K8 the GR8

It occurred to me tonight how very similar blogging is to brushing my toddler’s hair.

I keep meaning to approach it but end up having to put it off until such a time as I know I’ve left it too long, by which stage it’s time to either launch into the knarliness until it’s done, or just cut the whole lot off altogether.

So, I get all my bits together and begin the job.  Roughly fifteen minutes in I then realise that it’s a bigger job than I thought and that it’ll be a long session, usually with much objection from the hardware in question which complicates matters even further.

Then I realise that my problems are probably due to length, at which point the scissors come out and the subject matter is shortened but not quite in the fashion I’d imagined… to avoid further damage I quit while the going’s good, knowing that I’m probably going to get some very strange comments indeed, but hey, maybe it’ll work out better the next time.

Most of the time I just sit and stare at it, wondering how other people manage to incorporate plaits and twists and pretty pink bows not just occassionally, but every single bloody day!

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.

We bought a new car last month.  I protested, but the accidental terrorist insisted, pleading the fact that a 92 VW Golf is very rare being that there are only sixteen of them left in the country.  My argument of; ‘Duhh… the rest have been scrapped ‘coz they’re bangers!’ fell on deaf ears, because new cars are like strings - every yoyo wants one.  ‘It’s my best mate’s car, he wants it to go to someone who he trusts!’ was the last word, so bought it we did.  It was the first car with automatic transition that I’d ever owned so obviously I fell in love with it immediately.

Two days ago, we bought another car, a VW Passat.  The Golf was scrapped in a heartbeat.

“Don’t tell me mate, ok?” 

The Passat is lovely.  It’s very dark and slinky and automatic and tryptonic and shiny and fast and my neighbours have their eyes on it… they’re convinced we’re drug dealers so a pretty car suddenly appearing outside our house should come as no surprise, but I’m getting some pretty cryptic comments from them so I’m saying nothing, and letting them stew.  

I felt bad for TAT’s best friend, but being that he is also a yoyo, he probably won’t mind.  I missed the Golf, but only until I got to sit in the driver’s seat of bright and shiny for a trip to the local shop and I knew… this is the one.  I might marry this car - it’s absolutely perfect for this taxiiiing lark. 

Guess what?

The accidental terrorist crashed it today!

Oh how I laughed.

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!)

Isn’t this sunshine just the absolute bee’s knees?

Today is my Saturday (being a quiet day on the taxi market) so I get to catch up on ‘puter stuff like designing a t-shirt for the Mini Marathon…

…and writing bloggy things. 

Saturday was excellent.  I and the Accidental Terrorist dumped our chisellers with the family and went to a wedding of epic proportions in Co. Westmeath.  We were a cozy group of about 50, most of whom we knew, but hadn’t seen in about ten years.  I danced the YMCA and played for the crowd on a grand piano which are things I only do when I am extremely happy. 

The reception was held at Middleton House in Castletown Geoghan, which is an old recently renovated house.  It’s only used for group bookings, so we had the entire place to ourselves.  The staff are to be praised from a height… the food was perfect, and they were polite the entire time, even through the many passes they received from various drunken ladies.  It’s an excellent venue, should you need one for whatever purpose. 

The chap in the B&B we stayed in told us that he used to be a Guard who was stationed in that house 25 years ago.  His job was to prevent the house from any damage caused by locals who were itching to burn it down, being that it was built and owned by a Protestant family.  The history of the place was fascinating stuff.

This was our dancing-area, the band were in the gap to the right of the staircase, and there are two bars with comfy couches and fireplaces either side of the picture.

I got to pooch around a few rooms too - each plusher than the last - and met a spectre in one of the basement hallways.  I took a picture of him for you:

 We had a very one-sided conversation briefly before whatever it was buggered off.  I think he wanted me to follow him but I know the rules of horror films, so I didn’t. 

I explained more on Brian’s blog’s comments, with details on why I’m not crazy and didn’t imagine the whole thing.

Bank Holiday Monday should have seen me hackney-cabbing in Bray, but instead I got called to dig Baldeagle out of a hole.  Baldeagle is one of TAT’s most spurious of friends, who works for our Irish version of Fed-Ex.  He had double-booked himself, so we swapped transport and I got to drive a big van from the Quays in Dublin City, all the way up to Belfast and back, while he got to pull donuts and practise his hand-brake turns in a field with my own jam-jar.

It was pretty nice cruising up and down motorways all day like that in the sunshine, apart from the fact that I’ve got a trucker’s tan now.  One white arm just looks odd.

How was your weekend?

