K8 the GR8

So we’ve fixed the Passat and installed radios and fare meters and a brand spanking new roof-sign.

No more gazing longingly at bus-lanes in heavy traffic, no more interviewing people outside Tescos who don’t know I’m a taxi driver, no more boring waits in between jobs from the dispatch office!

Yes, groan all you like all you taxi haters and frustrated taxi-drivers, but there’s yet another taxi on the roads.  Our taxi, the relaxi-cab.  I’m gonna be the best damn Grace Jones ever.

All I have to do now is figure out how to use this fare-meter.  The installer didn’t teach us diddly-squat, all the buttons are marked with very obscure words indeed, and as for the manual?  Pft…  I wouldn’t even wipe my dip-stick with it.

First day tomorrow!  Am I scared? 

Yes.

I stopped outside the Boomerang in Bray and he slid into my car.  He looked at me dubiously and then broke out into a sickly leer.

“I’fe nenner sheela wooni taxinirver befowar” he slurred.

“Come again?”  I strained to hear intelligeable words in the drunken murmers that followed.

“I’fe.  Never.  Seen.  A. Woman. Taxi driver. Before.” he said as though I was a deaf simpleton.  “Areyiz deaf or wha?”

“Cheeky.  Where would you like to go?”

“Your houshe.”

“Nice one.  You can babysit while me and the fella go to the pub…”

“Ah bollix.  Roigh… Ceemartnoad.”

“Sorry?”

“Sheertinapuck” he hiccuped.

My pulse raced as I got him to pronounce his address again and again, each word sounding completely different from the last.  I glance at him to find he’s gazing at my cleavage. 

“Oi!!” I shout.  “Look, it’s pissing rain out there… you sure you want to walk, sunshine?”

“Sorry, sorry…”  he winks and tells me the name of the pub he lives above.  I pull out of my parking spot and then jam on the brakes just a smidge so that he lurches forward.

“Belt up”  I suggest kindly.

“Heh heh.  Crazy bitch.  Heyy hurryup der, I have to geh home for a kip before me wankxin’.”

“Ugh.  That’s too much information, thanks.”

“Wax-in, I sed!”

“You’re getting waxed?”

“Yeah I’f ta get me chest waxed a’ half-eigh.  For chari-ee.”

“Seriously?  Fair play!  Ow  though.  What’s the charity?”

“Sain’ Cat’rins.  It’s gona hurt, I’m a hairy cunt I am…  so hairy I…”

“…Did you say Saint Catherines?!?”  I interrupted, hardly believing the irony. 

From a letter I recently got from my son’s school:

“Dear All.
St Catherines is in urgent discussions with the H S E about finance.  We are hugely in the red at the moment and both the H S E and the Department of Education are slow to come to our assistance.

We are fortunate that several fund raising events are being undertaken for us and while these cannot take the place of proper funding by the H S E and the Dept, we are greatly dependent on voluntary funds to assist in the short term.  I am appealing for your support…”

“Yeah, I’m aneeejih, I know.”

“You’re no eejit”  I give him my most loving smile. ‘You’re my hero.  My kid goes to that school.”

“Yeah?!?”  He looked pleased.  He gazed at my boobs all the way to Greystones and I didn’t mind a jot, because it occured to me that maybe the image will help soothe his dire agony later on.  Maybe when he gets to see his own nipples which have been just ripped off his chest by an over-zealous drunken waxer, my boobs will be the happy place he goes to.  It’s the least I could do.

What a nice chap…

I went shopping yesterday for Father’s day gifts (The Accidental Terrorist has been bugging me for Wiiks about his present, so I caved and he is now a happy Wii bunnii :), and found a copy of Twenty’s buke in Easons.

Delighted, I bought it and stashed it in the overhead compartment in my car, intending to use it as light entertainment for when I’m in between taxi-jobs.  Unfortunately it was so busy at work today that I didn’t even get a chance to read the blurb.

Then it hit me.

