Cablog

Cougars

Over the weekend I had a couple of encounters with the recent cougar phenomenon,

A 30+ year old female who frequents bars on the "hunt" for a much younger, energetic, willing-to-do-anything male. The cougar can frequently be seen in a padded bra, cleavage exposed, propped up against the bar, waiting, watching, calculating,

 The first case related to a young fella off to the Crows Nest hotel to perform in a competiton called Mr Cougar Bait 2010. In the cougar lexicon he is known as a cub of prey...

Drugs

A reader, Hardman in comments has inquired of Sydney's drug culture and it's impact on the taxi industry. This is a valid question as sometimes it seems that Sydney after dark runs on ecstasy, so prevalent is it. And these days cocaine is quickly catching up as the drug of choice.

I have long joked that ecstasy was invented by our industry in order to keep people out late, partying till dawn. Hence ecstasy is not only a boon to the taxi business but also the nightclub, hotel and kebab industries...

Briefly

The current issue of Cosmopolitan magazine has an article on yours truly plus some edited Cablog pieces. Look for the lemon coloured cover promoting stories on Lingerie Superheroes and Best Orgasm Ever!

Also I'll be appearing this afternoon on FM radio's MMM drive program with Paul and Rach. I think it can be heard online at the link.

UPDATE: Didn't make the radio spot yesterday due to Rugby League's momentus meltdown.

Overdose

Over the weekend I found myself helping a nineteen year old bloke on the North Shore. It was around midnight and the kid could not stand unassisted so I leaned him up against the cab and wondered what to do.

Upon arriving at the destination he finally found the fifty dollar note I’d earlier made him secrete in a pocket for safe keeping. Travelling through the Harbour Tunnel I couldn’t detect any alcohol odour after winding up the windows and he didn’t present as drunk. But he was well and truly wasted on something so that at times I wondered if he was retarded.

“What did you take?” I asked him. “Oh, the usual drugs,” he mumbled, or lied. Yet the longer the trip went the more useless he became so that by the time we arrived outside his home he needed to be shown where the door handle was. Then he alighted backwards, crawling from the seat as would a toddler negotiating it’s first descent of stairs.

It wasn’t simply weed or cocaine he was on but something so debilitating I just couldn’t leave him on the street. Especially after seeing how incoherent and confused he was. He also seemed pretty scared about his condition and of his mother. “She...she..,” was all he could manage whilst pointing to the house.

The only time I’ve encountered someone in a similar condition was a bloke on GHB from the Mardi Gras Harbour party. Luckily for him, however, there were mates accompanying him home to ensure he didn’t lapse into a coma and die.

Finally lights went on in the house and a woman hustled out clad in a dressing gown. “What’s happened,” she anxiously demanded. I told her everything was okay, that he’d paid the fare but, and I hesitated before saying, “I think he’s had too much to drink.”

She wasn’t happy and demanded to know where I’d picked him up. “Kings Cross,” I told her. “His mate put him in the cab and gave me the address. But I’m glad you’re here.” “Okay, thanks,” she said and taking his arm slowly led the kid inside.

In hindsight, I should have told her the kid had possibly overdosed and not simply be put to bed, how he would need constant monitoring in case he passed out. But she probably knew this, I hope.

The edge

Recently on Crown Street I was wandering back to the car after dinner when accosted by a bloke looking for a cab. “Just the nearest hotel,” he slurred in an Eastern European accent. The Crown Hotel had just closed at midnight, a rarity for them, even for a Sunday night.

That he wanted a cheap ride whilst insisting on continuing drinking was bemusing but I quoted him five bucks, anyway. Yet by the time I got rid of him it was more like thirty in waiting time.

We headed down to a pub at Central Station and he proceeded to explain why he was boozing alone when he should have been at home with the family. I double-parked outside the pub to hear his tale whilst the doorman carefully monitored the prospective customer.

It was all about the woman he once married and how she had changed after producing three children over the last then years. “She vant more money, more dis, more dat!” he exclaimed in a rising voice, accompanied by much gesticulating.

Indeed, the more he complained the more his hands and brawny arms waved wildly in the seat next to me, so that he was banging my arm with every outburst.

This was a big powerful man around forty years old and despite his drunken condition it was obvious he could throttle me with one hand, such was his menacing demeanor. Coupled with his increasing fury over the missus I could do little but indulge him and hope he’d just piss off.

“I don vant to be drinking,” he claimed. “My heart says no, – and here he clasped both hands to the chest – stay with the children, but head say go. All because of her. I loved her so much at the beginning but now she become crazy woman.”

His mood alternates from bordering on tears when describing his children to frothing rage when railing over his wife. Now he’s puffing up his chest and demonstrating how she grabs him and beats on him, or so he says.

At this point any sympathy for his woes evaporated at this questionable story and I'd heard enough. “Mate, I strongly suggest you get a professional counsellor if you want to save your marriage and family.”

Despite my repeating the advice he was too self obsessed and morose to deal with common sense. And throughout the encounter all I could think of was the leading news item that night, a murder-suicide involving a father and three children in Victoria.

So I pointedly tell him if he isn’t careful he will end up in the news for all the wrong reasons. But he’s not listening, such is his manic behaviour as he launches into another spiteful tirade against the wife.

Finally, when a Korean drunk and an escort tap on the window the distressed passenger takes the hint and alights. After circling the block to exit we pass by the pub to find him arguing with the doorman who has obviously refused him entry.

I drove away thinking there won't be any doorman when he arrives home.

For Poland

Candles burn outside the Polish Embassy in Woollahra, Sydney, 2:29am Monday.

Relationships

Relationships are a funny business, especially when terminated in the back of taxis. Why can’t people wait until they arrive home before breaking-up, instead of yelling and screaming in the presence of a stranger?

It is like they view their silent cabbie as some sort of Judge Judy, to whom they must petition in order to justify their position. As if at the end of the trip I will deliver a ruling in favour of either one when the reality is they both sound infantile and ridiculous.

Whilst this drunken, nasty behaviour between couples normally bemuses me, it was particularly grating this weekend and the antithesis of my own relationship.

For all I could think of was leaving Sydney today and moving up the coast to live with my gorgeous angel, a much anticipated day. Yep, the big partnership committment.

Regarding Cablog I’ll be returning to work weekends so readers may expect regular bi-weekly posts. In the meantime I’ll be offline during the move so please bear with me until the resumption of normal service.

Thanks and bye for now.

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