Extracts from my first solo book which I have recently published about the two years I spent driving a private hire car rather than being a clergyman. It began life as a piece of auto-catharsis and turned into a project. If I can sell some I can start recouping my costs!


The Collar and the Cab
Follow this link to buy from publisher, or you can order direct from me. Amazon also have it as well as a number of independent retailers.

 25
Swinnow – Night Shifts

With almost a year’s experience under my belt I thought I
knew my way around pretty well, but whereas day shifts had
involved taking people to and from work, shops and health
centres, these rather run-of-the-mill venues were far less likely
to be frequented in the wee small hours. Only a few venues were
held in common, and this was true also of Friday / Saturday
nights compared to weekdays; in fact it was something of a
surprise to discover that each night shift seemed to have its own
particular pattern. There was always something different round
the corner, and in spite of now being considered something of a
veteran in the business, I was still capable of being surprised by
some of the more extraordinary behaviour I witnessed.
I think it was a Tuesday evening a little before midnight
that I was called to a pick-up from a respectable bar in the more salubrious end of town, and Sandra emerged to occupy the front
seat of the cab. Sandra was one of those women whose age is
almost indeterminate – could have been in her twenties or her
forties, slightly overweight, with nondescript hair of a vaguely
blonde hue and modest make-up that looked like it had been
applied in something of a hurry without the benefit of a mirror.
But two things were immediately obvious about her; firstly
she had had a little too much to drink, and secondly she was
cross – and cross in spades. ‘We’re going to Swinnow, love’, she
remarked in a tone that made it clear that her ire was directed at
some individual other than myself. ‘But we’ve got to pick up my
old man first.’
The ‘old man’ was, for some unarticulated reason, in a
bar at the other end of the city centre, a venue noted for its
association with the seedier side of life. Fights were almost
nightly occurrences, and illegal substances were available for a
modest price. Sexual favours were also on sale for a reasonable
consideration, but the chances were you could just pick someone
up for a night’s bedroom gymnastics so long as you weren’t too
fussy.
I decided the safe thing to do was not to try to make
conversation, and in any case she was soon on her ‘phone calling
the recalcitrant partner so that he would be outside waiting
for us. I could identify the equally inebriated individual from
the sheepish look on his face and the sense of foreboding at
the unpleasantness to come written on his features and in his
posture.
No sooner had he climbed into the back of the car than it
started. The first volley of verbal musket-shot directed from
the front passenger seat had no sooner made its mark than an
answering tirade of alcohol-fuelled abuse flew in the opposite
direction. I never was able to work out what the row was
about, but with the possible exception of performances in the
kindergarten we call the House of Commons I don’t think I have ever witnessed quite such an amazing episode of two people
shouting at each other at the tops of their voices without hearing
a single word the other was saying.
I managed, during a brief pause for reloading of weapons, to
extract the address for which we were heading and set off with a
certain amount of apprehension on the fifteen-minute journey,
fearful that the verbal exchanges would graduate into a fist-fight
with all the risks that would entail. Once we were on our way
the war of words resumed with renewed vigour, and I decided
to hope for the best and drive slightly faster than normal.
The route out of Leeds city centre took us on an inner ring
road which, for reasons I never really understood, was classified
as the M64, so the rules of motorway driving applied. The volume
and level of abuse steadily increased until their vocabulary of
profanities seemed to be exhausted. Where to go from here?
It was around this point that the gentleman in the rear of the
car hit upon the novel idea of “upping the ante” by opening the
window and, with a casualness clearly calculated to engender
reciprocal incandescence, tossed his phone out of the window.
The effect on the woman was to spark an eruption the equivalent
of Vesuvius in full flow. It became clear that the ‘phone had been
a costly present from a happier era in their relationship, and
he had just demonstrated, in the most dramatic way he could
imagine, in just how little regard he held her.
If you can imagine a human earthquake and volcano all
rolled into one you will have some idea of what happened
next. Removing her seat belt she erupted in a rearwards
direction preceded by a torrent of language that would have
caused a navvy something more than slight embarrassment.
Fortunately I was able to keep the car in a straight line and
shout loudly enough to read the proverbial riot act to them
both. The fighting subsided almost immediately, though the
verbal exchanges remained just as vitriolic.
After a couple of minutes the man asked if we could go back to pick the ‘phone up, and I was thankful to be able to
explain that this would involve breaking the law, as well as being
exceedingly dangerous. An expensive lesson, but perhaps one
they both needed to learn. 
..................

The verbal volcano subsided and general sulkiness –
a tactic I am far more familiar with, being one of the nation’s
leading experts – took over. There was even a certain meekness
apparent by the time we reached their home. She stomped off,
making abundantly clear whose responsibility the taxi fare was,
and in what now felt like an oasis of tranquillity we had a short
conversation: –
‘Do you ever have that kind of row with your missus?’
‘No, not really.’ (mainly thanks to the longsuffering of my
wife we have a row about once a year just to keep our hand in)
‘We’ve been happily married for 28 years.’
‘So what’s the secret?’
‘Apart from being married to the most incredibly wonderful
woman in the world, perhaps also that we’re Christians.’
‘Do you think that makes a difference?’
‘I think so.’
I recommended a local church I knew that would be perfect for
them both, he thanked me and went his way. I have no idea what
happened to them both, but this kind of informal way of sharing
my faith was pretty common, and I often wonder if over the
course of those two years I contributed more to the Kingdom of God than at any other time in my life.