[DISCLOSURE: Things have changed, what with Uber and its ilk. And I'm no longer such an asshole (I know! I'm disappointed too; life wears down even the worst of us). But once upon a time, going out in London ended like this.]
Back then, on an everyday basis, there were few definitively worse circumstances than trying to get a taxi at the end of a night out. It always manages to be about 3 degrees above freezing, lending a biting air of desperation to proceedings.
If you’re about to be in this situation then things have gone badly already.
The only qualification for them having gone well is that, upon departing the late-night drinking establishment, you are inundated with offers from hungry-looking individuals, from whom you can take your pick, or pit against each other in a bidding war that’ll inevitably drive down the cost.
Obviously I’m referring to minicabs (unlicensed taxis) here.
Black cabs have a meter which the Pope would hesitate to argue with. Although I've never understood the standing charge that gets added onto the final price at the push of a button. What's that about? If this is a minimum fare, then why doesn’t it no longer apply once you’ve been inside for more than a mile? Are you paying for the convenience of being a passenger here?
I remember phoning my good friend Bean once to tell him I’d booked our tickets for a Bond film, and that they’d charged me a booking fee. Bearing in mind that the service was fully automated, he asked to clarify: was he right in thinking that after guaranteeing my custom, they’d made me pay for the privilege!?
That taxi thing’s a bit like that.
Anyway, back to the minicabs. In London, I got into the habit of playing a little game with the drivers; it goes like this:
I give them a destination (usually within at least a mile of my abode).
They quote me a price.
I stare at them as though they asked for my sister’s maidenhead, before suggesting something a mite more reasonable.
They laugh, shake their head and/or scratch it and reduce their original price by one unit of currency.
Again, I gasp & splutter as though I’ve been violated by the mere suggestion of such a ‘heady’ amount (perhaps glancing down at my clothes as if to say ‘Do I look rich & carefree?’). And stretch to another pound myself.
They’re serious now. There’s an air of ‘This is my livelihood, you spoilt little fuck.’ about their demeanour. There’s pain in that expression, together with shoulder-shrugs and assurances that it won’t come any cheaper than this, their final price, which is quoted with a far off look, as if imagining that Tonka truck Joe Junior wanted so badly and now will never get.
I’m drunk. I couldn’t give a flying fuck. My brain’s only duty is to get my tottering body home as cheaply and easily as possible. At this point it helps to have another driver to check prices with, but if not, adopt a pained expression too, as though you’re quite astonished to find they could commit such larceny on a fellow human being, and grudgingly agree, (unless of course you can actually bring them down again). Then take them via several ATMs on the way to your front door, because you drank every penny you came out with.
I should have been murdered. No jury would've convicted.
I've been fortunate enough to find cheaper cities to drink in since then.
Being student-poor was a completely different beast. No mortgages yet, but not being able to leave your parents' flat on a Saturday and drink ten pints felt cruel and unusual.
If only we'd known, eh?
Love,
Ikem.