Hopeless

Notorious prankster, Shifty, offers me a 'fresh' coffee at the Airport holding yard last night.

Once again last night at the Domestic Airport hordes of frustrated travellers fumed in taxi queues whilst masses of waiting cabbies cooled their heels in the holding yard.

We just can't get together quickly enough due to the inept rank marshalls. Instead of arriving to find passengers standing at each taxi bay we pull in and wait for the marshalls to release passengers from the queue, one by one. Absolutely hopeless.

Again, there are plenty of drivers waiting to pick-up but the rank marshalls seemingly lack basic training and supervision. Over to you, Sydney Airport.

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Hidden

Few Oxford Street regulars would recognise this hidden location behind Arc nightclub.

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Stupidity

At 2:30am this morning a policeman hailed me outside a western suburbs police station and requested I take an aged businessman home. The bloke was unsteady on his feet and somewhat dishevelled. It appeared as if he’d hurriedly dressed, most likely after an unscheduled stint in a police cell.

“You get done?” I asked. “Yeah.” “What happened, RBT?” “Yeah, you wouldn’t believe it. I got together with a bunch of fellas to watch Underbelly. And we’ve all got a connection to those blokes.” “Who, the gangland figures?” “Yeah, I knew Chris Moran.” This was the father of Jason and Mark Moran, all three old school criminals murdered by the new breed of criminals.

My passenger explained that in 1968 he had served in the Air Force with Chris Moran. “But he never wanted to go back to Melbourne after the Air Force ‘cause he reckoned they were all animals there.” Junk yard dogs, as history has since shown.

I stopped outside his home. “Oh well," I offered, "maybe you can take three months off work and go fishing.” He gave a sardonic laugh. “Mate,” he said, “high range PCA is at least a six month suspension. Plus my job depends on the car so as of this morning I no longer have a job.”

I drove off thinking his stupidity could have cost a lot more – his life.

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Caboramma

Last night was a caboramma on ABC TV. Or as Tim Blair calls it, hot cabbie action!

On ABC1 the now famous Enough Rope episode, Three Cabbies was repeated. At the same time on ABC2 there were three other cabbies (including yours truly) interviewed by JTV's Hack. The link for this piece is not yet up, maybe later.

So check out last night's repackaged Three Cabbies, featuring the hilarious Gerard.

UPDATE: Hack piece now online (with bonus extra cabbie!), screening this Friday on ABC1, 11:50pm.

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Tinnys

Occasionally, late at night, I take a bloke up to Church Point on the Pittwater. From there he boards a tinny and motors across to his home on Scotland Island, lucky bastard. When much younger I took a girl home to this island (above). Little did I know that her tinny was a row boat and guess who did the rowing, against an incoming tide? In those days there were no solar-powered 'tinnys'...

On Wednesday afternoon I went for a drive to the Pittwater, just to see the joint in daylight for a change. As these images show the area is a beautiful part of Sydney and arguably equal to the main Harbour. Last week the Daily Telegraph published hundreds of readers photos of Sydney (a nice little earner), though strangely not many of the Pittwater. The shot below is nearby McCarrs Creek.

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Hysterical

Due to a buggered cab I'm currently off work, so here's a tale from last weekend...

Well after midnight at a quiet suburban rank a fight broke out over queue jumping, despite there being half a dozen vacant cabs and no other passengers!?

The participants were two young guys in the blue corner and a young couple in the red, all of Asian descent. Alcohol was involved, of course, mixed with fake pride and bravado.

From the back of the rank I heard a commotion, raised voices followed by a girl’s squealing. And if the following twenty minute melee was memorable for anything it was this girl’s guttural and primeval screams, at full volume, at two o’clock in the morning.

As I wandered up to see what the other cabbies were laughing about she threw herself to the ground at her boyfriend’s feet, in an attempt to block his movement. But he was a big guy and simply side-stepped her, so she commenced a frenzied lashing out with her feet, coupled with blood-curling screams.

This pantomime carried on whilst the two other guys commented from the sidelines, which I learned later were taunts and threats to the boyfriend. He responded by ripping his shirt to pieces and further freaking the girlfriend when they moved into the tunnel.

Next came the frightening roar of a Rottweiler security dog which, fortunately for everyone, was restrained by a hotel bouncer. So for the next ten minutes the guys yelled, the girl screamed and the dog roared as lunges and blocks occurred between the half-willing scrappers.

By the time the security guards forced them from the subway I’d made point car. Yet when the guards attempted to load the young couple into my cab I locked the door and refused entry.