Overhead compartments really should only hold two books at a time, but mine holds 7 CDs, a newspaper, a coin-bag and two books so when I say it hit me… I don’t mean metaphoricalizzy.

The book slipped out of its cubby and jabbed me with its pointy corner on the crown of my head just as I was negotiating a narrow country road.  ‘GAH!’ I said, and ducked - I was appalled for a nano-second that my passenger had assaulted me, but then I spotted Twenty’s smug mug laughing at me from my lap, and I felt foolish. 

In the second it took for me to re-gain my composure, a pheasant had walked out in front of me and I hit it with a curdling thump that sounded louder than it should have.  ‘FUH!’ says I, as the bird struts back out onto the road.  Mrs. Passenger wasn’t too pleased when she saw that her eggs had broken and didn’t appreciate my sarcasm much as I pointed at the injured bird and suggested she take it home.  The bird himself mooned me, then fucked off back into the ditch presumably to a pub to tell his mates what’d happened. 

I had to take a half-hour break after Mrs. Passenger was ever-so safely disposed of to nurse me bumped noggin and recover from my poultry-abuse.

I reckon I should sue Twenty Major for loss of earnings, or at least get him to autograph it with his own blood.  His book has tested the limits of both my sanity and my overhead compartment and I’m not happy. 

This book better be damn good is all.

*Cheesy Link*

I picked up couple in the big shmoke today who wanted to return home after their pre-marriage course.

They had researched their options and had found the cheapest, shortest course there is.  They spent €150 on the course alone (plus additional donations to the Church), and they also had to spend €90 for the round-trip from Bray.  They spent six hours on a swealtering-hot Saturday listening to “pointless rubbish”, and ended up with a certificate so basic they could’ve printed it up themselves… at least they would have gotten their own names spelled right.

This couple were lovely - together for five years and at the stage where they could finish each other’s sentences, but ironically enough it was this course that set them at odds with each other from what I overheard.

The course is compulsory for all who wish to wed in a Catholic Irish church.  It basically warns a couple of the possible downfalls and short-comings a marriage can have… pretty much anything that can’t be taught, that must be learned by experience. 

*sigh*

And they wonder why I’d prefer a foreign wedding?!?

I lifted Mrs O’Leary’s swollen ankles into the passenger’s side of my car.  I could tell she was embarrassed and angry with life that she should be in the position to ask a perfect stranger to do so, so I made light small-talk as I sat back in the driver’s seat.  Mrs O’Leary was quiet, she seemed tired… her lump of groceries in the boot was a fair reason for this, so I turned on the air-flow and pumped up the radio volume…

-settling *groan* from O’Leary-

… and animated voices filled the car as I drove toward Soldier’s Row.  Matt Cooper was fiercely battling for the last word with several hot headed YESsers and NOers of this hilarious Lisbon Treaty, and  I confess to going ’round a rind-about maybe too many times just to hear what this one lady (Kathy Sinnot) had to say.  When she finished her point, she received a round of applause and my passenger collapsed beside me with laughter.  It was a most wonderful and welcome sound.

“Jaysus but that clinches it for me!  I’m gonna vote NO just to piss them off!”  she began to breathe quickly and excitedly and I knew a rant was on it’s way.  “It’s gas… nobody really knows what’s goin’ on!  I was watchin’ a chap get de twenty questions dere on d’telly last night - sure de more he said de more confused he go’ -  I’ve never heard anyone say so much withou’ sayin’ so little!!!  Now here’s yer one… she’s got them by the bollix and they haven’t a clue what to say ‘coz they haven’t read the feckin’ thing either!!!”  she collapses with laughter once more.

“Think abourd’i… “  she says, breathing her giggles out “…if we all vote NO at least they’ll org’nise it better the next time ’round!”

I had to admire her logic.  I’m not really comfortable either signing a contract that’s written in double-dutch.  And those posters?!?!  Please.  Those slogan’s aren’t even impressing the village idiot.

