Cablog

Some Concern

In the City, a party of two couples around 40 years old hailed me, although only one woman was travelling. After helping her in the back seat a fella leaned in the front window and said, ‘Please take this lady home to Cremorne’. ‘Okay’, I replied, but he lingered making firm eye contact. ‘Make sure you to look after her, okay’, he demanded rather than requested. ‘I want her home safely - you know where Cremorne is, right ?’, he challenged in a menacing tone.

This happens from time to time and it really annoys me. What exactly is he assuming - that I’ll abduct his friend ? Rape and bash her then dump her in the Harbour ? The fact is, I’m utterly indifferent to her for she’s just another passenger on a busy night. So long as she doesn’t throw up and she pays the fare, I couldn’t give a toss if it's Halle Berry. Well...

By implying from the outset he didn’t trust me, the abrogating chaperone betrays his guilt for dumping her in a taxi. Thereby foisting his responsibility onto me. Huh ? And one of these nights I’m going to retort, ‘Mate, if you seriously had concerns for your friend’s well-being, then you’d be travelling home with her. I don't appreciate your bullshit assumptions'.

Twice last weekend, I was subjected to men insisting I get their female friends home safely. The above encounter occurred on Saturday night outside the Hilton Hotel and the other being on Sunday night.

Yet the second request was entirely innocuous with the tone of delivery making all the difference. To wit, the request was jocular, benevolent and intended for the sole benefit of the passenger. A gracious gesture for her, as distinct from a direct warning to myself not to try anything funny.

‘You do know where Cremorne is ?’, Mr Menace repeated sarcastically. ‘Of course’, I told him. ‘So you’ll look after her..?’. (whatever that means). Returning his glare I asked, ‘How drunk is she ?’. ‘Nah, nah’, he hurriedly reassured me, ‘she won’t be sick. It’s just she’s not feeling well’.

Yeah sure, I thought, I’d plead sickness too rather than drink with a neurotic like him. ‘She got money ?’, I asked, turning the responsibility back onto him. ‘Of course !’, he snapped, ignoring the chance to pay her fare. ‘No worries then mate’, I breezily intoned, ‘Cremorne it is - easy !’. Idiot.

Jungle Law

Roundabout law is iffy at the best of times, but when entering a roundabout in heavy traffic, jungle law applies. Due to confusion over basic rules some 12,000 collisions occur each year at roundabouts in Australia. This confusion is created by unbridled rates of blatant intimidation.

The problem arises when approaching a roundabout. Rather than slow down as the law stipulates, too many drivers believe the, ‘give way to the right’ rule applies. A rule mentioned nowhere in the RTA regulations on roundabouts. And so these idiots think, ‘that vehicle wants to enter; I’m on their right; I have right of way'. So they speed up.

Which is what happened last night. I was waiting to cross a roundabout in Kings Cross when a safe gap appeared. Immediately on entering, the approaching vehicle, another cab, suddenly accelerated toward me sounding his horn. Then locked up his brakes as there was no way I was going to be intimidated, especially by another cab disobeying the road rules. Easing across in front of him, I put my arm out the window and gave the ‘slow down’ signal.

However rather than continue on through the roundabout, this clown threw a 90 degree turn and tailgated me for a 100 metres. As I pulled into a coffee shop he stopped his cab across mine, blocking me from parking properly.

The driver was Chinese and a little upset, ‘You want to die !? Next time I KILL YOU !!!’. I turned and noted his cab number then looked at him. ‘You want to kill me ?’, I asked incredulously. It was hard not to laugh and I looked away. He yelled back at me, ‘You must give way to the right !’. ‘Bullshit’, I responded, ‘you must slow down, not speed up’. Pointing at me he screamed, ‘I REMEMBER YOU - NEXT TIME I KILL YOU !!’, then roared off, burning rubber. What is it with Chinese cabbies and speed...?

My phone rang, a call from my son, ‘How’s it going ?’. ‘Aw mate’, I laughed, ‘another night in the hack - a cabbie just threatened to kill me’. We laughed our heads off at the prospect someone would murder over a roundabout incident. It’s a jungle out there.

Private Screenings

I kicked off work yesterday by delivering a middle aged woman to Fox Studios. ‘So how have you spent Australia Day ?’, I asked. ‘Well, I watched some terrific tennis matches earlier on TV', she replied, 'and now I’m off to the movies’. ‘Oh, what’s on ?’. ‘Brokeback Mountain is being released today. A group of friends have booked one of the cinemas at Fox for a private screening’. ‘What a great idea’, I said, ‘plus the movie has received some rave reviews’.

