I had one of those happy moments of taxi satisfaction the other night.
It was during the lashing rain of Spanish Hoohah storm, late at night.
I was on my own on the town centre taxi rank when some young men jumped in my taxi and wanted to be taken to the nightclub.
Unfortunately for them I recognised one of them.
If you are going to run away from taxis without paying the fare it is a good idea to have an unremarkable face. I am hopeless at remembering which tiresome youths in the village have failed to cough up at journey’s end, mostly because they all look much the same.
Nevertheless there is an outstanding handful of them who are exceptionally loud, rude and irritating, I suspect because of their attachment to cocaine. This is not a mellow, gentle, drug. I have noticed that frequently when I encounter the ones who have just bounded out of the drug dealer’s house, I am struck with the longing to bring back some of the more savage physical punishments that the Middle Ages applied to their miscreants. An awful lot of them might be improved by a couple of afternoons in the stocks.
This particular youthful idiot had run away from my taxi not once, but twice. In fairness to my judgement, the first time was not exactly running away. I took him from the nightclub to a cash machine in order that he could pay for his journey before he had had very much of it. He was so drunk that he opened the door, fell out on to the pavement, and when he finally found his feet, forgot all about the cash machine and just wandered off, staggering a bit, into the night.
The second time was running away, though. I got him almost as far as the drug-dealer’s house and he hopped out and streaked off to hide. It was late, and I was too busy to stop and chase him, and so cut my losses and left, cursing and promising myself retribution, one day.
He has a bony, rat-like face. I have not forgotten it.
I explained to the gentlemen in my taxi that whilst I was perfectly happy to transport three of them, the fourth, with the rat-like face, was going nowhere in my company, and that we would not be departing until he got out.
He sat in the back and smirked, drunkenly.
His friend, in the front seat, took it upon himself to defend his companion.
I turned the engine off by way of making my point plain.
His friend was upset by my refusal to be flexible, and started to shout. After a few minutes they all joined in. They yelled and threatened and called me some surprising names.
I told them that they had also earned themselves a walk, now and in perpetuity, and requested that they got out.
After a great deal of very offensive grumbling, mixed in with some threats, mostly of an obscenely physical nature, they did so.
The rain was hammering down, and all taxis were busy, so they had to walk to the nightclub. I imagined, with a grim satisfaction, that they would get soaked.
However, the truest satisfaction came at the end of the night.
When the nightclub ejected everybody into the rain, we were all kept frantically busy for ages. It was almost four o’ clock when I chugged round to it for the last time.
The only people left were the gentlemen from earlier on, jacketless, wet and flagging frantically.
I slowed down to a crawl, wound the window down and smiled. Then, in the most concise Anglo-Saxon terms I could think of, I told them that I would still not be taking them anywhere.
I wound the window up and drove off.
As I got back into the village I saw one of the other taxis. I slowed down and explained what I had done.
He got on his radio and told the other cars that there was nobody left at the nightclub and they could all stand down.
I went home, where there was a warm fire.
Sometimes malice is just lovely.
Have this morning’s picture of Windermere.