I’m proud to be European, I like this neck of the woods.  I’m not sure that I trust Ireland’s system fully, they seem to be making a lot of dodgy choices lately.

(I’m playing ‘Sim City’ on the Nintender DS in between fares in the taxi these days.  I tried raising taxes and decreasing funding on public health, transport and education to free up more funds and guess what?  The poplulation all fucked off to find better living elsewhere… haven’t we all dreamed about doing that?  Why are we still here?!!)

So I’m thinking… maybe it’s a double-bluff?  Maybe the NOers found the small print and are scrutinizing the things that probably won’t happen? It just seems like the original ink has had coffee spilled on it-  it’s just a blurred mess and now everybody’s trying to remember what it might have said.

I’m saying NO on this, the 5th of June with nine days to go.  The YES people had better all shut up, or make some factual sense in that time because otherwise you’re just pissing me off.

(Toxic Steve)

I love my Ireland - she’s beautiful but she’s run by muppets.  I like to think of her as independant, but that might just be my blood talking…

“We declare the right of the people of Ireland to the ownership of Ireland, and to the unfettered control of Irish destinies… The long usurpation of that right by a foreign people and government has not extinguished the right, nor can it ever be extinguished except by the destruction of the Irish people.”

Are these just pretty words?

Mrs O’Leary sure had a bounce in her step after she tipped me €5.  I think she saw the light.

(Don’t click this link by the way.)

The Christmas party last night was a blast!

Johnny Fox’s was the venue of choice (they painted over the graffiti on the toilet doors - what a crime!!), but it’s cheesy same-ishness was replaced by the warm welcome we recieved from the other taxi-company drivers when we first walked through the door.  The boss’ wife was the only woman there, she was joined by 12 burly men who parted instantly to make room for us at the table which was an enormous coroner’s cart (bring out yer dead!) with a glass sheet for it’s surface.  I parked myself by a cartwheel in a chair proffered to me by 14. 

(I did find out their names, but everybody found it easier to still refer to each other by their car number.  Other drinkers in the pub looked pretty confused to overhear ‘OI! 9, it’s your round, pull the finger out!’)

I played my cards carefully.  I remarked on the fact that they were such a good-looking bunch, they should release a calendar and this, needless to say, went down pretty well, especially with 12.  Neither I or the accidental terrorist had to put our hands in our pockets once for the price of a pint, for every half-hour a fresh batch of a dozen pints of Guinness appeared on the table which we all tucked into with glee.  At one stage a tray full of shots of Baby Guinness’ (Tia Maria/Kahlua and Baileys) vapourised in front of us, two of which were offered to me!

The night grew older, and I watched the crowd bloom with inebriation while happily celebrating the fact that I was holding my sauce pretty darn well by comparison.  5 x Guinness, 2 x Baby Guinness, 4 x Pints of water and 1 x Vodka & Lime later found me chatting with 22 (a man who looks remarkably like Penfold) who offered me the position of women’s representative at their monthly board/pub meetings so I remember being particularily bowled over by that.

The other conversations are somewhat hazy, though I do remember fawning over an Estonian bloke’s dreadlocks at one point.

A taxi arrived for us at midnight, driven by a quiet but extremely ballsy young lady who decided to take on the Devil’s Elbow in a people-carrier.  This was extremely fortunate for me and TAT being that our B&B was in Glencullen, but when the taxi stopped outside, the rest of the lads pleaded for us to stay and go with them to the night-club in Bray, so we hopped back in. 

Reality struck soon afterwards as we realised we were about to fork out extra money for a nightclub we really didn’t want to go to and a taxi fare return, so we stopped the taxi again at Enniskerry village and walked all the way back up the hill to Glencullen which is quite a pleasant experience when you’re pissed.

I remembered to my dismay that I can’t hold my sauce so well after all this morning.  The 11am fear kicked in like clockwork and I’ve been fighting demons ever since, but it was worth it. 