I wasn’t interested as the boyfriend was bare-chested and totally enraged and she continued throwing herself to the ground, screaming, every time he made to confront the young fellas. “There must be something in the fuckin’ Constitution," he protested, "against being hit in the face for no fuckin’ reason.” Quite.

Finally I allowed the two young guys, the blue corner, to board, by now standing idly by and eyeballing the infuriated boyfriend. They climbed in and said, “Let’s go, here comes the police.”

“What happened?” I asked. “Aw, we were about to get in the taxi when that idiot pushed in, showing off to his girlfriend. So we called him out. He thought he was a hard c..., but fuck him, we gave him a smack in the mouth.” At every opportunity, it seemed.

After dropping them in a quiet neighbourhood, the cab radio came to life. The operator requested details of the drop-off, whether it was a house or a unit block. “Stand by,” she ordered. Evidently she was responding to a police directive and had monitored our trip with the GPS, camera and microphone.

Obviously the aggrieved participant was insisting the police enforce ‘the Constitution’. Though all concerned can thank the hysterical young woman's performance which quite possibly averted a lethal outcome.

(Listen to her in the dispute's final 30 seconds - Download Hysterical.mp3)

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Survivor

Late last night I was hailed by a young bloke with prosthetic arms and hooks for hands. He sat up front and we quickly got chatting about general stuff so that I didn’t get the opportunity to inquire about his condition.

Well, actually, I did get a chance when he mentioned he was a DJ and manager at one of Sydney’s top clubs. However, the fact he was a DJ indicated that, obviously, he managed to spin records with his clamping hooks. Furthermore, as I learned later, this fella, Thomas, also plays guitar,

...I have designed an attachment to go on to where my hook is that screws in in lieu of the hook that would wrap around the fret of a guitar, and I can clamp it on and off. So I’ll be able to tune a guitar so as I might be able to play just chords.

Thomas was fairly knowledgeable on the dance music scene and gave me a thumbnail sketch of various clubs and their respective owners and tribes. His own style of music was electronica; readers who club will know of this popular genre.

Amusingly he related how after once playing a DJ set at a major nightclub they’d offered him cocaine as payment. “Um, nooo,” he told them, “I don’t think so.” Yet it wouldn't surprise me if he was physically capable of undertaking the fiddly job of using cocaine.

We hit Maccas drive-thru so he could score a late dinner and he passed me a twenty dollar note for payment. Waiting for the change I joked, “I’ll just put it in the charity slot, shall I ?” “Well, that’s your fare,” he laughed. So the joke was on me as my charity didn’t extend to making a ten dollar donation on a lousy shift.

After work I tracked down Thomas on Google. Not only has he no arms but also no legs, lost part of his nose, ears and most of his skin, all at the age of nineteen. ABC radio did a special report on his incredible survival from a frightening disease, against heavy odds. A few weeks after leaving hospital he explained his outlook,

You always ask the question ‘Why has this happened to me?’ but then I think you come to the agreement with yourself that it’s got to happen to someone, and if I’m that person, then so be it, and what you choose to do with that is more important than why it happened to you.

Hit this link and listen to Thomas tell his story plus hear some guitar playing.

UPDATE: Australian Story

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Sacrilege

Traditional Anzac Day two-up game in Kings Cross.

Last night a radio call was made for cabs to the Westin Hotel, overlooking the Martin Place cenotaph and focal point for yesterday’s Anzac Day commemoration. The request sounded like a bunch of Diggers may be heading home after a function at the hotel.

Upon arrival a woman in her thirties climbed aboard. As she sat in the back and didn’t seem Digger-connected I ignored her and continued listening to a special radio broadcast on Gallipoli, presented by Warren Brown.

When at the destination she requested a pen for a taxi voucher the penny dropped. The Westin Hotel is also the head office of Macquaire Bank.

"Have you been working?” I asked. “Yes, unfortunately,” she replied. “For Macquarie Bank?” “Yeah,” she groaned, “who else would make us work on Anzac Day.” I was surprised that any office worker, besides newspaper staff, would be required to work on a public holiday...or holy day.

So I made a request, “You tell your boss for me that he’s a lousy Commie, or something equally as derogatory.” “I’d be happy too,” she laughed as she climbed out. I called after her, “Working on Anzac Day is bloody sacrilege!”

With that I headed back to the City for more work.

UPDATE: Federal Treasurer Wayne Swan says National Australia Bank's decision to announce an interest rate rise on Anzac Day was "lousy". 

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