Taxi Driver Online

Edited extract from Women 'n' Love: Amazon Kindle

Friday, 31st December

Hogmanay. Janus is the Roman God of beginnings and transitions. The month of January, at the cusp of the Old and New Year, is named after him.

Scots have long denoted the last day of the year as Hogmanay, thought to have derived from Northern French connections and introduced through the nation’s “Auld Alliance” with France; the centuries-old connection between the two countries which originated through their inter-relating Royal households.

Over time, Hogmanay has developed into an all-night celebration where Scots traditionally open their doors to neighbours, family and friends to enjoy camaraderie and recall the toil, trials and tribulations of the old year; replacing those with incredible optimism for the coming one and the same optimism that next Hogmanay would no doubt prove to be the last year’s hardships.

Traditionally, Hogmanay was celebrated with typical Scottish fayre of shortbread, black bun, home-made soup, sandwiches, pies and sausage rolls, along with other calorie laden delicacies; and all washed down with Scotch whisky, ale and sherry.
However, the modern style is for platters of bhajees, samosas and pakoras from India; spring rolls, bbq spare ribs and wafer prawns from China; and tapas, spicy sausages and mezes from the four corners of Europe; all available at minimum cost in party packs from local freezer shops, and testament to at least the culinary diversity in contemporary nouveau cosmopolitan Scotland.

With these myriad flavours assaulting palates, traditional drinks have given way to other spirits, wine and copious quantities of high strength lagers; as well as alcopops which cater for those with sweeter tastes and who still require the fortifying properties of alcohol; and all of which is intended to fuel the party into the “wee sma’ ‘oors.”

A merry time is enjoyed by all, as old Scots’ tunes are remembered, words recalled from singing the songs in childhood at school and family parties. Eightsome reels and other Scots’ dances are performed ambitiously in ridiculously cramped spaces; with furniture pulled back and the space created becoming choked with alcohol fuelled, fetid bodies writhing to the skirl of the pipes, accordions and the beat of the drums booming from loudspeakers; while those dancing screech out loudly with glee, adding to the pandemonium. Or, as with the younger set, the boom boom of the latest club sounds; discharged by MP3 players through multi-megawatt speaker systems.

At this time of year, all “Jock Tamson’s bairns” become truly as one nation of brothers; what Scotland’s National Bard, Rabbie Burns - the Ayrshire farmer whose genius could only have been endowed by a superior extra terrestrial intelligence - had oft advocated in his written pearls of wisdom, which are ingrained in the hearts of all true Scots and renowned throughout the world.

♀♀♀


Jill was also aware of the Roman God Janus, and welcomed his concept of new beginnings. She was being positive and looking forwards.

Jill arrived at Sondra’s flat. The door was open, the loud music invading and reverberating throughout the atrium of the block of flats. But no one was complaining. This was Hogmanay. By tradition, neighbours know that any others’ party is also theirs.

♀♀♀

Five minutes to midnight and a random guest grabbed the remote control and switched on the 42 inch wall mounted plasma screen TV. The programme was being broadcast from Edinburgh, showing pictures of the crowds gathered in Princes Street, the carnage of tram construction suspended and cleared for the occasion.

Edinburgh’s internationally renowned main thoroughfare was thronging with thousands of visitors who’d congregated hoping to experience a real Scottish Hogmanay, though what they were being served up was little more than a street pop concert which could have been held at any time of the year; while traditional Scots’ Hogmanays were being played out in homes all over the nation.

With the barricades going up around the city centre, ostensibly to restrict and control the crowds, the beautiful old Lady had been dressed for the event like a 1950s East European city at the height of the Cold War, only troops bearing arms missing from the checkpoints; and far removed from anything resembling how Scots themselves celebrate the annual jamboree where the tradition is for inclusion, not the harsh exclusion ethos redolent of the street party’s barricades.
The camera panned to the clock tower of the Balmoral hotel for the countdown to the magical midnight hour, known to Scots everywhere as “The Bells”.

The Balmoral’s clock was widely known to run a few minutes fast. The hotel having formerly been a key part of, and owned by, the British railway network, its clock had long been deliberately set fast to encourage more haste from those rushing to catch a train at the Waverley station below; the few extra minutes a welcome relief to them as they successfully boarded the train. But with the eyes of the world watching, it had been reset to show the correct time for this special occasion.
Three! … Two! … One! The bells rang out and a loud cheer of “HAPPY NEW YEAR” resounded throughout Sondra’s flat. Pandemonium ensued. Everyone was hugging and kissing. Everyone was being hugged and kissed.