I frikkin’ love Dreadlocks.  I’ve got a hankering for a dramatic style change and I reckon it’s time to finally follow Bob Marley’s advice and go ahead and grow ‘em.  Yep, I know dreads on a white person are somewhat hypocritical, but I don’t connect it to Rastafarianism really.  I connect it more to ethnic pride for the Celtic tradition, though maybe not to these muppets:

Once again, K8’s faith in humanity is given a massive whack across the face with an iron crowbar. 

I have defended the travelling community before (being that I live amongst them and kind of feel I should give it a shot)… I think I said something about them deserving the right to fight for respect within an unforgiving settled community?

What complete bollocks this is.

Here’s the scene:

-0-

I’m parked up at a garage in Bray, looking for a lady who wants to go to Arklow as per instructions from the taxi base.  I’m scanning the area which is deserted apart from a young lad aged eleven or twelve who sits by himself on a window-sill with his head resting on his knees.  Being that I am a girl who tends to think outside her box, I approach the kid.

“Hey kid… you looking for a taxi?”

The kid looks up and seems somewhat relieved.  “Yeah, I want to go home to Arklow” he says.

I convey my successful pick up over the CB and am informed that the fare would be €65.  I turn around to the kid.  “Do you think you can handle €65?”

The kid looks panicky and says; “Oh no I have no money with me, my mammy said she’d pay for me when I get home.  She’ll give you the money then.”

Fishy, but still highly likely. 

“What’s the address?” I ask.

“I dunno” the kid says apologetically; “we only just moved in.  It’s near the main street”.

Something smelled funny, and I don’t mean metaphorically.  The child was scruffy, and smelled very faintly of urine (as many children do) but also had an unmistakeable accent.  He looked nervous, and was hugging a bottle of orange soda.  He had intelligent eyes, and looked me directly in the pupils when he spoke to me.

My instinct roared.  It warned me that I was about to be swindled, but I wondered if I had the right to refuse a child safe passage to his parent?  What if he was speaking the truth?  I’m a mother, I can’t do that to a kid!  Besides (more truthfully), €65 is a lot to turn down.

I take off.  The kid asks me how far it was to Arklow, but apart from that one question he is silent for the entire journey.  When we arrive at the town, he directs me into a small housing estate on the outskirts. 

“It’s that house on the corner, I’ll be back in a second”

I let him out, scolding my instinct for being such a cynical bitch.  Then I watch as the kid passes the house in question at high speed, and dissappears around the corner on to the main road.  I fire the ignition and fly after him in first gear.  The main road is deserted.  I crawl up and down for a few minutes knowing well that the little fucker is hiding somewhere.

I drive back to the housing estate and call the taxi base to see if there is any protocol for this type of thing.  Apparently the union doesn’t have an insurance policy against runners, because there is no union.  I ring the accidental terrorist who tells me to come home (seeing as I happily live near Arklow anyway) and informs me that he regrettably has no secret ninja techniques for dealing with this situation.  The Police are dreadfully under-funded and would probably appreciate my not informing them of this misdemeanour. 

I couldn’t go home.  I wanted to find him and run him over.

I drive very quietly until I get back to the road the kid would be walking.  I shift into neutral and slink along with my eyes peeled.

About 200m ahead of me, I spot an old man.  There’s someone else too, who briefly flashes a face, then hops over the 6ft wall beside him.  I toy with the idea of scaling the wall to chase the kid, but thought better being that my trousers cost a few bob.  Anyway, what use would there be in catching him?  Sure, I could beat him up a bit to calm the anger, but I’d still be broke.

I stop to speak to the old man who does indeed identify a young boy holding a bottle of orange soda.  He also tells me that the field over the wall beside us could be used as a shortcut to get to the traveller’s quarters ‘over the way’ as he puts it.

End of pathetic sodding scene.

