Two Minutes

Forgive the language, but I need to talk taxis.

What the fuck is it with fucking taxi companies and this two fucking minutes crap?
It doesn’t matter where the fuck you are or when you fucking order one of these licensed fucking bandits the asswipe cannot, EVER, show up on fucking time and when you phone again to politely enquire why the fucking dipshit has not fucking arrived as fucking promised you are met with the same fucking line from the fuckwit on the base time after time after fucking time.

“He’ll be there in two minutes, mate.”

Why don’t they ever say “two and a half minutes” or “one and three quarter minutes” or “three minutes 15 seconds”? How come they’re always 120 seconds away? I mean, it’s gotta be some kind of extraordinary fucking coincidence, hasn’t it, that at any given time, in any given time zone, at any place on the planet, on any day you are always going to be two fucking minutes distant from the fucking taxi you fucking ordered after you’ve fucking phoned up to say that it’s fucking late?

God forbid they should actually tell the fucking truth and say “well, bearing in mind he’s a Serbo-Albanian-Khazakstani-Georgian-Somali pirate whose only only been in the country seven hours and he’s only got one fucking map and that’s of the main road from Darlaston to fucking Mecca and he didn’t understand the fucking address we gave him in the first fucking place and he has to keep pulling over to the side of the fucking road to hide from the fucking police because he’s an illegal fucking immigrant and the 87-year-old Ford fucking Popular we gave him has only got first fucking gear and you have to keep stopping every hundred yards to let the radiator cool down and he’s gotta run some guns and cocaine for his fucking mate Abdul before he even thinks about doing the fucking job he’s actually fucking paid to do……………I should say he’ll be there just before Hell freezes over and just after Robert fucking Mugabe gets voted Humanitarian of the Year.”

Actually, that’s not fair. They’re not ALWAYS two minutes away. Often they’re “just turning into your street, mate”. Well, how fucking come I can look at the end of my fucking street and not see their Arkansas Chuggabug fucking pile of metallic crap turning fucking into it? Turning the outermost arm of the fucking Milky fucking Way, probably. Turning from a taxi driver into someone intent on fucking up my entire fucking life, maybe. Inexorably turning that last fucking screw on the lid of the fucking coffin which is my fucking life, possibly – but NOT, repeat fucking NOT, turning into my fucking street!!!!

After flogging my guts out at fucking work to earn slightly less than a seven-year-old working part-time in a fucking Bangladeshi sweatshop turning out Prada fucking handbags I really don’t need to know “We’re really busy tonight”. In that case, why tell me the fucking car will arrive at a set fucking time when you fucking know there’s about as much chance of that happening as there is of Antarctica being made of fucking icing sugar?

Oh, “There’s a lot of traffic on the roads tonight” is there? You think? Fuck me!!! How fucking irresponsible of it! I mean, traffic....on the roads? Whatever fucking next? Normally it stays on the fucking pavements, doesn’t it, so that your Mickey fucking Mouse Motors organisation can get from fucking A to fucking B?

My particular favourite, and one I’ve had on more than one occasion, is “He’s outside your house, mate, waiting for you”. “Really? Oh, how silly of me. I thought I’d phoned the Blackbeard Taxi Company and not International Invisicabs ltd!!! Tell me, does one sit in the fucking front or the back of a fucking taxi which has arrived in a different time dimension and doesn't fucking exist in our particular space-time continuum? I mean, I don’t want to look silly sitting in the fucking road on the fucking Tarmac in an imaginary fucking car going ‘brrrrmmmmm, brrrrmmmmmmm’ while all the time I’m sitting in the wrong imaginary fucking seat, do I?” There’s never even the teensiest, weensiest fucking suggestion in what passes for their fucking minds that their fucking so-called fucking drivers are all fucking compulsive fucking liars. I mean, they’re obviously going to be right, aren’t they? “Of course he’s outside my fucking house, pal. How silly I feel now. Thanks for pointing it out. Here’s me, living in this fucking place for 10 years and all the fucking time I’ve been living in the wrong house! ‘Scuse me while I run round town trying to find out which fucking house your fucking dickhead IS parked outside and then I can go in and evict the residents, telling them that they’ve been living in my house and I will be taking legal fucking action.”

I have a theory that taxis only ever pick up grey-haired people with beards. Why? BECAUSE EVERYBODY HAS GOT GREY HAIR AND A FUCKING BEARD BY THE TIME THEY SHOW UP!!!!!!!!!!

If they ever do fucking show up, you’re then faced with the fatuous list of fucking excuses for why you were 18 when you ordered the fucking car but now you’re unable to walk unaided, have an incontinence bag and are expecting a fucking telegram from the fucking Queen in a week or so. “Sorry mayat. You moved house, innit? You forgot your address, innit. You didn’t order a taxi at all, innit. Just lucky is passing, innit? Don’t worry, mayat, I do it all time, innit. You finished work? What you do?”
“I’m a taxi inspector at nights and during the day I work for immigration. Now just drive this heap of shit to the pub, try to stay off the fucking pavements, put down that mobile fucking phone, stop jabbering away in Hindustani to that cunt you deal drugs with and there’s a chance, just a slim fucking chance, that I might not fucking kill you.”

The final act of plate-registered robbery is the fucking fare! These wankers only deal in pounds. They have no fucking concept of fucking pence. Either that, or their fucking religion compels them to fucking round figures up!
“Ok, mayat, chill, yeah, innit.”
“But I gave you a fiver. You’ve given me a quid back. The meter says £3.40.” “Oh, meter no working, mayat. You always pay fiver, yeah.”
“How would you fucking know? We’ve never fucking made it before. Me always pay £3 fucking 40p! That means you 60p shy, innit?”
“It’s tip, mayat, innit.”
“You wanna tip, mayat? Always put sugar in your biscuit jar. Now fuck off!!”



God, I hate taxi drivers (don’t even get me started on bus drivers). They can go to Grantham – although they’ll be 12 hours late getting there or turn up at Gillingham.