MR CAB DRIVER

It’s not only drummers who have problems with their timing.

Whoever came up with the saying,‘It’s not the destination, but the journey that matters’ has never shared a taxi or two with me. Depending on where I am, and who’s behind the wheel, conversation can veer from the sublime to the ridiculous. Take, for example, a recent cab ride to Liverpool Street Station which proved memorable for all the wrong reasons.

The driver hadn’t uttered a word during the journey, it was only when I was ready to pay that he turned round and dropped the bombshell, “You know, my missus really fancies you. Loves you on the telly, buys everything you make and travels all around to see you perform.”

“That’s very kind,” I replied, unzipping my wallet.

“I mean, she’s no oil painting I have to admit,” he continued, “more like an oil drum really. She can’t dance and has no sense of rhythm which is probably why she likes prog. She also doesn’t like lyrics that make any sense and so you and those other prog people are right up her alley.”

“Oil Drum Alley?” I muttered under my breath. He continued,“She also came to one of your concerts a little while ago. Trip Down Under.”

“Ah, you mean she saw me in Australia?”

“No, Trip Down Under as in the name of the music. It was at the Royal Festival Hall.”

“Oh,” I said, “do you mean Journey To The Centre Of The Earth? That’s wonderful to hear but I really must get going or I’ll miss my train.”

He ignored me and carried on,“Her favourite of yours is the one about King Henry and his knights under some table or other and how he executed most of his wives. She loved that and made me drive her to Hampton Court to see it.”

“Did you come to the show as well?” I politely enquired, holding out the money for my ride.

“Nah, I just dropped her off outside. If I’d have wanted to be bored shitless for an evening, I’d have rather gone and watched Queens Park Rangers.”

In an attempt to steer him away from his prog rant, I asked, “What sort of music do you like then?”

“Proper music. You know, music you can tap your feet to and jig around to like Atchoo!”

“Bless you.”

“Yeah, you know what I mean, right? That Take On Me song was bloody great.”

I sighed and let him continue, “Proper songs you can hum along to like those with that singer who died. What was her name? Amy Winebar?”

I didn’t bother to correct him. Instead I paid what I owed him, got my receipt and got out of the taxi. I had only just shut the door when he wound down his window, stuck his head out and yelled, “Any chance of a photo for the wife? It’ll really piss her off when I show her I’ve got a selfie with her idol Rick Wonkyman.”

I begrudgingly obliged. As I bid him farewell, I said, “Give my best wishes to your oil drum.”

It wasn’t until I approached the station platform that I realised I’d missed my bloody train. So much for reaching my destination. There’s a lesson to be learned there.

“Her favourite album is the one about King Henry and his knights under some table or other.”