Here are twelve more extracts from Bad Uber, written by former Uber driver Charles Brickfield. The book tracks the events of his first 50 days as a novice minicab driver in London.

1.

I start pushing her harder. ‘Can you hear me? You need to wake up now!’

‘How are you doing back there?’ I ask the brunette as we start out for North London.

She mumbles; she’s talking incomprehensively to herself – she’s drunker than I thought but I don’t get the sense she’s going to throw up.

‘There’s a bottle of water in the car door if you want it,’ I say.

She doesn’t respond; she just lies down across the seats and falls asleep.

Her phone starts tinging insistently half way – it’s the WhatsApp ‘ting’.

‘Are you ok?’ ‘Why aren’t you responding?’ ‘What’s that dirty driver doing to you?!’

Then the calls start.

‘Your phone is ringing,’ I say.

It keeps ringing on and off but she’s dead to the world.

It’s a quick journey because the traffic is flowing at this hour. I pull into the crescent in front of the hotel lobby.

‘Ok, you’re here now,’ I say, but she doesn’t stir.

I get out and open the back door.

‘Hello?! You’re here now! Can you hear me? Can you wake up, please?’

The cold air blowing in still doesn’t wake her. I look into the hotel through the big glass doors and see the reception desk is unmanned.

I rock her shoulder.

‘Hello?!’

I start pushing her harder.

‘Can you hear me? You need to wake up now! Hello?! We’re at your hotel!’

It’s no good though, she won’t wake up. I open the other rear door hoping a chill wind will bring her round.

Another driver pulls in behind me and I beckon him over to help. He comes to stand with me and we both look at her.

‘What should I do?’ I ask.

‘Have you left the fare running?’

‘No.’

‘Then you need to get her out. I’d get the receptionist to help if I was you.’

She suddenly comes to – she’s just drunk and tired, as I thought; she’s bewildered and drowsy. The other driver goes back to his luxury car and she sits up.

‘Hello. Are you ok?’ She looks around at her new set of circumstances. ‘We’re at your hotel. Your friend has been calling you. You need to let her know that you’re ok.’

She can still type, apparently, but she can’t speak. She sends a message to her friend and then sits there, mute, full of sleep, with bed-hair.

‘Ok, do you mind getting out of the car now?’ I ask.

She manages to stand up and stagger out, still disorientated. I have my arm open with my hand held flat, guiding her towards the steps up to the reception. She goes to hug me and I step back – not wanting to be accused of anything – and I have to catch her instead and prop her back up again. Perhaps she doesn’t realise that I’m her driver.

2.

My sweat patches grow on my grey shirt.

I pick up from a fancy house near Warwick Avenue. I start the fare and screw up almost immediately, missing the turning onto the Westway. It only adds a minute or two but it makes me look like a real novice – I know I am a real novice, but I don’t want to look like one.

‘I’m sorry about that.’

‘About what?’

‘Taking the wrong exit.’

‘Oh, have you?’

‘My sat-nav was slow updating. I’ll turn around when I can and I’ll stop the fare early.’

‘Ok.’

I sweat because I’ve got it wrong. I sweat too because my car smells of the cheap deodorant which I had a quick spray of just before she got in. She’s a pretty thirty-something who hardly speaks – that makes me sweat even more, because I don’t know if she’s annoyed or not. I’m paranoid about it; it’s a vicious cycle, sweating about sweating. I work hard at being alert to everything and my sweat patches grow on my grey shirt.

I’m developing a routine of polite chat at the start, then allowing clients to have some quiet time in the middle unless they instigate more chat, followed by some brief chat at the end to make it all seem seamless. We chat about her friend’s jewellery party towards the end and I realise she’s a bit older than I thought. I wish I’d known that from the start because there’s a different dynamic with older women – they’re more likely to pity my poor hygiene than to judge it.

I drive back into town with the car window wide open to a cold wind, trying to dry out. It seems that my air-conditioning can cope with condensation but not this level of perspiration. I’m also desperate to pee so it’s the perfect opportunity to drop round to my girlfriend’s house in Brixton!

She seeks out one of her white printed t-shirts as a base layer whilst I use her hairdryer on the pits of my cheap polyester shirt. I spray up with her antiperspirant and I feel fresh to go again – girls’ antiperspirant is the right touch for the car. I’m still waiting for some Febreze car air-freshener to come through the post which clips onto the blowers – that’s probably what got me thinking about sweat in the first place.

3.

Where is Harrods? Is it on Oxford Street?

I drive across the bridge and pick up a Russian woman from the King’s Road.

‘To Harrods, please.’

It seems a bit late to go shopping but I guess she knows what she’s doing.

‘I’ll just type that into my sat-nav, if that’s ok with you.’

‘Just go up Fulham Road and take a right.’

‘I’d prefer to make sure I get the route right from the start,’ I say, ‘in case there’s traffic.’

