Journey through space to the Planet Fabulous, where the Ruler of the Universe will see you shortly.

Wednesday, June 02, 2004

Mini-Caaab?

Now, I'm very conscious of turning this dastardly pink blog into a podia for ranting. In my humble opinion, podia exist purely to dance to Spice Up Your Life on, but I've been wanting to get something off my chest for a long time - and in this instance, a damp tissue simply won't shift it.

Basically, I loathe chatty taxi drivers. As I am Ruler of the Known Universe, I've been trying to invoke some sort of Fabulous Law that states if you are behind the wheel and are wearing anything from a catalogue or Mr Byrite, you should have your mouth sewn up, as I for one certainly won't care for any opinion falling out of it. Unfortunately, taxi drivers actually come from a Dark Place outside of The Known Universe known as 'NotGoingSouthOfTheRiverMate', so I have no jurisdiction at all.

So I propose that they can indeed go about their business, but when they mention any of the certain buzz words, 2400 Volts of divine intervention is shot across their beaded car-seat. Carefully chosen, these are as follows:

"As black as the Ace of Spades, he was!"
"They just let 'em in the country!"
"Now I'm not racist, but?"

Or in fact, anything to do with the words 'seeker' and 'asylum'. And not necessarily in that order.

Oh, don't worry - it'll be perfectly safe. As soon as they are electrocuted, the engine is cut, and a car is sent around from Fabulous Cabs. You know - the ones that have a glitter ball dangling from the mirror and play lots of Lulu. And don't talk to you. I am not in need of any half-baked opinions about the current state of the world, thank you. A journey home should be a sedate affair, not spent wincing at every comment. The dear Wife and I had the most god-awful journey on the weekend with a cabbie who was so right-wing, I'm surprised we didn't end up going in circles.

They're mercenary bastards, too. A friend of mine actually shagged one to shut him up, and he still had the gall to ask for payment. And he's left the meter running. Thank Cher my friend had just been to a Will Young concert and was on a hair trigger anyway, lest the fare wouldn't be fair at all. When it came to a tip, my associate did lean in and say "Wash under your foreskin more."

Thank you for listening. Enjoy your ride home. And do what I now do: tell them to shut up and drive. Nicely, of course - one doesn't want to appear too opinionated.

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