drivers reprimanded were pinged using verifiable electronic evidence - they were not logged into the network. Otherwise one imagines the remaining drivers disputed the journalist's version of events or the evidence was simply inconclusive.
FWIW here's a video showing a couple of typical exchanges with would-be passengers in Kings Cross during peak demand.
Yet the Telegraph can take consolation from the fact that their campaign has had the desired effect of cleaning up breaches of touting regulations around changeover time. Well done.
The city last night was like one big wire cage and everyone wanted to be a cage fighter. From Kings Cross to Oxford Street, Chinatown to Hyde Park I witnessed drunken young adults engaged in no-holds-barred street brawling. It was that brutal.
In Milson’s Point I came across a large crowd emerging from Luna Park. The aggressive vibe caused me to immediately turn off the Vacant light and select two young Indian restaurant workers. Whilst they boarded I watched police trying to quell fighting on the station platform as reinforcements arrived with wailing sirens.
"What’s going on here?” I asked. One passenger replied, “They're from the Freedom concert,” then added sardonically, “They are celebrating the freedom to fight.” Quite.
At traffic lights at Hyde Park two brawling groups of pedestrians spilled onto the roadway and from three cars back I watched as one bloke in a red shirt copped a solid kicking. He didn’t get up and lay sprawled on the road, motionless in front of the cars.
This led to a frenzied, out of control reaction from his mates throwing themselves on him with confected grief and hysterics, “He’s fuckin’ dying! Don’t die on us, bro!”
He was lying on his back gurgling blood from the mouth. I approached and told them to lay him on his side. One mate turned on me, screaming uncontrollably and shaping to hit me. “Mate,” I told him, “I can help you, I know first aid.” Instead he reeled away and kicked a waiting taxi.
My camera was still recording when I pocketed it, capturing the audio as I put the victim on his side, found a pulse and got his mouth open. The following sound excerpt demonstrates the hostility and rage faced by police and ambos on any Saturday night...
(click bar)
Window washers at intersections are not so frequent these days due to constant police harassment. Those that remain are generally hard core, colourful characters ranging from the industrious to complete wastes of space.
There is rarely any innovation or creativity by window washers, usually white males aged between 30 and 50 years of age employing the same old shtick.
Too many have lousy presentation and/or attitude issues which really turns motorists off. An idiot in Darlinghurst once even offered to wash my windows in the rain. That’s addiction for you.
In comparison an elderly bloke on the corner of Liverpool Road at Parramatta Road used to make an absolute killing using good cheer, enthusiasm and hard work. He wore a Santa hat and would wildly wave his extended squeegee pole to greet approaching motorists. The man knew the importance of first impressions.
Still, whilst I only ever pay for a wash if it’s needed I don’t mind these grifters, even though they can earn more per hour than a cabbie. I take the view that at least they’re out there creating work and not jumping the back fence to rob me whilst I’m at work.
Aside from the aforementioned Santa, one of the few times I’ve been impressed by squeegee jockeys was watching a couple of young women in cut-off shorts and bikini tops. No further explanation needed.
Another creative example of exploiting stationary traffic occurred one night this week in Surry Hills. During dinner at an Indian cafe a white middle-aged bloke entered and offered patrons a printed sheet of A4 paper in exchange for a ‘small donation’.
Not wanting to be disturbed whilst eating I instinctively brushed him so he approached an aboriginal mother and daughter waiting to be served. Not only did he get lucky but as he wandered outside they called him back and gave him extra spare change.
After dinner I noticed this character waiting in the middle of the intersection of Cleveland Street, which was pretty safe due to negligible traffic at that time of night. So instead of pulling a U-turn and heading backing into town I rolled down to the intersection.
"Whaddya got?” I asked. He handing over a sheet of paper and said, “I write poetry and I’m trying to get enough money to get me book published.” “Mate, forget the publisher,” I told him, “just do it yourself, online.” But he was already one step ahead of me. “Yeah, I’ve got them on Facebook,” he said, “But right now I just need four bucks for a kebab.” Whatever.
