Apologies for last week's aberration. If you hadn't a clue what I was on about, rest assured. You were not alone, writes Kilian Doyle
Truth is, there's been something not quite right in the air here in Emissions Tower of late. For the Lord of the Manor (that'd be me, fact fans) is experiencing an odd emotion that has him rattled. Sympathy.
Not that I'm completely inured to that particular state, mind. There are lots of people I feel sorry for, most of them stupid and greedy. There are a lot of them about. My heart is gushing with compassion for them, each and every one.
But this is different. It's sympathy for taxi drivers.
Like most of you, until recently, I regarded them as a noxious shower of ignorant, unhygienic, tax-dodging, pontificating, double-parking louts. (Most, I say. There are some nice ones out there.)
I've been bemused, abused and diddled by dozens of them over the years, from the fat racist who wants everyone who doesn't have a Roy Keane shirt sent back to Nigeristan, to the drunk pervert who's driving with two gearsticks - if you get my drift. Anyway, it was with all these prejudices tucked up neatly in a rucksack on my back that I hopped into the front seat of a taxi a while back. The driver nearly leapt clean out of his skin. He would have hopped out the sunroof, had he had one. Sorry, said I. Did I startle you?
Err, yeah, I'm a bit jumpy.
Is that right? (This lad's fishing for a tip and we haven't even taken off.)
Yeah, a few years ago some junkie stuck a needle in my leg while her boyfriend held a knife to me throat and robbed me, he mumbled, shakily.
Cripes, said I, ashamed at my earlier cynicism. That's terrible. Are you alright? He looked blankly at me. Didn't need to answer. His thousand-yard stare told me the episode was on a permanent loop inside his skull.
Did you tell the Garda?
Why bother? Happens all the time to us, nothing gets done. All cops hate taxi drivers, said he.
Hmm. I've seen enough taxi drivers doing mental things in traffic under the benign glance of uncaring cops to have a different opinion to our shattered friend's. But I wasn't going to push it. That's rough. Have you thought about getting a different job? I suggested.
Sure, what would I do? Thirty years I'm at this, said he. Can't do anything else. I'm trapped.
Not knowing what else to do, I stared at his licence.
Badly faded and sepia tinged, it portrayed a much younger man. He was wearing a nosepicker-collared shirt, a patterned tank top. I imagined he was probably wearing slightly-flared Farah slacks. He had massive lambchops and a wife-beater moustache. Was that a perm? It was, you know.
He beamed at the camera, his hopes and dreams written all over his face. In five years, he'd have enough cash to run his own taxi fleet. In 10, he'd be retired and sipping cocktails in Tramore. I looked at him now. Three decades later, the wideboy with the world at his feet was an ashen-faced shell of a man peering out over the steering wheel at the world with his hollow, frightened eyes. And all because of a pair of peasants who'd stuck his peace of mind in their arms. Remember this poor chap the next time a taximan drives you to the edge. It might just be that he's contemplating tipping over it himself.