Guys headed for girls. Girls headed for guys. And in the general melee, for some in the spirit of the occasion it didn’t matter who as they embraced the Scots’ tradition of equality.

Through the windows, opened wide to invite the cold night air in to cool the stuffy heat in the flat, could be heard the blast of boats in the distant harbour sounding their hooters, competing with church bells from all directions of the compass to proclaim confirmation of the arrival of the New Year, and the renewed hope it brings.

Her foot pressed harder onto the accelerator, her Mini burned up the miles. Jill was eager for the turnoff, desperate to arrive at Longniddry.

First footing is an old Scots’ tradition and Jill was prepared. She’d known she would only do the courteous thing at Sondra’s party. Sondra had known it too and Jill reflected on how intuitive her special friend was.

In her bag Jill had secreted: a coin, some bread, salt, a small lump of coal, and a small bottle of Scottish nectar; malt whisky. This was more than most Scot’s now traditionally did but, unusually superstitiously for her, Jill was determined to cover all the bases; leave nothing to chance. She was symbolically bringing to the love of her life her hope that Mel should enjoy for the coming year: financial prosperity, food, flavour, warmth, and good cheer.

But most important of all, Jill was bringing … herself; and the start of their new future together.
 

_________________
Skull, "You are a police inspector, aren't you?"
Cab Inspector Smith, "Yes."
Skull, "So, are you going to tell Mr Taylor what his rights are?"
Smith, "And ... What rights?"

Oh aye, and you and all your mates are going to apply for tickets to stand with a lot of strangers, spilling in from local hotels.

It used to be you bought tickets for your pub or club, hit the Tron or went to a local party. Now you can't get bloody moving around the city center because of road closures.

Longshanks, I would even go so far as to say, the Edinburgh public, are being conned into paying for a party which is a complete waste of time and money. It was better before they made it an official party.

Although, with you being a council Uncle Tom, I doubt you will see it that way. I expect in your book even the Trams were a good idea.

Yes and No but mostly No..

The promotional brochures for the first properties built on the Waterfront bore a picture of a tram on them.

This was well before there was any public debate about Edinburgh building a tram.

I suggest that there was overt political corruption involved. That the reason why there was no referendum about trams, which should have happened because it was such a huge infrastructure undertaking (and I don't remember it figuring in any political manifesto), was because after the public sensibly binned the congestion charge proposal, the politicians knew they couldn't deliver on their promise of trams to developers if the public binned it.

Now from memory, scumbag council leader Anderson ended up as a "consultant". Shouldn't there be a public inquiry to reassure us that his new position, and remember he declared at an early point he was not going to seek election to the Scottish parliament - which suggests to me he was already working to a personal plan, was not the result of his political machinations on behalf of the tram project or other such projects that came within his field of influence.

Huge coincidence or what?

I smell a smelly rat. However, our system protects itself by refusing such inquiry. So I won't be holding my breath.

_________________
Skull, "You are a police inspector, aren't you?"
Cab Inspector Smith, "Yes."
Skull, "So, are you going to tell Mr Taylor what his rights are?"
Smith, "And ... What rights?"

Glasgow scrapped theirs last year too. Too expensive to run and just attracted drunken neds.

Well, that might explain why the Sunday Mail (I know. First time I've bought it this year. Honest.) gave the capital jamboree a two page spread today. And Jackie Bird telling us it'll make £32 million for the local economy.

Meanwhile cabbies will get the dubious reward of ripping off punters for 1 day, which they will resent, and we'll have to endure them telling us we're doubling our fares and how they don't usually use taxis. A resentment that will continue into the new year.

Perhaps its time to allocate regular users with a star rating which hovers just above their heads so we can readily identify them and save us the grief from the once a year wallies, who never tip and give us all the grief we don't need. After all, aren't they why "taxis-by-the-back-door", "benefitting-from-an-unequal-playing-ground" private hire exists?

And for its new year resolution, will the council ban the sale of alcohol in pubs and clubs and replace it with the calming grass, so we can all chill during the busy periods

_________________
Skull, "You are a police inspector, aren't you?"
Cab Inspector Smith, "Yes."
Skull, "So, are you going to tell Mr Taylor what his rights are?"
Smith, "And ... What rights?"

