tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28994183328915196082012-02-17T03:14:21.520ZTales from a Dublin Taxi driver.Jomaxihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09183495145506471016noreply@blogger.comBlogger121100tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2899418332891519608.post-62774715410289084022007-09-06T20:10:00.000Z2007-09-06T20:16:35.578Z

When you're driving a taxi you get all sorts, and I mean ALL sorts. Take today: guy, fading hippy, late 50s early 60s in jeans, down-at-heel- runners, black anorak, long, lank, straggly grey hair and a black hat, for god's sake, I have no idea what kind of a hat, just a generic hat, it could have been anything once, but through countless misdemeanours, errors, satupons, it was a shapeless black

Jomaxihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09183495145506471016noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2899418332891519608.post-84576757344800922412007-07-08T12:17:00.000Z2007-07-08T12:38:03.996Z

I'm so tired of getting calls to go to places where there is no job because someone was fucking with you, whether in the base control, or in a house adjacent to the one you've called to, and they're laughing at you behind the curtain. I had one of those in my last week driving.Rathmines, beside the barracks. I'm called to an address, and when I get there, the number I've been given is a wrong one

Jomaxihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09183495145506471016noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2899418332891519608.post-82244096442688570532007-07-08T10:50:00.000Z2007-07-08T11:25:21.984Z

A girl stops my taxi on the street, hand held aloft the proper way, not out like she is trying to stop a bus. When she sits in the back, she starts to sob quietly. I ask her what's bothering her and she tells me it's her hair. She has just come out of the hairdresser having had her hair done some way that isn't the way that she had wanted it to be done. She is totally devastated. Her hair is

Jomaxihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09183495145506471016noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2899418332891519608.post-5301839266727382342007-06-09T17:29:00.000Z2007-07-08T11:28:28.671Z

On Friday 8th June I picked up a pair of Americans, one of whom wanted to book me for an airport run at 6.30 on Saturday morning. Never one to turn down a nice airport run, I agreed. Next morning she's coming out of her hotel laden with suitcases, and gets into the car. She's a slightly spaced-out Californian blonde, middle-aged, very attractive, and very intelligent, and I ask her if she was in

Jomaxihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09183495145506471016noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2899418332891519608.post-72966004857758404722007-06-02T13:20:00.000Z2007-06-02T14:06:49.306Z

Coming back from the airport on the old Swords road as I don't use the Kesh. Hoping I'll pick up a fare on the way back to the city. Just through the lights at the boundary of the airport property and there's an airport police car, lights flashing, pulled over. Doors open, two officers drag a pretty but very angry blonde in pink tracksuit out of the car, manhandle her over to the kerb, open the

Jomaxihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09183495145506471016noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2899418332891519608.post-11086787918557478812006-12-14T13:36:00.000Z2006-12-14T13:40:38.621Z

I got myself another penalty point and a fine yesterday for being in the wrong lane at the White's Cross junction. The irritating thing is that I had been in the correct lane, but thought I was in the wrong one, so I "corrected" and then found that my correction actually put me into the right-turning lane when I was going straight on. After indicating and getting back into the lane I had been in,

Jomaxihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09183495145506471016noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2899418332891519608.post-20258815436610923832006-12-09T08:52:00.000Z2007-07-08T11:39:18.863Z

When you get into a taxi, you never know whose been sitting in the seat before you. Likewise, when I pick up a fare, I never know who I'm putting into the seat beside or behind me. It's scary sometimes, and it can lead to strange situations.October 2004; I'm sitting on the rank in Stillorgan at about 3.45pm when this guy gets into the taxi breathing heavily. He is tall, skinny, with wispy

Jomaxihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09183495145506471016noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2899418332891519608.post-58930941833805046572006-12-09T00:51:00.000Z2007-07-08T12:05:05.841Z

It always seems strange to me how some people are so self-involved that they think the world revolves around them and nobody else. Take this evening, for example. My last job took me to Chapelizod, where I dropped, and immediately I get a job over the XDA for some apartments nearby. I wasn't going to do the job. I wanted to go home after 6 hours of driving which included 4 hotel bangers (where

Jomaxihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09183495145506471016noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2899418332891519608.post-3689662915854627612006-12-06T11:33:00.000Z2006-12-06T12:08:39.333Z

Nothing too literary today, just a gripe about a bangarda at the Merrion Square/Clare st junction. The bus lane along Merrion Sq north comes to an end about 20m from the lights, and starts again about 20m after them on Clare St. There's a yellow box at the end of the buslane on Merrion Sq to allow buses and taxis take up position in the right hand lane which is marked with an arrow for straight

Jomaxihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09183495145506471016noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2899418332891519608.post-83915706331337731132006-12-04T17:08:00.000Z2006-12-06T12:04:51.553Z

Every now and again you have a day in which something happens to make you re-evaluate your life and your beliefs, a day that grabs you by the scruff of the neck, shakes you violently, and makes you just stop and think and question. I had one of those in June 2002. Everything you could think of went wrong on me, but it ended in epiphany. That day didn’t start off very well. When I was walking to

Jomaxihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09183495145506471016noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2899418332891519608.post-43159391825049805512006-12-03T23:25:00.000Z2007-02-23T10:32:59.138Z

I used to drive at night because the money is better and the traffic more free. But then an incident occurred which changed all that.It’s just before one a.m. on Saturday, 11th March in 2004. The Friday night crowds are on the street and I’ve pulled into the kerb beside Café En Seine, or Café Insane as we call it, to write up my log after dropping the last passenger. As I’m writing, I hear the

Jomaxihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09183495145506471016noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2899418332891519608.post-62109019244989073032006-12-02T15:45:00.000Z2006-12-06T12:06:23.794Z

I cruise slowly along the curve of the empty road, squinting into the darkness for any signs of a figure with an outstretched arm. It is 3 a.m. and the air puffing in through the open window is fragrant with pre-dawn summer smells. When eventually I see the lone figure on my side of the road, I am unsure whether to stop or not. He looks rough, and in this part of the city suburbs I don’t want to

Jomaxihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09183495145506471016noreply@blogger.com0