There’s something wrong with the way my brain works.  It won’t let me censor the stuff that comes out of my mouth, seriously, here are a few verbal ejaculations that I’ve produced recently to prove that I need help:

To the guy in the pizza house: “Yes, I’m sure I can fit a 9 inch in…”

To a mechanic at a tyre changing shop: “I’m not sure, I haven’t had my fluids checked for a while.”

To a passenger in my cab: “Yes that Parkinson fella is a master debater, isn’t he?”

To a lady who commented on my car-seat covers and recommended leather coverings: “Ah you know… it’s all the same on the whole.”

To a friend who grabs her car-keys and asks me: “Are you coming?!” 
“No, I have a wedgie.  Oh… right… yes.”

To a young lady in my cab who commented on how she liked to see women fighting for male-oriented roles: “Yes, male taxi drivers are a hard bunch to stay on top of, alright…”

(Also on a related note- does anyone know of a good foundation to disguise blushing?)

Tenacious T has memed me with the ‘6 words’ meme again.  Here’s a perfect opportunity to stick it in…

Lack of sleep breeds brain farts.

I got more hard-earned payment for my webdesign efforts today!  I burned candles from all ends working on Celt Clan Ink, and it’s pretty much finished, barring a few tweaks and a more involved forms page.  There are now some pretty excellent photos in there.

So anyway, back to my payment:

What’s that all about then?

Ogham was carved and read from BOTTOM to TOP.
(Also carved, occasionally, right to left).

Also written as ogam or ogum, it is pronounced “AHG-m” or “OH-ehm.”

Ogham served as an alphabet for one of the ancient Celtic languages. Its origin is uncertain: it may have been adapted from a sign language.
Current understanding is that the names of the main twenty letters are also the names of 20 trees sacred to the druids.
Some authors have suggested the existance of a 13 month calendar which shared some of these names.

A 15th century treatise on Ogham, The Book of Ballymote, confirms that ogham was a secret, ritualistic language.
However, there is no direct evidence that the Ogham alphabet was used [in antiquity] for divination or any other magical purposes.  (Taken from http://ogham.lyberty.com/oghamintro.html)

The first third of the tattoo is the name of my firstborn.  The numbers show the date of his birth, and the infinity symbol represents his place in this world.

The latter part is the name of my little girl, with a smiley face slyly hidden to represent her infectious happiness.

I used the following alphabet (there are many different versions) and added my own tweaks and scribbles to add more information:

I’m aware that I’m going to have to explain all of this many many times during my life, but it’s ok.  It’ll give my taxi punters a good conversation start,  I’m sick of talking about the weather.

The Accidental Terrorist has gone a bit mental regarding the website contract, he is planning a portrait of Wouldye on his shoulderblade, and has already gone for some celtic warrior inking:

Pretty amazing art, innit?

What was that website again?  Oh yeah… Celt Clan Ink!  Great design, isn’t it?  I wonder who wrote that site…

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…

I’m the tiredest person in the world.  From being unemployed (or a ‘Home Engineer’ as I like to put it) to a full-time cabby in less than 60 seconds has taken it’s toll a bit!  Me poor blog has taken to the backburner, but I’ll try to keep her ticking over - at least until I’ve finished programming photos into me Celtclanink.com, which is a task that hangs over me like a box of Acme TNT.  Pardon me if I’m a bit quiet.

I love being a cabby, me.  Bray is full of diversity… it’s only been a week and I’ve already met the village idiot and the new Messiah!  Seriously though, taxiing is a rich farm of interesting conversations.  Everyone wants to talk to a stranger, as Pedro rightly pointed out during a game of Colin McRae after work today. 

I made my first taxi-punter regular!  A girl and her fella took a shine to me last week and by coincidence, got me again today.  When her boyfriend hopped out, she got me to drive her to the top of the town, then back down to the bottom again in rush hour traffic.  She was in the car for almost an hour but we spent it happily burning our each other’s ears off (with matches!-it’s so nice to meet a fellow sado-masochist) and comparing tattoos.  She gave me a small fortune of a tip and asked me to stick around!  Sweet.

A little old lady likened me to James Bond for my driving skills, and a younger Austrian lady informed me that it costs €55 (FIFTY FIVE SQUIDS?!?!?) to have one’s nails varnished at the Ritz-Carlton hotel in Enniskerry.  My, but isn’t that one posh spa.  I hope she buffs first!

-o-

Jefferson has me tagged with one of his own nifty inventions-

“Bring to your consciousness those memoriesof the things you’ve seen and the places you’ve been over the last twenty-four hours. Good. Now select a one-minute sequence of events and try to replay it over and over again in your mind.��?

From “The Three Bears“, by Derec Jones. 

Whoa… which minute?!  How to choose?!?!  Ok here goes:

I’m sitting on the Putland Road with the door open and the sun shining strong, having a smoke (shhhh!).  The CB radio has been quiet, and the lads out on the streets are getting bored. 