Changed the title, because a 3pm drive down George IV Bridge showed me that this councilis responsible for little more than the rape of our city.

No waiting bollards thrown down, for no real reason, and the parking fascist are ticketing hapless motorists.

Now the traffic system in Edinburgh is pants anyway, the junction of george and hanover is a case in point. It couldn't function other than to create traffic jams on it best day, and now with the rape of edinburgh, the council allows barricades to be installed 2 days before they're need, which narrows the road and creates the traffic jam that tails back all the way up George IV and beyond. These barricades are responsible for gridlock, and extra pollution from parked cars waiting in the council inspired traffic jam and reeking exhaust fumes on all.

Yet the barricades could easily be put in place at the last minute, say early morning on Hogmanay.

It is outrageous the the council allows this to happen to our city, and it is all caused by the pop concert in Princes Street. This could easily be relocated to the Queens Park or the meadows, and allow the rest of the city to function reasonably.

But fatuous Cardownie thinks its all justified because where else could you do it to the backdrop of the castle. Of course the castle was built to repel invaders, not so they could have a party below it. What part of history do councillors not get?

Glasgow binned their jamboree, because common sense prevailed. In Edinburgh it's gonna takwe a disaster for this ridiculous pop concert to be stopped.

_________________
Skull, "You are a police inspector, aren't you?"
Cab Inspector Smith, "Yes."
Skull, "So, are you going to tell Mr Taylor what his rights are?"
Smith, "And ... What rights?"

Did anyone ever tell you, you seem to have an unhealthy obsession with rape.

_________________

http://wingsoverscotland.com/ http://www.newsnetscotland.com/

Sorry, I should have known that an intellectual dwarf like you doesn't understand basic English.

_________________
Skull, "You are a police inspector, aren't you?"
Cab Inspector Smith, "Yes."
Skull, "So, are you going to tell Mr Taylor what his rights are?"
Smith, "And ... What rights?"

Anyone got a Bucket..I'm gonna chuck.

You also have an overinflated idea of your own importance.

Jasbar, legend in his own lunchtime.

_________________

http://wingsoverscotland.com/ http://www.newsnetscotland.com/

And I hope your sick sticks, and you're last gasping breath is painful.

Feckwit!

_________________
Skull, "You are a police inspector, aren't you?"
Cab Inspector Smith, "Yes."
Skull, "So, are you going to tell Mr Taylor what his rights are?"
Smith, "And ... What rights?"

Er no. But at least I'm not the mental pygmy you are.

We may both be inadequates. But the difference is that you wallow in your own inadequacy.

Take a look at all the rubbish you've posted about Independence?

None of it came from your single brain cell. It's all regurgitated shecht you've seized on because you have no real argument of your own.

Some SNP Sally Ann equivalent put a pamphlet in your face and you've swallowed it, spit it out and expect us to be as gullible as you are.

Gusmac, you make an Amoeba look like an intellectual giant.

Now feck off. Have the 2013 you deserve. rejoice in the fact that no one in Scotland will now be homeless. Your masters will find you a billet. You can put Herr salmond's piccy above your fireplace and ham shank over it to your hearts content.

And finally, you can rejoice in the fact that Herr salmond has RAPED your mind with his insidious propaganda.

BTW Rape is not a sexual crime. It is a crime of VIOLENCE. End of.

_________________
Skull, "You are a police inspector, aren't you?"
Cab Inspector Smith, "Yes."
Skull, "So, are you going to tell Mr Taylor what his rights are?"
Smith, "And ... What rights?"

Start the year as you finished your last Jim. So full of yourself, it beggars belief.
Same old "anyone who doesn't agree with me is some sort of gibbering retard" line.
That must be just about everyone by now.

Jim the genius cabby. Legend in your own mind. What a fekking to$$er.

You are just a sad and delusional old fool with a warped sense of your own importance.

Now you go forth and multiply, numpty.

_________________

http://wingsoverscotland.com/ http://www.newsnetscotland.com/

Hmmm...Isn't that last Jibe of yours bordering Hate Crime territory Jasbar?....you know the type that makes Certain people go running to the authorities! Gusmacs right..a Legend in your Own lunchtime...almost.