Miles Kington talks

I ALWAYS talk to taxi-drivers, with the exception of one I once got a ride from in New York. He was very big and black and dreadlocked, and the driver's ID card hanging up in my side of the cab proclaimed that his name was David Livingstone. I knew that if I talked to him at all I would sooner or later remark on the odd chance that a big Afro-American had the same name as a famous white missionary, which he might not take kindly, so I preferred to say nothing at all.

But almost every taxi-driver I have chatted to has had a good story or an interesting life or some challenging opinions to offer, so I usually get stuck in. Sometimes it's just a one-liner. Years ago in London I passed the scene of an accident while in a cab. I said to the driver thoughtfully: `I don't think I have ever seen a black cab involved in an accident.' `No,' he said, `we taxi-drivers never get involved in accidents. We just cause them.' Nice one. There again, I once picked up a cab outside Holland Park Tube station, and he stopped on the zigzag white lines near the pedestrian crossing to let me get in. Before we could pull away, a policeman emerged from the shadows and started giving him an earful for stopping there (illegally).

`You were taking the piss out of me, weren't you?' he roared. `You saw me standing there and you said to yourself, I'll take the f***ing piss out of PC Plod by stopping illegally in front of him, didn't you? Well, let me tell you...'

And he went into a long self-pitying tirade composed half of threats and half of swearing. Suddenly, just when I thought he was going to impound the cab, he said: `Now piss off and never let me see you again, because if I do...,' and as we pissed off I said to the driver: `You were lucky then -- I thought he was going to throw the book at you.'

`Nah,' he said. `I knew he wasn't going to do anything. When they eff and blind like that, they're only letting off steam. You just have to wait till they feel better. No, the ones you've got to worry about are the ones who get very quiet and spell it out very calmly. They're the ones who are going to book you.' Interesting glimpse into human nature, there, I think. Sometimes taxi-drivers just tell you about the odd customers they have had, or the longest journey they ever took, or the London taxi-drivers they know who live furthest from London (in France, one of them), but quite often they just tell you about themselves and family, which is always interesting and sometimes means finding out what their real job is. One guy I hailed in Cardiff was a lawyer. A bloke in Bath the other day had just given up running a pub, and another one had been in hotel management till the week before. A guy I talked to recently played drums in a rock group. So you learn all about taxi driving and one other trade.

The only taxi-driver I never really got talking was a young guy whom I was picked up by at Paddington and who read a book at every traffic light. As we sailed in front of Buckingham Palace I said: `It must be a very interesting book you're reading during our journey together' (note the touch of the light sarcasm there), and he said: `No, I'm not reading a book. I'm actually writing a text message to my ex-girlfriend and I'm trying to make it as caustic as possible, but she was always very rude about my spelling, and so I'm checking every doubtful word in the dictionary, because the last thing I want is for her to ignore the sarcasm and go for the bad spelling.'

But I was quite chuffed by an encounter I had this very October in London. I mentioned to the taxi-driver that I used to bicycle through London to Fleet Street every day, years ago, and he asked if I were a journalist, which I am, sort of. `Yes.' `Who did you work for ?' `Punch magazine.' `Oh?' I could see him squinting at me in the mirror. `What's your name ?' `Miles Kington.' `I remember you ! I remember all you guys -- Alan Brien, Alan Coren, all those ! Used to love Punch!' Pause for preening. Then he said: `I'm by way of being a journalist myself.' `Oh? For who?' `I used to be editor of Taxi magazine. Not any more. But I still write a humorous column for them once a fortnight. I've got a spare copy here, if you're interested.' `I certainly am... What name do you write under?' `Al Fresco.'

`Al Fresco!' I said. `Not your real name, I'll be bound.' `No, it's not my real name,' he said. `My real name is Alan Fresco.' I think he was joking. (I read his piece later. Not at all bad.) Anyway, the rest of the time we had a long conversation about journalism -- writers' chat, you know -- and he said that there was a wonderful book to be written of taxi-driver's tales, but it could never be done by an outsider, because cabbies never told outsiders the best stories. `Are you going to do it ?'

`I might,' he said. `One day I might.' Typical writer. Never give away anything. Go and do it, Al. I'll buy a copy. Then I'll really have something to talk to taxi-drivers about.