According to early reviews, Brokeback Mountain’s redeeming feature is it’s sensitive treatment of gay love, between two male sheep herders. ‘Love is a Force of Nature’, heralds the movie poster. Fair enough I thought. That real love was involved eased my suspicion the movie may be a nothing more than a portrait of gay-sex. Then I read Mark Steyn’s take on the ‘love’ premise,

In fact, across two and a quarter hours, there’s not a lot of evidence of "love" as opposed to a much-needed sexual release. For its urban audiences, Brokeback is a wrinkle on one of the oldest gay fantasies: the masculine man who likes sex with men.

Consequently, I decided mentioning Steyn’s review to my excited passenger would only be impudent and somewhat deflating. I mean it was Australia Day and all. Furthermore, I'd surmissed that my passenger’s cinema companions would be predominately female. Mainly due to this telling line in Steyn’s review,

In the distaff answer to lezzie porn for het men, for the gals it’s a gabby chick flick with uncommunicative tough guys.

If correct, this raises an interesting question - will the day come when I carry an excited fella to Fox studios for a private screening with his mates of a Hollywood bloke-flick ? A tender and beautifully handcrafted gay epic, starring two major female leads. Whilst on balance it’d be only fair I reckon, I somehow doubt if blokes would go. Who knows...

Our Paradise

A few nights ago I had a New Zealand businessman asking my advice on what to do today, Australia Day. ‘Well, you can either join the hundreds of thousands around Sydney Cove and enjoy the festivities', I told him, 'or you can escape that crowd and go to the beach’. ‘We were thinking of going over to Manly’, he said. ‘In that case’, I advised, ‘go to South Head. You can have lunch on the water at Watson’s Bay plus swim at nearby Harbour beaches’.

After commenting on our fervour in celebrating Australia’s heritage, he asked if this has always been the case. Sadly, I had to inform him it was not the case. ‘For example many of my generation’, I conceded, ‘wouldn’t have dreamed of visiting Gallipoli. However these days numbers are ever increasing, swelled by younger generations. Whilst my son has commemorated Anzac Day there, the closest I ever got was a Greek island, much to my embarrassment’.

Here’s a thought - if, as many believe, Australia is a racist, xenophobic backwater, why do most of the world want to live here ? Ten years ago I managed a back packer hostel in Far North Queensland. In that time I processed some 3000 international visitors, mainly young backpackers from developed nations.

When checking out, I’d ask these guests a standard question, ‘Would you like to live in Australia ?’. Almost to a person, without hesitation they’d respond in the affirmative. Except for two nationalities who consistently turned up their noses - French and Israelis.

That so many desire to live here, is sweet confirmation Australia is a wonderful country. But most of us knew that already. Which is not to say the joint’s perfect, but relatively speaking what is a perfect country, and where is it ? Happy Australia Day.

Around the Traps

Here's a quick spin aroung the Blogroll...

• The Wog fisks an under-achieving "animal welfare lecturer"
• Yobbo asks, "who needs six years of medical school ?"
• Steph declares (with pics) Australia Day is national thong bonfire day - "We're taking a stand against anal floss and raising the flag for comfy undies"
• Habib posts a snapshot of bogan life. Where does this stuff come from ?
• Kimmywoo is engaged and posts pics of her ring. After refusing a bigger diamond !
• Michele invites readers to 'Spread the Comment Cheer'. Readers log 1540 comments !
• Lost Budgie reporting on massage assault warns, "Touch my woman and die !"
• Kim is intrigued by a modern art exhibition featuring giant sugar cube thingies
• Gibbo posts his first moblog   
• Kev Gillet challenges the Northern Territory’s most influential Aboriginal leader
• Dirk posts a workplace relations classic - I, the Penis, hereby request a raise in salary for the following reasons:
• Bourbonbird launches a new blog project, Scrawled plus pines for Roller Derby
• Finally, Adventuregirl muses on love with an uplifting post, Dare to Dream

Three Fares

Due to excessive traffic and drunks, I did my best last night to avoid the Australia A v Sri Lanka day/night cricket match. Okay that’s probably unfair to Sri Lanka but worth a whinge. Even Kerry O’Keefe on ABC radio said pretty much the same thing - we were understrength. So Aussies don’t like losing, what’s new ?

Later, I explained as much to an international passenger from the Airport. We got off to a bad start when I chided him for dawdling on the rank. He was too preoccupied playing with his phone to notice I was waiting. ‘Mate, you want a cab or not ?’. Um yeah, okay’, he drawled in an American accent. ‘Well let’s go then, there’s plenty others waiting...’. His luggage consisted of extra large sporting bags which barely fitted into the cab.

Exiting the Airport he noted the tennis being broadcast on the cab radio and remarked, ‘That’s amazing. Australia might be the only country in the world which broadcasts the tennis on the radio. Is support for Australian tennis that widespread ?’. 'Only when we’re winning’, I joked.