- *cchhh* 21, Tommy?

- *cchhh* Yeah go ahead Pa’.

- *cchhh* Do you have a number for this fella? What does he look like?

- *cchhh* 28, K8 - have you got details for this lad?

- *cchhh* Umm, no.  He’s in his sixties, long scruffyish hair. (I release the button and curse loudly - bad rookie!)

- *cchhh* Heh.. sounds like you, Pa’!

- *cchhh* Rrrrrodge.

- *cchhh* Car 11 is clear.

- *cchhh* Yeah clear.  Ehhh… 28, uh.. ehhh.  Whatsit ehhhhhh.. K… uuuuhhhh.. um.. (etc for 12 seconds of forgetful torture while I scream RELEASE THE BUTTON SO I CAN TELL YA!!! at the radio.) uhhhh… Kate!

- I pause to quash a bad dose of giggles… *cchhh* snif - Yeah, go ahead *ahem*

- *cchhh* Sorry there.  Brain blocked. Could you go up to Dunnes there and pick up a Missuz Whotsit with her shopping for 14 Backageegee street? 

-*cchhh* Sure thing.  And Tommy?

-*cchhh* Yeah go ahead

-*cchhh* Keep your ‘uuuhhs’ to yourself next time, ok?

-*cchhh* Wha?

-*cchhh* tee hee hee!

I couldn’t believe that someone actually pressed their mike button just to giggle.  How great this job is!

I like this one.  Fair play Jeffo

Passing the pencil to: The Benster, Resident Alien, Doc (The Accidental Terrorist may or may not be on to you… he’s being very furtive about penguins lately), Sam Problemchildbride, and Thriftcriminal.

Head. Pillow. Hit. Zzzzzzzz.

My, but aren’t Irish men horny on Sundays?!  I made €32 on tips alone, just by flirting behind the wheel today, as opposed to €8 yesterday and €12 on Thursday.  What’s so special about Sundays?

KA-CHINGGG!!!

I heard a snippet of news on the radio that made me giggle:  Apparently when Bertie told his co-workers he was going to throw in the towel, they “wept openly”.  Grown men?  Politicians?  I don’t think so.  I think Bertie pre-empted it.  I think he ate an extra-hot vindaloo and washed it down with five pints of Guinness the night before, then stuffed his pockets with onions the next morning before work.  It was the gas that made them cry… the gas.  Either that, or politicians are damn good actors!  Oh wait… right, never mind.

I heard a most excellent song on the radio today… several times, in fact.  It’s a version of House of Pain’s ‘Jump!’, which is a song that sparks the dancing flames into almost everybody when they hear it.  It is possibly the no.1 best song that one could hear in a nightclub and I love it.  This version is in flagrante as Gaeilge.

You Oirish readers out there know exactly what I’m talking about.  It’s Des Bishop, fair play to him… he’s learned the language in 4.2 minutes and has now taken on the coolest song known to mankind.  Here’s a link to the song on Donncha O’Caoimh’s site, Holy Shmoly.  (Don’t listen to this video if you are over the age of 50.  You will hate it.  Especially you.)  I can’t find the radio version, but I’ll buy the single if it’s released because it’s a pretty darn excellent version.

Thing is though, everything the Irish try to coolify ends up being naff in some way.  I’m eternally proud of their efforts and of the language itself, but somehow there is nothing that will entice us to relinquish that final little bit of British rule… the English language.  This song might just be enough to entice our schoolkids into pricking up their ears regarding the old Gaeilge, but that’s because they’re Irish.

As for the rest of the world… they don’t know that ‘Léim’ means ‘jump’!  All they hear is: ‘LAME, LAME, LAME, LAME, LAME!’  *sigh*  Ladies and Gentlemen, this is the definition of irony.

On a different note, a good blogger buddy of mine has been censored.  Yes!  Censored!  Read all about it here: Brianf; the hate monger blog  (Oh my lord!  Somebody else is on to us!  Kill it!  Kill it!)  Seems as though Bush -the big bad rookie himself- has found some more bitches.

Propaghandi?

On another different but equally irking note,  I read this on Going Like Sixty’s site: Bloggers are being sued out there… read all about it!  I’m pretty sure that this sueing pillock is only after a domain name, but like I say… I’m naive.  The offending site is at Neurodiversity.  It makes for interesting reading.

Bloody hell… I only came on here to write about my extra tips!  Wine is excellent blog lubrication I find.

To finish up, I would like to quote a rather insightful spam I received today;

Humph. Someone has to force me to read this post. It’s too big and boring. Brevity is the sister of talent, remember that.

Thank you, Adriana Naked Lombard xxx, I shall remember this to the end of my…

 post.