The poem was original and not some cut and paste scam off the Web so I gave him a buck. His name is Andrew and here’s his poem, The Silver Limousine...
Melbourne Cup day was particularly punishing yesterday, mainly due to the record temperatures which reached 39°C at Sydney Airport. And with Randwick Racecourse only a few suburbs away you can imagine how hot it was for the thousands in attendance.
The order of the day was ‘rehydrate’ and racegoers didn’t need to be told twice as they absorbed fluids with relish. Yet many unaccompanied ‘suits’, blokes well into their thirties and forties misjudged the deadly combination of rehydrating with mates and the oppressive heat.One would have thought they knew better.
The extended celebrations which started at lunch time claimed other victims too, punters’ wives, families and loved ones. The fact it was a Tuesday meant revellers had other responsibilities to consider, unlike a Friday night piss-up when the weekend allows time to recover.
Then there was the gambling element on top of a day when interest rates increased. More than a few blokes went home to sheepishly confess that next month’s mortgage payment was gone.
A passenger described what would happen. “My missus will say, ‘You blew the money because you were so fuckin’ drunk you lost all self control’. And you know what?” he said. “I won’t be able to argue with that because she’s dead right. It’s going to be a long month,” he moaned.
If I carried one punter in trouble for going home late, tired and emotional, I carried a dozen. It was a constant refrain: ‘I’m an idiot; I’m dead; this is divorce; here comes a week of misery, etc.’
One punter climbed in at Cargo Bar for Manly and announced he’d won four grand. “But I’ve had enough,” he sighed. "'It’s time to be a good boy and go home.” Just then his phone beeped with a message from some mates at Ivy. “Oh, shit,” he said, “I don’t know what to do, go home or kick on? It’s your call, driver.”
Actually, I didn’t want to go to Manly so I goaded him, “Mate, ya can’t let ya mates down!” As he climbed out at Ivy I called, “I’ll see you in the Cross, at dawn!” Cruel, I know.
Another over-stayer told of receiving a text message at 8pm whilst batting on with mates. It was unambiguous: Is this how you value our marriage? He quickly downed his beer and hailed me.
Finally, the last fare of the shift restored my faith in boozing blokes. For this fella, aged around forty, Melbourne Cup day was an annual ritual when he joined old friends with whom he’d grown up. They spend the day at the track, thence to dinner and finally, after dinner drinks.
Wisely, he’d retained enough sense to pace himself. “How come you’re not drunk?” I asked. “I stopped drinking after the races,” he explained, “and only drank water for the rest of the night, even though my mates gave me heaps.”
He continued, “But all day I kept thinking about my wife and kids. She never rang once ‘cause she trusts me, unlike some of the other blokes’ missuses. So next year I’ll be bringing her along with us because she’s my best friend. And if they don’t like it then they’re not real mates.”
What a man.
At work over the weekend I attempted to solve a a couple of conundrums.
After dropping some hip hoppers in Newtown on Saturday for the Nas concert I was immediately struck by the early evening crowd on the street, heading out to celebrate Halloween. Most were attired in elaborate horror, witches and gothic costumes making for a real Mardi Gras like festive atmosphere, in basic black.
And I thought, Newtown’s dominant demographic of students, left wing progressives, media and arts types, gays, and assorted variations of all, may be the most avowed anti-American crowd in the country. Yet here they were embracing an American festival with gusto. Why is it so?
Later I mentioned this puzzle to a young woman in the cab. She explained that it had nothing to do with America per se, but rather the fancy dressers were celebrating paganism and the chance to have some fun.
Thus I reached the conclusion that a celebration of paganism is, by definition, a fun protest against Christianity, hence Newtown’s lusty adoption of Halloween.
Maybe that’s simplistic or maybe I’m reading too much into this phenomenon, I dunno.