-0-

I knew that kid was a knacker.  I still drove him ‘home’ because it was the end of my shift and I was heading that way anyway.  I was aware of the kid’s movements the whole time, but he gave me no cause for concern whatsoever.  He just sat back with his arms crossed and gazed out the window silently which is refreshing for someone with my job. 

I’m not angry about the money, I’m angry that I was so fucking naive to think that it’s possible that there is such a thing as an honest traveller. 

They are a crafty race who have plenty of scruples and plenty of cash, so do not take your eyes off a traveller for one fucking second if you find yourself near one, for they would have the eyes sold out of your head soon as look at you, no matter what age they are.  Kudos to them, they had me fooled… but not anymore. 

They’re in a great position… they don’t pay taxes, and it’s well known that they enjoy the fruits of ill-gotten gains, yet the gardaí won’t go anywhere near them.  They demand respect from the community and free land from the council, then fleece them as soon as their backs are turned!

Where’s the honour in that, though?!  Why is it that the only events warranting shop and pub shut-down around here are Christmas day, and a knacker’s funeral?  They live by skimming money off tax paying citizens… so why are we respecting that again?

If they’re so great, then why aren’t we all travellers?  I’m already halfway there, sure.  We’re scrounging a house off the council, but at least we’re trying to get back on this bastard of a housing ladder… we were almost on it too, once, but slipped off again when Laughingboy was born.  Circumstance kicked us in the nuts and now here we are, still trying to crawl out of the dependancy pit seven years later.  It sucks!  Yet, there the knackers smugly sit in their dingy halting sites, knowing that their head-men and women of the family are worth literally millions of euros.

Here’s an insane question: If you had millions of euros would you squat in a dingy piss-stinking commune in the clogged pores of the Irish countryside, or would you bugger off to Thailand? 

Answers on a postcard to:

One pissed off taxi driver
28 Shithole View
Dunfoundusaplacetohousethescumbags
Co. Wicklow
Ireland

(What?!  What do you mean this post is too long?  It’s not!  My blog is too narrow!)

Men in Bray seem to have a particularly low tolerance of female drivers.  Being a female taxi-driver, my job is therefore quite tricky.  Male drivers can get away with minor fuck-ups, but if a female driver does something slightly amiss, she gets rolling eyes and sentences which usually begin with “Typical…” and end with “… shouldn’t be allowed on the roads”.  It’s pretty annoying.

For this reason, I’ve built up an anti-cynicism wall which prevents me from being irritated by chauvinistic comments.  I’ve also dialled down the ‘pink’, my feminine flair only gets me into trouble in this job, so now I’m bland, nondescript and silent (for the most part).

The most extraordinary thing has happened though.  Conversations with some women in my cab are starting to sound like this;

Miss X: “I have a boyfriend, you know.”

Me: “Good for you, they can be handy to have around, sometimes.”

*Miss X rants for a bit on her boyfriend’s bad habits before falling silent, lost in thought*

Miss X: “I have no friends here in Bray though… no ’special’ friends anyway.  Can I have your number?”

Me: (Taken aback) “Ummm… ok.”

Miss X: (Hands me her phone) “Here, ring your own phone so the numbers show up…”

I’ve dubiously exchanged numbers with four women now.  Two of them text me for mini-conversations quite reguarly and keep asking me out to the pub. 

They seem like nice people, not overly odd or anything, just in need of a friend.  Why me though?  Why a random bland nondescript silent taxi driver?

Then it hit me!

I wear black.  I wear ‘comfortable’ shoes.  I have tattoos, and I don’t wear a whole lot of make-up.  This whole time, I’ve been sending out a message to a group of people I hadn’t even considered before!  It’s 2008, K8.  Jeez.  In this day and age, I’m surprised at myself.  I’ve lost out on some serious tippage just because I reserve my flirts for drunken men, dammit.

I’ve noticed though… in one month I’ve gathered four women’s mobile numbers, but during my entire life I’ve only ever collected two from men.  Isn’t that odd?!?!  Do I have lesbianistic qualities? 

