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!



Follow this link to buy from publisher, or you can order direct from me. Amazon also have it. 
The Collar and the Cab

 17
Seacroft – Christmas – the season
of peace and good will

The world of clerical ministry is hardly replete with incentives,
bonuses and perks in the material sense, and no one in their
right mind would seek admission to its hallowed ranks for the
pay. The televangelists from the American Bible belt dripping
in bling and oozing confident predictions of untold wealth
should you subscribe to their anointed ministry are a world
removed (thankfully) from the comparatively uninspiring
English vicar’s existence. ”Stipends”, which clergy are generally
paid, are thus named in order to distinguish them from salaries
in much the same way that a civic banquet is different from a
bowl of stale vegetables. Many churches struggle to pay their
clergy a living wage, and most incumbents accept this as part of
the package, as well as an almost complete absence of tangible
fringe benefits. The promise of the Bible that the reward for such
selfless commitment is great – especially in heaven – and the
satisfaction that comes from making a positive difference to the
lives of individuals, usually suffice to keep the ordained nose to
the ecclesiastical grindstone. I had entered Christian ministry
well aware of this, had rarely complained, and really had found
until recent years that the non-fiscal compensations more than
outweighed the paucity of earnings. Likewise I had accepted
quite cheerfully that I would not be the happy beneficiary of
large bonus payments and inducements carefully packaged to
avoid the attention of the Exchequer. I was comfortable sharing
a similar standard of living to those at the more meagre end of
my church’s wealth range, knowing that in global terms even
this relative frugality classified me among the filthy rich.
Christmas was always the one notable exception, when the
promise of other-worldly rewards was supplemented by adhoc
gifts of biscuits, chocolate, sweets, goodies for the children
and even sometimes small wads of cash dropped anonymously
through the letterbox. It was almost always the best time of year
in the church calendar – the chapel was at its fullest, there were
more mince pies and chocolates to eat than you could shake a big
stick at, and even the most obnoxious and awkward members of
the corpus were in a good humour. This had even been true in
my most recent appointment. Hostilities between minister and
those who had tried to recreate the verbal equivalent of a World
War One bombardment with ceaseless salvos of criticism and
the mustard gas of disinformation emerged from their trenches
to pull a cracker with the minister and his family and even kick
a ball around before regaining their trenches and resuming the
barrage.
 I was certainly going to miss Christmas as a minister; I had
always loved planning the candlelight carol service, and leading
the service on Christmas Day, seeing members of extended
families in church, including those who came once a year just
to keep Mom happy. The Christmas Day “service” had little
to do with God, but I never thought he really minded. It was
simply an opportunity for the children – and some of the less
self-conscious adults – to show off their presents, and there was
always someone with an underdeveloped fashion sense who
really believed that the cardigan from Aunt Betty they were
sporting wouldn’t look out of place at a Paris fashion show.

Being used to having a few perks around the festive season I
started to wonder, as December wore on, what kind of bonuses
and displays of gratitude were offered by the company whose
own coffers were being inflated by my dedication to duty. Would
it be fiscal, edible or practical, something to eat, wear, use or
spend?
Messages of a general nature were displayed at regular intervals
on the datahead. This suited both those working in the office and
the drivers; both groups tended to have something of a superiority
complex in relation to the other and remote communication
facilitated the perpetuation of this rather puerile outlook. By the
third week in December I began to anticipate the announcement
that would encourage me to call in to Base to receive my Christmas
bonus; perhaps this would even include two or three days free of
rent so I could earn a little extra for the season.

Sure enough the messages for Christmas week appeared
on cue, though not with the content I had anticipated. The free
handouts, bonuses and goodies failed to achieve a mention.
There was, however, something about rents for the Christmas
period; we were encouraged to call into the office to receive
the latest missive from the directors, and I eagerly anticipated
a demonstration of largesse by those whose pockets I had been
so diligently lining. Perhaps on arrival I would be regaled with
a range of other goodies along with news of a reduction in rents
for the festive season.
The office was not decked out with boughs of holly; the
mistletoe was conspicuous by its absence and the Christmas
tree had either not been ordered or had not been delivered.
Tinsel did not adorn the staircase nor was there any of that nice
candyfloss type material that makes Christmas trees look as if
they are inhabited by angelic spiders. The only thing waiting
for us on arrival at the office was a sheet of paper telling us
how much additional rent we had to pay for our cars over the
Christmas and New Year period – and for owner-drivers how
much per week extra would be levied. No word of appreciation
for those who worked up to 80 hours a week to make a living,
and in the process enabled the directors, had they so chosen, to
change their name by deed-poll to Rothschild, and not even a
few choccies to sweeten the taste of the extra cost.

I discovered that in actual fact the few pounds extra that were paid in rent – largely
to recompense the telephone operators for taking those shifts
– were compensated for several times over. It was not just the
increased fares that generated the income but also the tips that
were liberal sometimes to the point of munificence. These were,
I suspect, largely the subconscious by-product of feelings of
good will fuelled by gastronomic excesses and artificial feelings
of wealth, the by-products of even the most unsubstantial
Christmas bonus. I had long since accepted that the world of
private hire driving was one of the most feral to be found on the
planet, but still the completely barren and spartan appearance of
the premises, as well as the conspicuous absence of Christmas
cheer even of the most basic kind, was rather depressing.
Perhaps, however, this approach was simply a more honest
one. The date arbitrarily set by spiritually-minded medieval
oligarchs which has defined Jesus Christ as a Capricorn has
increasingly become an opportunity for businesses to make
some extra cash on the back of the sentimental sanctity of the
message of the angels. “Peace on earth, good will to all men
and a healthy bulge in the profit margin”; the wolf of avarice
is deceptively dressed in a sheepskin that tips a hat to the
perceived, and usually misunderstood, message and mission
of the Messiah. With an outlook that was as blunt as it was in
some bizarre way refreshing no such pretence was adopted here.
Drivers were likely to enjoy higher takings as a result of increased
fares, benefitting from the influence of alcohol and a generally
misplaced sense of bonhomie among the general public; it was
only reasonable for the company to take a slice of this cake with
an accompanying cherry.