Where is Harrods? Is it on Oxford Street? There are a lot of shops on Oxford Street so that seems plausible.

‘Just take this left here,’ she says, ‘and then a right at the top. I’m already late.’

I drive on, frustratingly catching a couple of greens before getting the red which allows me to type ‘Harrods’ into the sat-nav.

I give her an update: ‘According to Tomtom, it’s about a mile and a half away. We should be there in eight minutes.’

‘Ok. Do you mind if I just get out here?’

‘Not at all.’

She dashes out and straight up Lancelot Place; strange girl. I turn back around and spy a big glittering palace of a shop to my right. On the corner, writ large in lights, it says ‘HARRODS’. Harrods is in Knightsbridge! If Knightsbridge had an Aldi then I reckon I would’ve known where that was.

4.

‘Stop hiding away in this car! Come out of the closet.’

I flick through the radio stations to avoid the DJ chit-chat and settle briefly on XFM until they play the Kasabian track they’re hawking at the moment. I flick around again and get a Madonna tune. I’m in a buoyant mood from the fares I’ve taken tonight and the radio is still on loud.

‘I’m down on my knees, I wanna take you there. In the midnight hour I can feel your power!’

‘You like Madonna,’ he says.

‘Yeah, I love Madonna! Sorry, I didn’t mean to force you to listen to it. Do you want me to put XFM back on?’

‘Nobody ever chooses to listen to Kasabian! That’s just what XFM want you to listen to.’

I laugh, ‘That’s exactly what I think!’

‘I’m a big fan of Madonna. Crank it up, why don’t you?’

‘I love pop music,’ I say, notching it up. ‘It’s a real blessing to like pop music in this job.’

‘Why’s that?’

‘Well it’s always on, like on Magic FM, and most people like it so you’ve got to abide it.’

‘You wouldn’t want to offend anyone now, would you?’

‘I’m a pretty tolerant guy.’

‘We’re the same, hey, me and you?’

‘I guess so,’ I say. ‘So here we are.’

‘Here we are, indeed.’

It’s only a couple of miles. I stop the fare, push the handbrake button, unlock the doors and thank him – the same procedure as every job – but he doesn’t get out.

I look at him.

‘Fancy a blowjob?’ he asks.

Pow! Pow! What the fuck is happening at the moment? What the fuck?! He laughs like he’s in control.

‘—I’m just putting it out there, man. I figure we’re on the same page.’ Fucking hell!

‘You’ve got me wrong there, mate.’ ‘Mate’ sounds manly.

He gives me a condescending little laugh, ‘I don’t think I have. Listen, none of my mates know either.’

‘Err, it’s just not my thing. I’ve got a girlfriend, thanks.’

‘Pah! Girlfriend! What does that mean? I’ve had plenty of girlfriends – who hasn’t? But it’s just not the same as having a gob full of cock, is it? Come on, stop hiding away in this car! Come out of the closet. Everyone’s bi these days. Welcome to London!’

I don’t feel intimidated. I don’t even feel like I’m being harassed at work – it’s just a case of crossed wires. He’s not an aggressive guy – he’s just had a few to drink.

I take a deep breath, ready to speak but he gets out before I can think of the right thing to say.

‘Suit yourself,’ he says.

And he’s out. That’s that. I drive on, shaking, feeling weak. That’s probably just a sugar low. I want to go home. Fucking hell, I think. That’s all I can think really.

5.

I don’t give enough of a shit about these people to help them further.

What are they? Models? I think one is Russian. They’re young and they’re not much fun. I pick them up from Sloaney Way and drop them off at a club on the Emmet Road. The Russian spends the first five minutes telling her boyfriend off on the phone, shouting at him about how she won’t accept him shouting at her. What a relationship! Some people are too young and too pretty to be able to laugh at themselves.

Piccadilly is queued back up to The Ritz as we get to Green Park, two miles into a two-and-a-half mile journey. I want them to get out so I can do a youie and leave this miserable traffic behind.

‘You know, girls, if you get out here then you’ll save yourselves some time and money by taking a tube to Piccadilly Circus.’

‘I don’t think so, driver. We’ll stay in the car.’

I guess they can’t walk far in their heels and I doubt their legs would have the muscles for it either. We sit in traffic on Piccadilly for half an hour – it’s a boring way to earn a pittance.

I don’t know exactly where their club is and neither do they because the number they’ve given me is down a one-way street with no club in sight. I drop them off there anyway, telling them we must have just passed the club. I’m not convinced by my own explanation but it would be another world of pain to try and get back round through Piccadilly Circus now – I don’t give enough of a shit about these people to help them further. I see them abandoned in their tight dresses and stilettos in my side mirror, clutching their expensive purses and their phones. A forty minute trip has come to £13.

6.

