The Taxi Driver

Colchester, UK, 3rd-5th August 2012

As someone who lived in the UK for a depressing number of years, I know the place very well. Still, whenever I go back, as I did for weekend to attend a friend's wedding, I find myself remembering some of the more quirky aspects of the country. The way that people who you have never met will call you "mate". The way that every town outside London looks exactly the same as every other. The fact that policemen stand around in any train station or airport carrying small anti-aircraft weapons around their necks. The ubiquitous and almost proud ignorance of anything like lies beyond British borders (aside from the Canary Islands and Ibiza). The impressive dedication to fair play and doing things by the rules (aside from for the rich and/or powerful). Such are the features that make the country distinctive.

The wedding took place in Colchester. We'd taken a train up there and hopped into a taxi to get to the hotel which was a short distance out of town. The taxi driver looked exactly the same as all other British taxi drivers - in his 40s, small pot belly, tennis shirt, shaved head. 

"You sound American, you do" he said to M

"I'm from Finland", she replied.

I made a small interjection about how she used to live in Halifax and, many years ago, spoke with a Yorkshire accent.

"What ? Fuckin' scouse accent ? Like Steven Gerrard ? Fuckin 'ell ! Can't stand 'em !"

Silence fell. I'm aware that Liverpool and Halifax are some distance from Essex but this was still quite an impressive display of total geographic ignorance. Especially coming from a taxi driver, whose job requires him to know where he's going. His car radio was providing background music as he explained how the taxi-driving business worked. He rents his car, he told us, and has to make upward of 400 pounds a week in order to turn a profit. Or something like that. The song changed.

"You know what, I don't care what anyone else thinks but, speaking as an Englishman..... That foreign music.... It's shit innit ? I mean, it's fuckin' rubbish ! Innit ? Innit ?" He repeated the innits as he looked at me, waiting for some sort of a reply. 

It doesn't happen all that often but I was completely lost for words.

NB: I feel that I should counterbalance this rather negative assessment of the UK with a list of things about it that I genuinely like. These include McCoy's crisps (salt and vinegar flavour in particular); the fact that special offers are so ubiquitous that it's nearly impossible to do anything for an unreduced price; the fact the people are generally friendly and curious with foreigners even despite the fact that those same pesky foreigners have flooded the UK with shit music, innit; and the self-deprecating sense of humour, which is probably an essential quality for those who live in a country where it rains all the time and all the towns look the same.

A fine example of the above-mentioned ubiquitous discount: This rack of sandwiches (expiry date: in 10 minutes) was reduced to an exceptional 8 pounds.