I have conversed many times with myself on the subject of lesbianism, and we both agree that it is not my cup of tea.  I personally don’t understand how four ovaries can co-habit without major storm fronts developing.  I love men.  I need men.  They are the cello to my violin, and I couldn’t live without them.   I mean sure, Denise Richards has amazing hair and Sienna Miller has a smashing set of legs, but they come with a side-helping of maintenance which would bug the hell out of me.

Still, never say never I suppose.  I’ve never done the drunken experimentation as a teenager thing, but I might put lesbianism on my list of ‘things to do before I die’.  I hope The Accidental Terrorist doesn’t mind.

Our house wasn’t broken into last night thank Jehovah, but instead I was robbed today in broad daylight  at work.

You might be imagining poor K8 the Gr8 wrestling for dear life with a scumbag and a handbag full of takings, but no, I’m learning a more sinister truth lately… it’s the Toffs in the hills surrounding Bray that are the real scoundrels.

I was sent to a large modern house on Nouveau Riche Avenue in the suburbs of Bray to pick up Mr and Mrs Toff.  I was supposed to be bringing them to Blacklyon (in Bray or Greystones or wherever the hell it is), but soon found out that they wanted to go to Knocklyon, which is near Firhouse on the M50.  CHA-CHING!- thinks me, as I radio the correction in.

-o-

Base: Ok, go ahead K8, That’ll be €48.

Mr Toff: (who is sitting beside me) No.  No no no no no.  That’s too much.  That would bring me to the airport! No no no, €30.

I am stuck in a really nasty spot.  I now have to radio in the complaint to see if Base will drop the price, when I know they won’t.  I dither on the CB for a few seconds, then Mr Toff decides to ring the base himself.

He argues loudly and gives Headquarters hell, screaming about rates and distance and time and reports to management, then he orders me to bring him back home.  His wife supports her husband by repeating the last word of each sentence back to him, which bugged the shit out of me.

Mr. Toff: This is absolutely ridiculous (now off the phone) behaviour from a reputable company.  We shall never call this company again besides the call they’ll get from me tomorrow morning with proof that their rates are extortionate.  Blah blah blah blah rant rant rant, all the way home.  In my face, too, which was really bloody distracting.

-o-

When I dropped Mr and Mrs Toff back to their house (may it burn to the ground), they gave me absolutely no money for my time at all, even though I was polite throughout the whole ordeal.  I had just wasted 40 minutes of my workday on two wankers just for the sake of being nice.  I should have kicked them out of the car the second I realised they weren’t going to pay!!! 

Curse this fucking need to please!!!!

I’m absolutely fucking raging that I didn’t kick them out right there on the N11 and get to bask in the image of their angry lost faces getting smaller and smaller in my rear-view mirror as I drove away for a proper fare.

I have most definately learned my lesson for the next time this happens.

“Sorry mate, pay up or stay here.  It’s not personal, it’s business!”

(MOSTLY FOUND AT WARNING LABEL GENERATOR.COM)

I picked up a few Galweigans from Johnny Fox’s today, let them out for a quick ice-cream at the Spar in Enniskerry, then brought them up to the Ritz-Carlton where they were staying.  I asked them what it was like, being that these seemed a particularily un-snobberly bunch of people. 

Betsy- Ah, it’s graaand… you know, don’t go in if you have dirty shoes though! 

Me- So how long are you staying in this neck of the woods?

Betsy- Just the one night, home tomorrow.

Betsy’s son (leans forward from back)- We saved for two years for this holiday!

I throw my head back and laugh heartily until I realise that they aren’t laughing with me.  I picture a sad-looking penny jar much like my own.

Me- I hope they wipe your bum for you?

Betsy (with complete agreement from son)- They don’t have toilets in there!

Me- Huh?

Betsy- Sure nobody in there has an anus!  *collapses in laughter*

Betsy’s son- *sighs contentedly* Ahhh… the guinness in Johhny Fox’s goes a long long way…