Why London cabbies are the best in the world

Saturday, May 10, 2008 at 7:28pm

It’s 11pm on a Monday night; four of us are being driven through the sterile, empty streets of Santa Ana, Orange County. I’m sitting next to a supersized taxi driver. We’ve just got off a plane from London, and are hoping for a bite to eat and a couple of beers at a karaoke bar I'd found on t'internet. Not exactly a shock for those of you who know me - food, beers and karaoke are just about my favourite things in the whole world. Our driver, just having swept the many, many empty takeaway containers off his passenger seat to allow me to sit down, looks at me and politely asks: “Where are you guys from?”“England” I hesitantly offer in response. “Ah you’re British!” he shrieks. “If it wasn’t for you guys, we wouldn’t be here!” Quite. Next he tells the stunned passengers of the car that he can’t tell the difference between our accent and that of those people from Australian or New Zealand, with a high-pitched chuckle, not unlike Chief Piggum from The Simpsons. “Oh, and you don’t want to go to that karaoke place – it’s a gay bar. Go this other bar - actually, ah shoot - it might be shut due to that violence last week. Why don't I take you to some really good titty bars instead or find you some cheap, but very high-class hookers?" Not that anything we’d said could have been remotely translated into “Take us to see naked women, kind sir! And step on it,” you understand. It slowly dawned on me that this guy was either just simple or he'd be getting a tidy commission from any of the places he'd take us to. Suddenly all we want to do is find a takeaway and go back to the safety of our hotel as quickly as possible. “I know a good place. All the locals go there, it’s open 24 hours and you can get a good feed for under $20. I’ll take you there.”

So we pulled up in front of a local place called Norms. Out of the roadside eatery choice of Wendys, McDonalds, Taco Bell, this really wasn’t ever going to come top of the pile. I really don’t know how to describe this place; I was too shocked for words. Needless to say we didn’t really fancy it and had to struggle to find a cab back after walking, hungry around this shell of a town for about forty minutes. We cheered when we found a Subway. The lights were on, but it was shut. It was officially the worst night ever on a press trip. Next day, we went off to Laguna Beach, and were driven by cab by a friendly Vietnamese chap. At first he seemed like the nicest guy in the world, really chatty. He even recognised our accents, and said he knew England well, which I believed; his grasp of the language was perfect.

It was a beautiful sunny day in the OC, and as we pulled out of Santa Ana, I felt relaxed and at peace with the world. That was until he pulled onto the freeway, and decided to let rip, swerving out of the path of pickup trucks at the last minute and howling with laughter. It was like being in a cartoon. So after I arrived back in England, hailed a black cab and heard the immortal words, “where to guv?” I knew in my heart he’d know where he was going. I even joyfully indulged in small talk about the weather.