“J2” It’d been a pretty average night so far. The shopping runs had finished a couple of hours ago, and now the pensioners with the council issued travel tokens were safely tucked up in front of the TV watching Bruce Forsyth. Most of the Passionate, bright young things had only just started to head out to the local pubs, ready to get a few drinks down them and meet up with the Friday night crew before hitting the local nightclubs. “J2” I was sitting, waiting, outside the town looking for that juicy fair that would either bring me into town where there was money to be made or maybe one of those multiple pickups where you were likely to clock a few extra miles as ‘the girls’ couldn’t quite remember where Zoe lived, who they’d only just invited. “J2” sitting there waiting, I cast my mind back six months before. I was out of work and had just signed on; they enrolled me in an adult form of YTS whereby I would be trained to do a job and get slightly enhanced unemployment payments.
At the initial group meeting, they herded us, dole scroungers, into what seemed like an old WWII Nissan Hut. "What would you like to do?" came the leading question. There's always one wise guy at these events, and Terry wasn't about to let us down. "An astronaut!" Terry exclaimed while eyeballing his audience. Obviously, we all fell about laughing; however, the DSS woman in a brown tweed matching jacket and skirt was not only made of sterner stuff but also knew how to deal with the likes of Terry. "Excellent choice," she said. "We can certainly help with that." Confused, Terry pressed on. "Do I get my own spaceship?" again looking round to reap the rewards of his witty repartee. fits of laughter filled the room. "Not immediately," she replied. "We do have some openings that could eventually lead to space flight. One of the easiest ways is to join the RAF, but I suspect you're a little old for that, Terry? We do have relationships with businesses in the aerospace industry that would suit you, though." Terry wasn't looking so good; in fact, he was now citing vertigo and a fear of enclosed spaces as reasons why maybe he wasn't suitable for astronaut training. I can't remember what Terry eventually went for? I wouldn't have been surprised if it was debt collecting.
"J2" I had no idea what to ask for, and by now, most of the mundane half-interesting placements had already gone.
"How about Private Hire?" Mrs DSS said. "I don't really see myself as a cabbie", I replied: "Well, the thing is, you get you're enhanced unemployment/training allowance, and of course, I'm not supposed to say this, but there will be tips involved. You are supposed to hand over all money that you take, of course." she said with a wink, although she may have had something in her eye?
Jays Taxis was a relatively small outfit, just four cars and owned by a chronic alcoholic called Chris. My training consisted of: "Here are the prices, here's an A to Z, and your call sign is J2." this was marginally more intensive than the interview for the first job I had when I moved to the Midlands back in 1988, which consisted of "What's your name? When can you start?" 🤣
I pretty soon got the hang of it. Drive to the supermarket, collect 87-year-old Mrs Jones and her shopping, drive her the half-mile to her house, take the token which was worth a pound and then call in for the next job. The problem with tokens for us drivers was that there was no need for people to tip you, and even if they did give you an extra token, it was worthless to the driver, so the only one who benefited was Jays. So much for this "You get to keep the tips" clandestine hint, I was given.
"J2" This ritual was relentless; I seemed to spend most of my time pulled over trying to get the despatcher to at least acknowledge me let alone get the job of picking up the Norton Twins, who were a great couple of girls; that I spent one-night watching p... Oh wait, I'm married now. 😉
"J2" That's me! Nearly dropping the mike, I responded, "J2" Pauline, the dispatcher, was a lovely woman in her late fifties who, to be fair, did look after me "Down the town J2. Pick up from the Oak going to the Traf name of Jones." Oh great, so I'm going into town to come out again. AND I'm off to the cattle market that is the Trafalgar. There was only one place worse than the Traf, and that was Fishley Park, where a whole new meaning was brought to the term "Grab a grannie night." You haven't seen gross till you've seen some tanked up 20-year-old lad sticking his tongue down the throat of a 78-year-old wearing a mini skirt and a boob tube!
"Taxi for Jones?" I asked the three lads holding up their mate outside the Oak. "He's not gonna puke, is he?" I said as one of them got into the passenger seat. This is par for the course when it comes to Taxis; you count yourself as having had a good night if there isn't a regurgitated Byriani or a used condom on the back seat. During my whole experience as a cabbie, apart from one night when I was held up at knife-point and robbed, I have to say it was the girls that were the worst "Oi mate if we get our tits out, will you let us off the fare?" You see a lot of, um? female genitalia when you drive a cab, not many men lost their clothing if I remember correctly? "That'll be five quid lads." as we pulled up outside the Traf. The three lads manhandled the drunken fourth out the cab. "J2 Clear the Traf" Pauline was back on: "J2 drop down to the Nest, name of Tyler going to Silks." Silks was billed as an upmarket nightclub in the town. Back then, we had Maymees, Clouds and Silks, which for a while was the footballer Stan Collymore's favourite haunt. I didn't like him much. Regardless of his problems, he was an arrogant, aggressive individual.
The night wore on, and we were into the chucking out time for nightclubs "J2" Pauline was trying to raise me, and I was having a widdle up a bush on the Chase. "J2 Fishley Park name of Jones." Jones? No! Can't it be? That lad was hammered when I dropped them off at the Traf? As I sat waiting by the HGV lorries in Fishley Park's car park, I spied between two trucks a lad that looked like one of the lads I'd dropped off at the Traf. "What on earth is he doing?" I thought as he stood between a Scania and Foden truck with his legs apart and with what looked like his hands on his hips. At first, I thought he was having a pee, and then he moved to help a little old lady up off her knees after she had perhaps fallen accidentally onto his manhood. What a nice chap for doing his part for Help The Aged. 🤦♂️🙈
If there's enough interest, I might be persuaded to write another instalment where we will learn of Pervy Paul and the running over of the fare dodger. Chris and the Indian meal spread across the hallway and the next-door neighbours having an affair.
My actual name is Pete. Here is why I have the username dickturpin.
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