I Drove It My Way (12 page)

This fine store has been there since 1884, and boasts the very first escalator. A cuddly toy bear was purchased by a certain A A Milne for his son who was called Christopher Robin. He named the bear ‘Winnie the Pooh', and then came the famous Winnie the Pooh stories. Harrods is worth a visit even if it's only for the green carrier bag.

Just around the corner from Harrods is Hans Place. Here at number 23 there is a blue plaque dedicated to the novelist Jane Austen. She lived there in the year 1814. This talented lady wrote
Pride and Prejudice
and
Sense and Sensibility
among many others. If we walk further along Brompton Road we come across Beauchamp Place (pronounced Beecham Place). It is well over 200 years old, and is one of the most fashionable places in London. People from Princess Diana to Kirk Douglas have been seen here. In the early 1800s an upper-crust shopper would have an armed escort to protect them from ‘footpads, ruffians and murderers'. But nothing changes, the low life still turns up now and then. A poor old jeweller closed up after being robbed three or four times. He was there for years, and then he said that he had had enough. He feared that the next time he may be shot dead.

*  *  *

I was surprised when I read an article about one of the largest meat markets in Europe, Smithfield. The article said that during the plague this area was a large open field. As the plague deaths were mounting, they buried over 50,000 victims here; what an enormous number of expired human beings to bury, presumably
in mass graves. Also on this site up to 300 people were burnt at the stake in religious persecutions. What a bloodthirsty place this was in days of yore.

The market is a great place to visit today. Just before Christmas is the best time to experience the exciting hustle and bustle. Do you think that if the people of this meat market dug down deep enough they would find bones? And would the plague virus still be active? Incidentally, the porters of this meat market are called ‘bummarees'. What a strange name.

Chapter 44

Going back about twenty years, I remember being on the rank at Paddington Station, third cab in line, when two Americans ladies came to my window and asked to be taken to the London Palladium. I said there were two cabs in front of me, to which they replied, ‘But one is red and the other is blue and yours is black'. They went on to say, ‘We were told to only use black cabs in London'.

By this time the two taxis in front were gone, so the Yanks got into my vehicle. I explained that the term ‘black cab' is an affectionate term that refers to all licensed taxis, no matter what colour. These ladies had been in London for about a week and had missed out time and again by waiting for a ‘black taxi' while they watched lots of coloured cabs drive by without hailing them.

As we pulled out of the station, all traffic came to a sudden standstill. Apparently, a terrorist was priming a bomb in a top floor bedsit in Sussex Gardens. The device blew up in his face. I read later in the evening news that the bomber was deeply imbedded in the ceiling plaster and the police forensic team literally had to climb a stepladder and scrape off what was left of him. The good thing was that no other person was killed. The bad thing was that my two Americans got out and walked to the Palladium, so I lost the fare.

Another time in the same station I picked up a Chinese tourist. He said in broken English that he wanted to go to the Windsor Castle. I said to this Oriental gent, ‘I am very sorry, but it's only ten a.m. and the pubs do not open until eleven'. He said, ‘Nooo, I no wan dink, I wan see wer king n' queen liv, you take now,
prease, Windsor Castle.' That's exactly how he spoke. What a great fare, all the way to the real Windsor Castle, but it's a good thing that I mentioned the opening hours or he would have looked at the pub and said, ‘No very big castle, wer queen?' As we drove away from the station I could not help thinking that this was my first Chinese takeaway of the week...

*  *  *

I was hailed in the Edgware Road once by five Middle Eastern ladies. Four of them were extremely petite in stature. The fifth was much larger and I thought she was the matriarch of the group because she held the purse and was the only one to speak. They all wore jet black burkas and were covered in black fabric from head to toe. I looked in the rear view mirror and all I could see was the whites of their stunning eyes in a background of darkness. It was a most unusual sight. I had the feeling I was driving around a small part of some lucky man's harem. They asked to be driven to Berkeley Square. When we arrived at Berkeley Square, the large lady said, ‘We have come to hear the nightingales'. Well, I was well and truly flabbergasted. I explained that it was only a line from the Frank Sinatra song, ‘A Nightingale Sang in Berkeley Square.'

She thought for a few seconds, and then uttered ‘Oh', and without hesitation said, ‘Take us to Shepherd's Bush market'. I couldn't help laughing with my mouth shut.

*  *  *

As a television engineer in the sixties I was once called to Down Street, just off Piccadilly. As far as I could make out, the flat was rented by Jackie Kennedy's sister-in-law, and the First Lady was there. Apparently it was a clandestine visit about some family affairs and the press did not even know she was in London. I suppose I could have made a fortune if I had phoned the newspapers.

I actually caught a brief glimpse of the First Lady of America
when she threw a tiny, brief smile at me before disappearing into another room. I still treasure that little smile. She had her bodyguard close by her side and I was surprised that I was even let into the mansion flat without a proper security check.

When one of the greatest American presidents of our time was shot dead, Jackie waited out the proper mourning period and then married the shipping magnate Aristotle Onassis in 1968. I wanted to draw a cartoon of this lovely lady depicting her walking in a field full of donkeys, and the caption would have read ‘At last Jackie has got her “own asses”'. I do hope that I don't have to explain that joke. I am a terrible cartoonist, so it never materialised.