‘Yeah, Mr Beaver, why are you beavering around?’

The next lift is £5 and tops off a miserable £5 hour. Central London has surged and I’ve taken £5 in fares, yet I’m still not caving in – I’ve still not managed to get that lift back to South London.

The next is my final job, taking four girls home from a club in Tottenham Court Road.

‘So, Charles, have you got a girlfriend?’

‘What does she think about you driving girls like us around, Charles?’

‘Aren’t you a lucky boy, Charles, driving all us girls home at six in the morning?’

‘I bet it’s time you stopped up for the night, isn’t it, Charles?’

‘Yeah, Mr Beaver, why are you beavering around?’

‘Do you mind turning your volume down a little?’ I ask the girl sitting next to me. They’ve been in a club and their ears are fucked.

‘Do you think I’m too loud, Charles?’

‘Ah, poor Charles, are you finding it hard to concentrate?’

‘What about if I use my loud voice, LIKE THIS? IS THIS TOO LOUD FOR YOU, CHARLES?’

Cackles.

We arrive at their shitty deserted street full of shitty two-up-two-downs in shitty Leytonstone and she slams my shitty passenger door shut with force. Leytonstone is out towards Essex and is actually the perfect place for a taxi driver to live, it’s just not easy to rationalise that when you’ve been driving for ten hours and you’re still sixteen miles from home.

I’m dog-tired. I physically can’t drive any more people home. I take the A12 towards the Blackwall Tunnel which turns out to be closed off southbound for road-works. I don’t even have the energy to be angry about the extra twenty minutes that adds to my drive home. I drive west along the A13 and get stuck in traffic queues as the Sunday morning workers of London are back on the roads. I pushed it too far tonight. I find it difficult to turn down work.

LINK TO THE EBOOK – £2.04

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7.

‘You can’t just play at being a taxi driver, you know?’

‘Drive up to the Harrow Road and turn right,’ she says.

She’s middle-aged and she’s had a bottle of wine or two round her friend’s.

‘Is it far?’

‘Don’t you know where the Harrow Road is? How do you get about if you don’t know where the Harrow Road is?’

‘This isn’t my neck of the woods.’

‘What are you doing here then?’

‘As an Uber driver, we drive all over London. We pick up from where we leave off.’

‘It seems strange to me that you don’t know where the Harrow Road is. I’d say most people know where the Harrow Road is, and most people don’t drive for a living.’

‘Is it far?’ I ask again. ‘If it’s far then I’d prefer to take a postcode.’

‘It’s not far! God, it’s only up the road. Don’t worry, I’ll direct you. It’s left here, then right, then left again,’ she says, ‘—no! Not this left! That’s not a proper road, is it?’

‘No. Sorry.’ I jolt to a stop, reverse up a little and carry on. ‘So it’s up here, then left.’

‘That’s what I said, isn’t it? Left here, then right, then left. Ok?’

It would be easier with a postcode.

‘I’ll tell you somefink about Uber,’ she says. ‘Why are you charging 2.5 on the weekend? I’m not being funny or anyfing, but people are soon going to get fed up with that, you know, if you’re just gonna double your prices when it suits you.’

‘Well, a surge-price only exists when there aren’t many cars around.’

‘Other cab companies have come and gone, you know? The same is going to happen to you if you don’t stop doing the 2.5 charge. And when you want a cab you can’t get one for love nor money neiver. That’s no good, is it? Why aren’t Uber making their drivers come out on a Saturday night? That’s when you should work.’

‘We’re all self-employed. There are thousands of us and we generally do come out when it’s busy.’

‘Well I’ll tell you somefink, you’re nice drivers at Uber but you’ll go out of business if you’re only gonna choose the easy shifts and you don’t bover coming out on a Saturday night. You can’t just play at being a taxi driver, you know?’

8.

I’m in Shoreditch and things are getting messy.

I’m in Shoreditch and things are getting messy. There are pissheads all over the place and it’s started raining. The pick-up point is going to be tricky so I call her in advance. I want to tell her to get ready to jump in but her phone’s engaged. I drive past the junction and do another infamous youie to make a second sweep.

A woman is walking boldly out into the street, trying to hail me. I guess she must be my passenger. There’s no time to faff. I unlock the doors and she doesn’t need to be invited in, but a guy behind her is stopping the front passenger door from closing. He’s shouting in at her.

‘This is my car! What are you doing?! This is my car! This is my car!’

He must think she’s jumped the queue. I best check I’ve got the right girl though.

‘Calm it down, hey, mate? I’m going to check I’ve got the right person.’ I address her, ‘Can you just tell me what your name is?’

‘Hannah.’

‘Hannah? With an ‘H’?’

‘Hannah.’

‘Not ‘Anna’ then?’

‘It’s Hannah!’

The guy outside is shouting my number plate at me despite not being in a position to see it.

