my 10 hours as a minicab driver

The minicab industry this year faces stiff new regulations which will herald the registration of operators, vehicles and their drivers in a move to rid the service of its tainted image. Good news for passengers, but what is it like to be a driver who faces a hostile, drunk and fare-evading public?

DANIEL LEE got behind the wheel to find out

AS I DRIVE past a recently refurbished pub in south London's Forest Hill I see my two passengers. It is only the middle of the evening on this cold Friday in February, but both men, in their thirties, have clearly had quite a lot to drink.

"Cab to Peckham?" I ask.

"About time," the smarter man, dressed in jacket and trousers, shoots back. They both struggle into the back seat.

As I set off, I attempt to make conversation. "Good night?" I enquire.

"Good morning, dickhead," the same man replies. "What f****** route do you call this?"

His friend, in jumper and jeans, giggles into his hand. And so ends our chat.

The conversation, if you can call it that, only resumes with the end of the journey. "You can whistle for the fare," they shout as they stumble out of the car towards another pub.

"Oh, come on," I shout to their backs. Rather than risk trouble for a few pounds, I follow earlier advice from a seasoned driver and let them go.

Halfway through my 10-hour cabbing shift the day is taking an ominous turn.

We all use minicabs, but how many of us think what life is like on the other side of the seat? Drunks, threats, violence, arrogance and sex - all take their place behind the driver.

Drivers need to be Sigmund Freuds to calm explosive passengers; Mike Tysons for handling violence; and Ernest Shackletons to navigate the London labyrinth. To make sure these essential skills are in place, all London minicab firms are now being licensed, before it becomes illegal to operate without the official paperwork in August.

My day starts without a hitch.

After Ray Flynn, boss of Dulwich Cars, arranges my insurance, ID card and other paperwork, he talks me through the do's and don'ts of being on the road: "Your call sign is 2-2. That is two and then two, not 22. Always start every radio conversation with this number or the controller won't know who she's talking to."

"What about protecting myself from violence?" I ask.

"I've been in the business for 20 years and violent passengers are not that common," says Mr Flynn.

It is 3.30pm. I fill the company's Skoda Octavia with 12 of diesel and set off to the sound of Madonna's American Pie blasting from Capital Radio. "2-2 ready," I call into base.

A whole new world stretches before me. Perhaps only lawyers, doctors and nurses see the lives of strangers at such close quarters. People reveal things to drivers they wouldn't tell anyone else. And it is not surprising.

Being a passenger or a minicab driver is a strange kind of intimacy. How often do you get so close to a complete stranger?

Sex and the City

I am assigned my first job - from SE15 to King's Cross.

The attractive young couple leave their house chatting and laughing. She is on crutches and refuses my help in getting into the car. He talks incessantly about City architecture.

He interrupts everything that his companion tries to say - but she seems to find this amusing.

"These Georgian houses will be knocked down soon to make way for hi-tech City offices," he explains, referring to a terrace of Victorian properties near Blackfriars.

"But..." she begins.

"Did you know that house was built for Churchill?" he continues, oblivious to her attempted reply. "He wanted it built in the war as a sign of his solidarity with the people of London."

Never mind that the house probably came into being about 10 years before the great man was born. It is tempting to interrupt, but what would be the point? They do, however, pay a 1 tip on a 9 fare.

Towards the end of the evening I meet another couple.

This time chatting is the last thing on their minds, but they have a definite two-way exchange. The minute Jo Pepper and Greg Cinnane jump into the back seat, they can't keep their hands off each other.

"Do you want me to get my kit off?" Greg asks Jo as we head towards Forest Hill. "We've had a great night, but now it is time to get home," he says, when he comes up for air.

And that is the last I hear from either lover. Fortunately or unfortunately, depending on your point of view, they remove no clothes. It is February, after all.

Money talks

On the way back from King's Cross I am assigned a pickup at City Airport.

There has been an accident in the Limehouse Tunnel and traffic remains more or less stationary across the City and East End.

It takes me one-and-a-half hours to travel three miles, I am bursting to go to the lavatory and, more importantly, I am losing money.

None of the precious fuel being burnt as the car remains at a standstill will be paid for by a fare. To top it all, the exhaust begins to make a raspberry noise that is probably louder than the aeroplane I am due to meet.

I arrive at the airport 15 minutes late. Fortunately, the flight from Paris has been delayed so that I have not had a no-show or wasted trip.