This led to an interesting discussion on various tennis players at the Australian Open, which had me thinking he was a pro player himself, such was his knowledge of various personalities. I was convinced of this when he mentioned he’d been at the tennis on Saturday night and had spoken with some players.

Pulling up at the W Hotel in Woolloomooloo, we finished the conversation with my explaining that Mark Philippoussis was known here as, ‘Mark Fullofexcuses’. Which drew a polite laugh. After unloading his luggage, I wished my passenger a pleasant stay and took off.

Out of interest I looked at the credit card docket he’d filled out. It was in the name of Brian McFadden. Whilst a quick Google reveals there is no McFadden playing grand prix tennis, this image sure looks like him. Though my passenger was clean shaven and a little older I thought...whatever.

I headed up to Kings Cross where two, tough, 'Latin-lover' types lurched from the Bourban Bar and straight into the cab. They were escorted out by a security guy giving the impression they were being ejected. Yet being stationary in traffic, I had no choice but to accept them, a decision I immediately regretted.

The fella in the front seat was pretty drunk and talking on the phone, ‘Hey bro, did ya score ?’. The back seat fella said, ‘Mate, can you take us to Liverpool ?’. I groaned. ‘We’ll give you $50 - cash - don’t worry about the meter’. Liverpool was closer to $70 so I started the meter and said, ‘Sorry mate, whatever the meter runs’. ‘Don’t start the meter ! I’ll give you cash, $50 !’. ‘Sorry mate', I insisted, 'I only work to the meter’.

Suddenly, the front seat drunk threw something out my window, with his hand almost hitting my face. I have never before experienced such an aggressive and intimidating action. He then reached down and flicked off the meter. This was all I needed. Hitting the brakes, the hazard lights and interior light, I reefed on the handbrake and firmly announced, ‘Fellas, I can’t help you - no charge !’. The message was clear, fuck off.

Their reaction was to immediately fling open the doors convinced their journey was finished. But not before the rear passenger leaned right up behind my ear and viciously growled, ‘I oughta smash ya fuckin’ jaw, ya fuckin’ PEANUT !’. But what could he do - we were in the middle of brightly lit Kings Cross, surrounded by pedestrian crowds and heavy traffic. Without turning I silently pointed to the cab camera. He swore and got out, slamming the door. Phew.

As usual on a Sunday evening passenger numbers fall dramatically after 1am. So I wandered out of town to a nearby rank, logged-on the radio and proceeded to read the paper. As I hadn’t made much money I was hoping to recover with one last meaty job.

Within 15 minutes I got lucky with an offer of a job out to Annangrove, $80 away. The passenger was a happy drunk and relieved to reach home without any dramas, and so flicked me $90. After 10 hours driving, one final gamble made for a successful shift.

Courage

Around 7 pm a young fella emerged from an inner city unit block wearing a pair of the most outrageously coloured pants imaginable. They were of a pink/purple seersucker pattern and cut really tight, accentuating his well developed quadriceps. Worn with a pair of Cuban heeled boots the effect was striking, if not comical. The lad could easily have qualified for the questionable title of Sydney’s most courageous metro sexual.

However footballer Craig Wing currently owns that title for modelling a pair of fuchsia strides at Australian Fashion Week (scroll down sidebar). Coupled with a candy-striped shirt his ensemble epitomised true courage, resulting in one of the funniest talking points of the National Rugby League last year. I carried Wing and a couple of his Eastern Suburbs team mates in the cab over Christmas but no way was I going to mention the unmentionable. Besides, he’s a top bloke who tipped me generously.

Anyway, my passenger last night climbed in the cab and immediately announced, ‘Don’t say anything or I’ll hit you ! It’s a fancy dress party’. ‘Mate’, I laughed, ‘you’re lucky I haven’t got my camera/phone or I’d have you online in ten minutes flat’. ‘Bullshit, there won’t be any photos tonight’, he replied. ‘Hey, don’t bet on it, almost everyone has a camera phone’. Especially where he was going - a 21^st birthday party in Mosman.

In fact, the young fella looked pretty cool with his silly pants and only lacked the confidence to pull it off. Additionally he was tall, well built and exceedingly handsome with a cherubic face which exuded youthful innocence. An irresistible magnetism for which those Mosman girls would fearlessly crawl over broken glass, in order to devour him. Or any girl for that matter.

Despite the outrageous pants he possessed a laid back personality with a certain shyness. Being a country kid from Central Western New South Wales, he revealed that after 2 years in Sydney he’d had enough and was keen to return home to work on the family farm. Here he was working in a bar, interspersed with marketing work which utilised his good looks.

Hopping out of the cab he spotted a crowded party balcony across the street and hesitated. ‘Gees, this is going to be the longest walk of my life’, he said. ‘Don’t worry about it’, I told him, ‘it’s fancy dress, just a bit of fun. Get into it’. Though he really had nothing to worry about.

