Taxing ride and no last Orders
The second I climbed into the car, I knew it was going to be one of those journeys. You know the ones, the trip with the chatty taxi-man, an animal which seems to exist in every culture and diets on a never-ending porridge pot of one-way conversation.
“Hello, my name is Leon,” he said in accent that was a cross between Murat, Ali G’s Kaxkhstani alter ego, and Manuel from Fawlty Towers. “I am from Russia, where can I take you this fine day matey?”
I gave him the address. “No worries matey, no worries. I come from Russia, but I tell you that already, ha, ha.”
I smiled back and we drove along in companionable silence, for about seven seconds.
“Do you like girls?”
I pondered my reply, aware that he was sounding me out for some red light action and also aware that if I replied in the negative, Leon would make other assumptions based on the process of elimination.
“Leon, it’s two in the afternoon.”
A kick for touch.
“No worries matey, I know places 24 hours, many many girls, Asian, Australian, even Irish girls. They make you happy, you want to see?”
“No, I’m going to watch the Melbourne Cup, the horse racing?”
“Oh you go for the racing,” sighed Leon disappointedly. “Ok, no girls, horses instead, whatever,” he muttered with the tone of a man who knew he had just lost his commission.
Leon’s fit of pique was depressingly short-lived and by the time I escaped from the cab 20 minutes later I had a working knowledge of his upbringing in Russia and could recite the names and occupations of his seven offspring.
As I paid, he handed me his card with a wink. “Just in case you change your mind matey.”
I had been invited to a Melbourne Cup party by a friendly Australian last weekend. The party was in a private room attached to a sports bar in an affluent Melbourne suburb.
The 200 or so guests were drawn from the local business community and we were provided with betting facilities, a big screen, Chiraz and eminently edible finger food.
The Melbourne Cup now bestrides the Aussie sporting calendar. With the economy here booming, the race has become something of an exercise in extravagance, leading to an annual outcry over the levels of drunkenness and lewd behaviour.
It is Royal Ascot meets Puck Fair, the men wear top hats and morning suits, the women wear expensive hats and scanty shimmering dresses, then everyone proceeds to get blotto and wear each other.
The party was a bit lame to be honest. The rich young guests were tarted up and in hectic humour but there was an inescapable feeling of Melbourne Cup Lite about it all. However, I was determined to have a good time, and a flutter.
Although knowing nothing about nags, I had become involved with the saga of ‘Holy Orders the homesick horse’, so I put 50 bucks on the Irish entry for a ‘place’ finish and settled back with my Chiraz to watch the race.
That was then things started to go downhill. It transpires that ‘last place’ does not qualify as a ‘place’ and the jostling celebrations of a group of adjacent accountants did nothing to improve my mood.
Much later, and slightly the worse for wear, I found myself in the midst of the aforementioned bean-counters discussing the rugby.
They were nice chaps in an annoying, obnoxious sort of way and were imbued with a strong sense of Aussie sporting superiority.
“It will be the Wallabies and the Poms in the final, no worries,” said one. “Wallabies are winners, you Irish know that. You gave us a good game didn’t ya? I feel sorry for the Irish, you always try your best but you just can’t win at anything, can ya mate?”
Time to go time.
“Hey, how are you fellahs getting home?” I asked, fumbling in my jacket. “I know this wonderful taxi guy called Leon ...”