Unfortunately, I now have another 30 minutes to wait for my passenger.

I join the gaggle of other drivers holding signs with names of passengers: Afzal, Leonard, Death - surely a misprint or joke, but I dare not ask.

As the mix of highfliers sweep their way through the arrivals hall I begin to feel very small. The suits look at me and the other drivers as if they are choosing cheese, not human beings.

When my fare turns up, he is unappreciative. An arrogant City gent in his early forties who insists on barking orders and routes to me when it is too late.

"You should have turned right back there," he says on more than one occasion, with the single variation that I "should have turned left". When not giving directions, he is explaining that the people who work for him at his merchant bank are not up to the job. Clearly his wealth and power cannot be good for his blood pressure.

Later, the power of money rears its head again, but this time in a friendly guise. At around 11.30pm I collect Thomas Wigfall, 16, from the Dulwich Village home of his girlfriend. He is squiffy, but pleasant. No barked orders from him.

"I need to get back in time for the midnight curfew set by my parents," he says.

"I get cabs pretty well everywhere. They usually only cost 10 a time and it is a lot easier than a bus."

Despite his warm manner, his casual attitude to what for many older, working people would be a lot of money for a relatively short journey, is somehow shocking.

"See you man. Wicked," he shouts as he leaves the car and heads indoors to meet his parental deadline.

Families and food

The two middle-aged Scottish couples heading to a family birthday party at the 100 Club on Oxford Street are not ready when I arrive to collect them in Dulwich Village at about 9pm and they invite me in to watch TV.

It is all very friendly and generous, but I will be losing money, because minicabs do not charge as much for waiting time as they do for mileage.

When we set off, so does a bizarre conversation. Or at least that is the way it sounds. After nearly six hours I am getting hungry and words are garbled behind the noise of calls for urgent assistance from my stomach.

"Have you seen Pinter's The Caretaker?" asks the elder of the two gents.

"Yes," is the general reply.

"Who's that man in it with the moustache?" asks one of the women, before everyone begins talking at once about men in moustaches and which TV programmes they may or may not have been in.

Although this is the type of conversation at which cab drivers are meant to excel, I find it hard to get a word in edgeways. "Do you mean Michael Gambon?" I manage to ask eventually, by which time the chat appears to have moved on to boiled eggs and hernias. I really must get some food.

My dinner break is postponed even longer when I remember that Oxford Street is barred to cars and I have to plot a tortuous route around the back streets to get as near as possible to the club. Eventually, still a few hundred yards away from my destination, I persuade the couples that it would be pleasant for them to stroll the remainder of their journey.

Seeing my look of desperation, they agree and pay me a 3 tip on a 12 fare.

Food on the go generally means rubbish: an endless supply of crisps, nuts and snatched sandwiches between journeys. I make do with a baguette from a flying visit to Sainsbury's on one of my routes.

After a mercifully short journey (from Forest Hill to Peckham) with the two drunks, it is 9.45pm and I take a break.

Back at the office I relax for 20 minutes with fellow driver, 48- year-old Kevin North and Mandy the controller, who tells me that I am doing well for a beginner.

Mr North has been a driver for nearly 20 years and takes a turn as controller, guiding drivers to their fares through traffic jams, road closures, one-way systems and parking restrictions.

"It can be hard work, but it depends a lot on who you work for," he says.

"We all get along well. You have to when you're all together, relying on each other all night."

He adds: "If you are prepared to put in the hours you can make the job into a reasonable career." For more than six hours work I have earned only 30, after paying for my fuel.

Party girls

I head out on a call to East Dulwich some time after midnight. It turns out to be a group of girls in their early twenties: Camilla Fioden, Carmen Murray and Louise Bremer. "On our way to a bit of a bash," one of them says.

With all the giggling and wriggling behind me it is difficult to know who says what. "We always get a cab on our Friday nights out," the same voice says. "It's so much easier. If we are lucky we end up getting a ride for free."

My next pickup is back at the East Dulwich office, to go to Peckham. Natalia Velinor, 20, is planning a gentler end to her Friday. "I am on my way to a friend's house for a bit of a gossip," she says.

"We might talk about men and marriage or something else. We've known each other for years, so we have loads of chat. It will be a sort of two-person party."

Although the journey is not far, what she says next tells me more about the feelings of young women in London than any number of government studies.

"I try and get cabs when I can, because they are so much safer than waiting for a bus or train that never arrives."

Copyright 2001
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