Chapter 45

I was on the Harrods cab rank and while there was a lull in trade I began thinking back to a few years before when there was a terrible accident on this very spot. Two American tourists were window-shopping when suddenly a black cab came around the corner. The driver's foot had got stuck between the brake and the accelerator and the taxi mounted the pavement and drove straight over the two unfortunates, killing them instantly. The vehicle ended up in Harrods' window. I was told the driver was wearing sandals that may have been too big for him and the wide sole had got jammed between the accelerator pedal and the brake pedal. Imagine, coming all the way from America, just to get killed.

Suddenly, I was brought back down to earth by a tap on the window. It was a stunningly dressed lady wearing sunglasses. Before she could speak, I said ‘number “xxx” Eaton Place'. (I cannot reveal the number of this nice female's flat in order to protect her privacy.) She then said, ‘How did you know that?' to which I replied, ‘You are Joan Collins, are you not?' She dropped her sunglasses a little, and said, ‘Yes I am'. She was slightly miffed that I had recognised her.

I drove Miss Collins to her London home with very little conversation but I did tell her that the famous Vincent Price (1911–1993) once lived opposite her, and that I was his television engineer at one time. I remember I was quite anxious as I rang the Price household bell, hoping he was not home as I had recently watched one of his scary movies called
House of Wax
. But in fact I was delighted when he came to the door with a
big smile. After all, he was only acting in all those scary films and when I met him he was a lamb, and married to the actress Coral Brown.

*  *  *

In 1981, just before the Falklands war, I paid regular television visits to a Naval commander. I think he was an Argentine Naval Attaché to this country. I became quite friendly with this man, his wife and their beautiful young daughter. I don't know why he befriended me, I could hardly understand what he was saying and I certainly could not pronounce his long name. He sent a few presents to my family, and I never left his Sloane Street flat without an expensive bottle of Napoleon brandy.

After six months had elapsed, he and his family were suddenly recalled to Argentina, which must have had something to do with the surprise attack on the Falkland Islands. I later spoke to the doorman of the flats in question, who said the family had departed in a hurry. The day before they left, our Navy man told the porter that Denis Thatcher had acquired shares in oil fields just off the coast of the Falkland Islands. It makes one wonder, was there something going on behind the scenes? Did we go to war to protect the islanders or was it to protect the oil? I have often wondered about that Naval commander customer of mine, was he ever on the Belgrano and did he survive that awful war, or did he just do a runner?

*  *  *

Before I finish my little tale, I have to admit that I was once overtaken by a four-poster bed on the motorway, complete with blankets, sheets, and pillows. The ‘vehicle' had four wheels, an engine, lights, number plates and was fully licensed to be on the road. (See photo in plate section.)

The bed was doing sixty mph and it's a bit embarrassing to admit that it was going faster than my brand new taxi. I assume the bed was on its way to Bedfordshire...

* * *

I now spend my evenings singing and dancing in an extremely friendly working man's premises in south west London called the Tooting Progressive Club. This club is very proud of its unique juke box that contains over 3,000 song titles, a great pool table, and brilliantly friendly staff.

I also spend an equal amount of time next door in a highly entertaining and, may I say, non ‘plastic' Irish pub called The Ramble Inn in Tooting. What a watering hole! This inn entertains with open mic nights, poker nights, quiz nights and on a Sunday night one can hear fantastic traditional live Irish music. Of course, spontaneous singing is any night. The bar staff are quite unique, especially Eamon, the world's greatest barman.

I love doing nothing now and there's so much nothing to be done that I have no time on my hands at all!

*  *  *

Remembering all the famous names and places, the incidents and accidents, the ordinary and the extraordinary, over fifty-five years of working in London, is a pretty big task for anyone. In this book I hope I have recalled most of the more exciting parts of my life, both as a cabbie and as a television engineer. Re-creating my mythical cab journey around London where I revisited those memories, I realised just how interesting my working life had been. After all, how many people can say that they have met Tom Jones, John Mills, Barry Gibb and Joan Collins, to say nothing of all the other famous people who crossed my path? Be lucky, as they say in the cab trade. I know I have been.

Acknowledgements

I must offer sincere thanks to my great friend Angie Smith for her non-stop encouragement to finish this book. Without her, it may have fallen by the wayside. My lovely family were also involved in progressing these quickly fading memoirs.

The late Kenneth Williams.

The great George Best.

Frank Carson, “It's the way I tell 'em„.

The site where WPC Yvonne Fletcher was murdered.

George Melly, flamboyant jazz man.

The black spot on the number 2 marks the time when the axe fell on King Charles I.

The smallest police station in the UK.

Monument to animals in war.

Lost property: a steaming iron left on a bus in 1934.

Plaque to Thomas Lord, Lord's cricket groundsman.

The Sherlock Holmes Museum, 221b Baker Street.

Jean Alexander, who played Hilda Ogden in
Coronation Street.

Ken Livingstone, former Lord Mayor of London.