Some of the young guys I carry are gelled, buffed, moisturised and perfumed to the nth degree. To me they look a lot sillier than my passenger in his fancy dress gear for those guys seriously cultivate their presentation.

Apparently they adopt such grooming to demonstrate their feminine side as a method of pulling women. And even more bewildering to this old fart, girls are impressed by this. In my day a bloke was only required to shower, shave and wear a clean shirt. Too easy.

Issues

After nearly 18 months my treasured mobile phone developed a fault. Namely certain keypad functions died. There have been other minor faults to date but I've learnt to live with them. So I faced the inevitable and took the phone in for a service.

Before doing so, I spent some time in a Nokia users forum. Let me tell you, such user forums are an invaluable and indispensable tool. With the aid of Google I very quickly located similar faults to my own and established what the problem was - a dead integrated chip. And such was the amount of information available, I could repair the thing myself if I had the proper tools.

You know when you have a favourite electronic device, or any modern appliance for that matter, how lovingly you regard it. Then the feeling of despair on watching a 'technical consultant' handle it as though it's worth nothing ? Or so it seemed to me as the Nokia front desk guy took the phone and in no time had the face disassembled. It was just another phone to him.

For a few minutes he silently speed pressed buttons as only an experienced techo can. 'I think it's a buggered IC', I suggested, yet immediately regretted it as he didn't even deign to acknowledge my informed comment. Rather he jammed a tool/knife under the face pad, whipped it off and walked out back. I imagined there were numerous techos out there playing computer games amid a jumble of dissembled phones scattered amongst empty Coke cans and chip wrappers. Such was my apprehension.

Five minutes later he returned. 'Yep, you need a new IC', he stated. 'It'll cost $70 plus you've got some software issues'. Bloody 'issues', what a useless copout of a word. 'You mean I need a firmware upgrade ?', I asked. Another 'issue' I'd learned from the Nokia user forums. 'Basically yes, you wanna go ahead'. 'Well yes, I've got no choice', I said. There was no way I was junking a $1000 phone over a $70 ‘issue’. 'How long ?', I asked. 'Two to four days', he replied.

Just as I thought, the bloody thing wasn't ready after two days in service, so now I'm without a phone over the weekend. And already not having a phone is a feeling akin to nakedness, which in the cab is a real issue. Oh well, that’s life.

Desperate

This woman is approaching 40 years of age, has shitloads of money and is desperate for a baby. Problem is, she can't find a bloke. It's such a tragic story I'm seriously considering offering my services. However I'd need to be reassured over a few concerns. First, would I have to give up a promising cabbie career ? And second, would she be prepared to forego a pre-nuptial regarding her assets ? Only fair I reckon, it's her predicament.

Hopeless and Hapless

Ah, New Zealand, what's to be done..? For starters, we could do them a favour by putting them out of their misery. Brave Joe Hildebrand puts it best, (apologies to The Ant)

The first thing we need to do, and indeed the only thing I have come up with so far, is take over New Zealand...The matter would of course be resolved democratically by a referendum...In the unlikely event of a no vote we could simply go back and change the wording of the question. Failing that, invade.

Yet there are lessons to be learned from our cousins on the wrong side of the ditch,

(NZ)Taxi drivers will be taken off the road if they cannot understand their passengers or know where passengers want to go, under new rules. The changes will mean taxi drivers have to sit more stringent area knowledge and English language tests,...

Over the last two nights I received reports involving drivers unable to comprehend basic English or, deliver a fare from the Airport to the Opera House. Regarding language, one only needs to look at the English test drivers have to pass, to understand the problem.

When obtaining my taxi license some 8 years ago, I was required to pass an English module, costing $30. The test was conducted by the Adult Migration section of TAFE. Right from the start it was obvious to the examiner I spoke English and Australian. So rather than humiliate ourselves with the formal test, we had a chat instead. 

Given I was mildly put out to be paying $30 for the bleeding obvious, I lodged a half hearted protest. The examiner agreed with my position and in kind issued a half hearted apology. 'Another thing', I announced, seeing I had him on the ropes. 'How come a student colleague back at taxi school has already passed this module, yet still requires me to interpret for him at the lunch shop ?'.

The examiner, a middle aged skip leaned back in his chair and with a conspiratorial smirk said, 'It's called reverse discrimination. Because many drivers are from a minority culture they can't be expected to have a command of English, so we pass them anyway. We figure once they're on the road, they'll get the hang of the lingo'.

Whilst that's most debatable, it's also worth noting a large percentage of driver attacks are the result of communication misunderstandings. And who apart from the hapless driver, pays the resulting damages..? The hapless taxpayer.