Grit: The Banter and Brutality of the Late-Night Cab

They drain you sometimes. They really do. "What's it all about then mate? What's the secret of life? You should know. You're a fucking cab driver." Yeah, right. (As if I'll learn the secret of life talking to arseholes like you all night). "Got any saucepan lids, mate? I've got two. I hate them. Bastards, they are. Ruined my life. I hate the bastards." I keep quiet "Don't try and rip us off, mate. I've got a key between my knuckles." (Whatever). The life of a cab driver. Glimpses into other people's lives.

As they call last orders, he’ll walk over to a girl he’s no doubt slept with before, pour half his pint over his own head and the remainder over hers, and with a twinkle in his eye say, “Looks like you’ve pulled again, doesn’t it?

I’ve come to know him well, and have discovered that shrouded behind his touchy and volatile exterior, there crouches a warm and considerate human being, crying out to be valued and loved

Through years of experience I’ve discovered that a liar will always look into his drink when telling a lie. But he doesn’t have a drink in a cab, and even if he did I’d have no idea as to whether he were looking into it or not

Cynthia was originally from Sierra Leone, and I loved the way those two dusky words rolled off her tongue. As we drove along I found myself fascinated with the deep “Oooooohhs” and “Aaaahhhhss” that made up her conversational speech patterns

Many parts of Watford, especially around Vicarage Road Football Stadium, consist of scuzy warrens of Victorian terraced houses