My second mystery arose after a passenger encounter with an ABC staffer from their science department. Her section was responsible for the science portfolio across their various platforms, including the popular television program, Catalyst.
Ah, Catalyst,” I chuckled. “At home we call that the ‘maybe' show.” I explained how every week we look for the heavy qualifiers which litter most segments and how conclusive answers are rarely found for issues which are presented in the style of open-and-shut cases.
To wit, ‘If that occurs then scientists say this may be the outcome, leading to the possible destruction of...blah, blah. So there you have it.' This is supposition masquerading as fact and somewhat embarrassing for an award winning show.
"Well,” my passenger offered, “that’s just the nature of science where it’s often quite difficult to predict definitive outcomes.” Fair enough, a perfectly plausible answer. Yet it begged a glaring follow-up inquiry pertaining to Catalyst’s favourite topic, climate change.
At the time I recall half-heartedly alluding to this but didn’t have the nerve to press the issue. My intuition warned that our relaxed chat to that point would rapidly deteriorate and the trip end badly.
However the question remains: in recognising that science is an imprecise discipline, this relegates the science of climate change from being conclusively ‘in’, to more accurately a ‘maybe’ status, surely.
Accordingly, why then is Australia poised to sign up next month to a global environmental government with the power to override our basic liberties and way of life, all based on ‘maybe’ science?
I just don’t know.
Once I was driving down Oxford Street when a drunken Irish passenger leaned out the window and loudly abused the crowd waiting outside Stonewall. “Fook off, yous durty fookin’ faggots!”
Such vilification against gays, rarely seen from passengers, really surprised me and I told him so. Anyway, I suggested, anal sex wasn’t exclusive to gay men.
"Actually, lad, my girlfriend loves it,” he countered, “but it’s nothing to do with that. It’s just that those durty fookers kiss each other!”
On Wednesday evening I was telling another driver how earlier in the shift I’d carried two lipstick lesbians. He asked, “How do you know they were lesbians?” “Because one minute they were chatting away,” I explained, “then it suddenly went quiet." They were having a deep and prolonged bout of tonsil tickling.
This had the driver recounting a similar experience where he’d carried two off-duty policewomen doing the same thing. Except in his case he stopped the cab and gave them the choice of behaving or getting out. After roundly abusing him they got out.
When I wondered if the kissing had distracted him enough to become a safety issue, he said, “Not at all. It’s because they disrespected me in my workplace. They also would be upset if I came into their workplace with my girlfriend and started kissing and cuddling.”
I couldn’t argue with that.
It’s a slow night for taxi stories when one resorts to reporting on a rat at News Limited.
Arriving at News headquarters last night I was greeted by a couple of excited cabbies and a security guard. “Mate," one exclaimed, "you just missed all the commotion!”
Whilst kicking his heels on the footpath a waiting driver told of spotting a beefy, Surry Hills rat dining inside the lobby under some reception chairs.
My first question was how did a rat come to be inside such a secure building. “Mate, there’s plenty of rats in this place,” deadpanned the guard, without a hint of irony.
Still, I found it hard to believe the thing had made it past the locked doors. “Okay, then, how the hell did it escape?”
Apparently, once disturbed, the rat darted across the lobby to the revolving doors and shinned up a leading edge, using the fine nylon brushes which serve as a wind seal. Reaching the top it flattened it's body through a narrow gap before scampering down the outside of the door to make its escape.
It was at this point, however, that the beast didn’t count on being challenged by a militant cabbie.
In the style of a (in)famous Iraqi journalist the cabbie instinctively whipped off his shoe and flung it at the rodent, scoring a direct hit and stopping it in it's tracks. Consequently the victim was last seen dragging itself down the gutter towards the Aurora Hotel.
Yet, formine, the act of selflessly protecting News Limited from a marauding invader was what most impressed, especially given the defender was a cabbie. That’s dedication.
Kings Cross at 2:03am, Monday. This pretty much sums up the shift, wet and dreary. Oct 26
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Champ
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