Thursday, 3 December 2009

Taxi Drivers

They're not my favourite people back in London. Especially black cab drivers; bunch of wankers, if ever there was one. I rejoice every time I hear a tale of someone throwing up in the back of one. In fact, I may sponsor bulimics to get off public transport and use Hackney Carriages more. Just a thought. A sick one, perhaps.

Deciding not use a bus to get back to Lima and my Rio De Janeiro flight, for fear of missing the bloody thing, I hailed a cab to take me to the airport to buy a ticket with the Peruvian version of Ryan Air. An amiable chap I later discovered to be 75 years old picked me up in a battered piece of shit a scrapyard dealer in Bermondsey would knock back with a disbelieving shake of the head. He laughed as the seatbelt came off in my hand, and off we went in a screech of tormented rubber and accompanying blue smoke. We got chatting; I judge my developing Spanish by how good a chat I can have with a Peruvian cabbie. The usual topics were covered, family, football and places you've been. He told me a little about Cusco and his children. As we sat idling at a set of lights, a creature Mother Nature spent longer than usual crafting sauntered across the road. I grinned, he drew breath sharply. As we set off again, he commented on the size of the girl's breasts. I casually mentioned I prefer the long legs and shapely rear. He smiled knowingly and asked me if I "liked it in the arse"? I took this moment to make a mental note of my surroundings and driver's description in case I was being taken to the kind of back-street bar I'd usually care to avoid. I casually told him I wasn't fussed either way. He roared with laughter and told me, as incredulously as if I'd said I'd never heard of Machu Picchu "But this is the best thing about Peru...the girls are the best in the world, because they love to get fucked in the arse!"

I know a Welshman in Southwest London who'll likely be on the next plane out of Heathrow.

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