I was surprised to discover, although I have to
admit I wouldn’t be now, that in order to become a taxi driver I had to
undertake a test. You would have thought
some form of driving test but no, it was basically knowing where most of the
pubs and restaurants were in the local area.
It felt as if there were just a line of people standing with their hands
out waiting for me to walk past and drop some money into their palm. There was the medical, which wasn’t very detailed
but was quite expensive. I had to
pay a solicitor to tell me that it was me myself standing in front of him that
I wasn’t somebody else. I even had to
pay for the privilege of having an ex copper, the licensing officer, ask me a
series of daft questions about pubs.
All I had to do now was decide if I wanted to
be a private hire driver or a Hackney Carriage driver. At the time I didn’t know the difference so opted
for the cheaper license of private hire driver.
The Hackney Carriage is what we most commonly refer to as the London
Black Cab, these vehicles can pick any person, or persons, up anywhere. The private hire license only allows you to
pick up a passenger who had pre-booked or from a regulated stand. You may think what’s the point or what’s the difference
and I would agree with you but in the world of taxi driving it is the line in
the sand. Hackney drivers regard themselves
as the professional end of the business while any old Tom, Dick or Harry can
work away in the private hire end.
Admittedly most Hackney drivers buy their own
cab which is quite a hefty investment, then they will either split the cost
with another two or three drivers or hire the cab to a suitably licensed driver
when they are not working. The private
hire lot is more like a combination of the whacky races and a demolition derby. I was only part way along my journey of self-discovery,
I had my taxi driver’s license but would I actually cut it as a taxi driver,
would I be able to, as we had always discussed in the armed forces, do any job
to survive. Of course I didn’t really
need to do the job to survive, for me it was the principal of the whole thing;
I was putting myself to the test.
I contacted a local taxi firm and was told that
I could join them if I wanted, but then the hand came out again. I would have to hire a vehicle from them on a
weekly basis and the cost was known as the ‘settle.’ You could use your own car, as long as it
passed the local authority’s test and was granted a license, then you would
have to hire a radio from the firm on a weekly basis. Rather than sink more
money into the scheme I decided I should stick with the hire a cab option just
in case it didn’t work out. I mean how
difficult could it be, driving from one point to another? I was given the keys to a small family saloon
type vehicle, a Ford Orion, and told to speak to the other drivers to find out
how things worked.
The owner of the firm seemed to be a little rough
around the edges but as I would be self-employed and working on my own most of
the time I paid him no great attention. The
other drivers were a motley collection and although I had a lot of questions to
ask I started off by listening. First
off I was told that I was not allowed to go near Wigan. I thought it a bit odd but the drivers had
created their own rate of fare for Wigan passengers, which was higher than the
Skelmersdale rates but lower than the Wigan rates. I would not be allowed to go near Wigan for
at least two months until I understood the scheme. Some of the drivers only worked two nights a
week and that was sufficient for them, some worked seven days a week
I could have done with a sat nav but instead relied
on my local street map. I’ll never
forget my first fare, a lady wanted to go from her house to the local shopping
centre. I collected her, dropped her
off, charged her the correct fare for the distance travelled and when I
reported in was asked to return to base.
Seems that I had gone completely the wrong way around and as she was a
regular customer she felt I had done this on purpose to get more money out of
her. It didn’t matter how rough around
the edges the owner of the firm was he understood from my body language that
the last person who had suggested financial impropriety on my part was probably
still picking their fecking teeth up. The
matter was quickly forgotten about and I went off to see if I could hack the test
I had set for myself.
Skelmersdale was one of those towns built in
the sixties and seventies where architects and designers based social housing
on mathematical formulae’s rather than comfort, ease of access or aesthetics. If you look at a map of Skelmersdale you will
see that all the estates are in alphabetical order, running clockwise from the
top, and all centred on the main shopping centre. There was a constant stream of people who
would travel from their homes to the shopping centre and back again by taxi,
something I could never work out for there was a decent enough bus service,
much cheaper than the taxis and these people were always claiming poverty. According to the other drivers it was the
Friday and Saturday evenings where the most money was to be made.
If the trade on a Friday and Saturday evening
was good it was said to be bouncing. It
was quite pleasant picking people or even small groups of people up from their
houses, looking fine and smelling sweet and taking them to wherever they wanted
to go. Things got a little different as
the evening wore on, the perfume and after shave being replaced with the sweet
stench of beer and alcohol. The pubs
would close and groups now wanted to head to the clubs many of which were on
the outskirts of Wigan and Liverpool. Most
passengers were now roaring drunk and every person that got in to the vehicle
asked the same fecking question, “Been on long mate?”
On my first Friday night I found myself with a
handful of drivers at the main office.
It was about two o clock in the morning and trade had really slowed
down. There was a local night club which
closed at two so we were expecting some trade.
It was called the One Hundred Club and was as tacky as they come, it
lived alongside the town’s only Chinese restaurant, The Red Dragon, and a pub
called The White Swan, which in true Scouse humour was known as The Mucky
Duck. Despite the fact that we knew
people were waiting for taxis outside the One Hundred Club the guys were
hanging back. I asked what the problem
was and they explained that no one in their right mind would go there at that
time in the morning.
The Mucky Duck was regarded as the roughest pub
in the town, it is where you would go if you wanted to buy drugs or get
stabbed. There is a perception that taxi
drivers carry an array of weapons alongside their seat in case they were
attacked. I had been warned not to as
the local licensing officer, the ex-copper, loved springing snap inspections on
taxis, and would take you off the road for anything from one day to a week, if
your vehicle wasn’t clean both on the inside and the outside, if he found
anything that could be used as a weapon he would take your licence away all together. Typical authoritarian asshole, who used his
position to persecute the hard working guys rather than help them.
For me, as always, looking at life through
green tinted spectacles, everything was simple.
I was a taxi driver, I needed passengers, and there were passengers
waiting. I told the guys I was off to
The Mucky Duck and ignored their jibes and offers of wreaths. The parking area outside The Mucky Duck was
surrounded by a high embankment, nothing severe, about two and a half feet high
but high enough to offer a form of seating.
In the darkness I could see a large group of people, about a dozen in all,
they were all seated, some were smoking, some eating, some were conscious, but all were prospective passengers. I radioed the others and told them that there
were about twelve fares waiting and to get themselves up with me and earn some money.
And I was correct, there was about twelve people
and each and every one of them wanted a taxi.
I know this because all twelve decided to get into my cab. My little vehicle was licensed to carry four
people and even with my lack of experience I could see that I was
overloaded. To add to the commotion they
were all rip roaring drunk. I had to get
out and start pulling people out of the back of my vehicle. Someone then threw a punch and complete
pandemonium erupted. Thankfully some of
the other drivers did turn up and in their headlights it looked like a zombie apocalypse. I suppose in a way it was their form of
initiation, allowing me to go in on my own.
Some people might feel awful but I felt good for if I had been allowed
to submit myself to one of their initiations there a good chance I might have
been accepted by them. I might be able
to pass my own test.
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