‘Your number is B-J-6-3! My girlfriend is called Anna! She’s booked it for me. Your name is Charles. This is my car!’

He is my passenger! It may seem like chivalry is dead, but he’s simply not in a position to offer his girlfriend’s account to a stranger.

‘You have to get out, I’m afraid. This car is booked under ‘Anna’.’

‘What am I going to do then?’

‘Get out! You’ve got to get out!’ my guy shouts in at her, and I just nod sympathetically.

That’s tough titties for her. It’s particularly unfortunate because there’s a fight kicking off on the pavement directly behind the guy trying to get in. The slightly more sober girl steps out into the path of the flying fists and the falling rain whilst my pissed guy replaces her. Shoreditch is a playground for pissed people though, so at least there are emergency services around if things do go badly wrong for her.

9.

‘There should be a topless taxi driver service.’

Past London Bridge we really get moving and I get distracted by the saucy conversation.

‘We should have gone to a titty bar,’ says one of the women. ‘Why do you have to choose between going to a titty bar and taking a taxi home?’

‘It’s an indictment of the city that titty bars are actually cheaper than taxis,’ her friend says.

‘Well, I wouldn’t have minded going to a titty bar. I don’t mind looking at girls’ jubblies. In fact, I think it’s quite sexy.’

‘There should be a topless taxi driver service so that people don’t have to choose,’ the guy suggests. ‘That’d kill two birds with one stone!’

‘What type of birds? A pair of blues tits?’

‘Bearded tits!’

‘No, that’d be no good. We’d never get home then!’

‘Take me home the longest route you can!’ he says. ‘What do you think, driver?’

‘I think you’re trying to put me out of work.’

‘Well, you could always get some implants.’

‘Could I offset them against tax?’

‘If you didn’t want to get implants then you’d still have your UberX and Uber Exec and all that – you’d just have an extra category: UberXXX.’

‘I’ve got a name for it,’ says one of the girls. ‘Wait for it, it’s good… Boober!’

10.

‘Learn where Rotherhithe Tunnel is – you fuckwit!’

Despite my concerns, my recent rating is 4.96 according to my online account. For a guy who doesn’t know his Royal Arsenal from his Wapping Wick, that’s phenomenal!

I’m convinced the secret to my high rating is in the emotional labour I do – I enjoy chatting with passengers. It’s easy. ‘Have you had a good night?’ kicks it off nicely, and then because you’re not looking at them it seems like you’re just having a chat on the phone. I heard on Thinking Allowed that the profession which tops the surveys in job satisfaction time and again is hairdressing because they get to chat. I’d be the first to sign up if there was ever an UBarBer app! £2 for a skinhead, £4 for a basin, £6 for tramlines; no tips and free prophylactics.

Uber’s weekly feedback email gives me some information:

You received 89 five-star reviews out of 95 rated trips in the past two weeks. We wanted to share what some of these riders had to say. ‘Lovely!!!’ ‘Very efficient’ ‘best drive ever’ ‘Great Guy!’

That cheers me up. I’m glad they never share the negative comments with you:

‘no water 😦 ’ ‘Learn where Rotherhithe Tunnel is – you fuckwit!’ ‘He urinated on my gnome!!’ ‘We want Ahmed back’

11.

A quarter of my requests have taken me to the wrong start location.

I’m being generous to Uber to say that a quarter of my requests in the past couple of weeks have taken me to the wrong start location. Sometimes it’s just a street out and often it’s half a mile away. I arrive at one pick-up point down a deserted back street, underneath a brick-arched tunnel with the tracks to London Bridge above. I call straight away, thinking it’s an improbable pick-up point given all the pubs and restaurants round the corner on Bermondsey Street.

‘I’m on Barnham Street,’ I say. ‘Are you on Barnham Street?’

‘I don’t know. Can you see St Paul’s?’ he asks.

‘St Pauls?! The cathedral? No. Which side of the river are you on?’

‘I’m right by St Pauls,’ he says.

‘North of the river?!’

That’s at least a mile away so I apologise and cancel. The worst case I ever have is yet to happen; it takes me to a pick-up point south of the river in Tulse Hill when the guy is waiting in Shoreditch – that’s eight miles away from my client!

12.

‘The Uber ‘suckers’ all want to be the nearest car to the shortest cigarette.’

It’s getting late but I’m persisting. I keep driving near to potential rich sources of jobs, up past the few clubs which are still open down King’s Road. They have bulging barriers around the front, penning in the cool smokers. The young people of Chelsea tend to be experienced users of Uber, but the Johnny Cabs are already huddled around each venue. These are the Uber ‘suckers’ who all want to be the nearest car to the shortest cigarette. I could be subversive and take my phone into a bar to jump the Uber queue, to become a shark in Sloane Square fish-tank, but competing with the suckers isn’t my strategy – I ride free.

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