Rickshaw?

Another way to get home after a well beveraged evening is to take a tuk-tuk. At least, I think that’s what they’re called. Maybe it's a rickshaw? The West End of London is crawling of a weekend evening with handfuls of shouty men calling to passers-by to see if they need a cycle-cab to take them anywhere. They seem to mostly be empty as the pedal around, with the occasional amused tourists jiggling around with the bumps in the road.

I had met an old friend after work on a Friday for a catch up. We were meant to be joined by a number of others, but in the end were ostracised like two old losers, perfectly content in each other’s company. She had been on it since four, working in a slightly more liberal and celebratory office, but I soon caught up. In Soho, we stopped briefly at a pub, where she got us a drink each. “Two sambuca shots,” she said to the barman as my jaw hit the floor.

In another pub, the surly pint-puller was not impressed at our handing over ten pounds with, “Get us anything you like.”

“Yeah, but what do you like?” he barked.

“Anything!” We ended up with two vodka and cokes.

In a swanky gay bar, I shelled out for expensive cocktails and then was determined to rely on youthful good looks to get the next two for nothing. Back at the bar, I slurred, “I want two more drinks but I don’t want to pay for them.” A very obliging barman without any sleeves told me to sit down before canvassing the clientele on their willingness to get our drinks in, before ending up covering our costs himself.

And all this before climbing into Mohamed’s tut-tut. Mohamed was from Kurdistan and became our best friend for the journey from the bottom of Soho to Tottenham Court Road. I kept asking if he couldn’t take us as far as Belsize Park but it seemed he was not keen to sweat through the ascent to Hampstead. Nevertheless, it seemed to take ages. I remember poking my head out the rain covers on Regents Street and caterwauling at others that I had been kidnapped. Eventually, my bladder took over and Mohamed made a pit-stop while I went to find a lavatory. I vaguely remember popping into a closing restaurant and asking to use their facilities in my most polite tone. Their point-blank refusal was met with me spying a sign to the toilets and following it down a subterranean staircase. But then I found myself standing in the middle of their kitchens. The doorstaff found me and told me that if I didn’t leave, they would call the police. I saw no downside to my mischief: “That’s fine,” I said, “But can I use your toilet first?” I was shoved out the door and only returned to the tut-tut after finding a pissoir outside.

Mohamed eventually managed to deposit us at our destination. Later, we were worried we hadn’t paid him, but a credit card statement revealed we had, which led us both to remark how impressed we were these contraptions have EFTPOS abilities. At the night bus-stop, another Londoner came to our aid, after spotting our difficulty working out which number to take home: a tramp with a Mohican and a ghetto blaster. Our gratitude was repaid by sharing our journey with him and sitting at the front of the upstairs on the N5, singing along and aloud to his tunes and also trying to encourage the other passengers to join in, which they, understandably, mostly refused. The next morning, we were thoroughly ashamed of our behaviour and relieved not to find the tramp under the bed. I have since seen him looking after rats in some shrubbery by the Royal Free Hospital: perhaps a vision of myself in future years…