by John Healy
I drove Miss Collins to her London home with very little conversation but I did tell her that the famous Vincent Price (1911–1993) once lived opposite her, and that I was his television engineer at one time. I remember I was quite anxious as I rang the Price household bell, hoping he was not home as I had recently watched one of his scary movies called House of Wax. But in fact I was delighted when he came to the door with a big smile. After all, he was only acting in all those scary films and when I met him he was a lamb, and married to the actress Coral Brown.
* * *
In 1981, just before the Falklands war, I paid regular television visits to a Naval commander. I think he was an Argentine Naval Attaché to this country. I became quite friendly with this man, his wife and their beautiful young daughter. I don’t know why he befriended me, I could hardly understand what he was saying and I certainly could not pronounce his long name. He sent a few presents to my family, and I never left his Sloane Street flat without an expensive bottle of Napoleon brandy.
After six months had elapsed, he and his family were suddenly recalled to Argentina, which must have had something to do with the surprise attack on the Falkland Islands. I later spoke to the doorman of the flats in question, who said the family had departed in a hurry. The day before they left, our Navy man told the porter that Denis Thatcher had acquired shares in oil fields just off the coast of the Falkland Islands. It makes one wonder, was there something going on behind the scenes? Did we go to war to protect the islanders or was it to protect the oil? I have often wondered about that Naval commander customer of mine, was he ever on the Belgrano and did he survive that awful war, or did he just do a runner?
* * *
Before I finish my little tale, I have to admit that I was once overtaken by a four-poster bed on the motorway, complete with blankets, sheets, and pillows. The ‘vehicle’ had four wheels, an engine, lights, number plates and was fully licensed to be on the road. (See photo in plate section.)
The bed was doing sixty mph and it’s a bit embarrassing to admit that it was going faster than my brand new taxi. I assume the bed was on its way to Bedfordshire...
* * *
I now spend my evenings singing and dancing in an extremely friendly working man’s premises in south west London called the Tooting Progressive Club. This club is very proud of its unique juke box that contains over 3,000 song titles, a great pool table, and brilliantly friendly staff.
I also spend an equal amount of time next door in a highly entertaining and, may I say, non ‘plastic’ Irish pub called The Ramble Inn in Tooting. What a watering hole! This inn entertains with open mic nights, poker nights, quiz nights and on a Sunday night one can hear fantastic traditional live Irish music. Of course, spontaneous singing is any night. The bar staff are quite unique, especially Eamon, the world’s greatest barman.
I love doing nothing now and there’s so much nothing to be done that I have no time on my hands at all!
* * *
Remembering all the famous names and places, the incidents and accidents, the ordinary and the extraordinary, over fifty-five years of working in London, is a pretty big task for anyone. In this book I hope I have recalled most of the more exciting parts of my life, both as a cabbie and as a television engineer. Re-creating my mythical cab journey around London where I revisited those memories, I realised just how interesting my working life had been. After all, how many people can say that they have met Tom Jones, John Mills, Barry Gibb and Joan Collins, to say nothing of all the other famous people who crossed my path? Be lucky, as they say in the cab trade. I know I have been.
Acknowledgements
I must offer sincere thanks to my great friend Angie Smith for her non-stop encouragement to finish this book. Without her, it may have fallen by the wayside. My lovely family were also involved in progressing these quickly fading memoirs.
The late Kenneth Williams.
The great George Best.
Frank Carson, “It’s the way I tell ’em„.
The site where WPC Yvonne Fletcher was murdered.
George Melly, flamboyant jazz man.
The black spot on the number 2 marks the time when the axe fell on King Charles I.
The smallest police station in the UK.
Monument to animals in war.
Lost property: a steaming iron left on a bus in 1934.
Plaque to Thomas Lord, Lord’s cricket groundsman.
The Sherlock Holmes Museum, 221b Baker Street.
Jean Alexander, who played Hilda Ogden in Coronation Street.
Ken Livingstone, former Lord Mayor of London.
The famous Charlton Heston and wife at my cab window.
Richard Harris, actor.
Site of the Tyburn hanging tree.
The very dead Jeremy Bentham.
My taxi being overtaken by a motorised bed.
The Porters Rest, Picadilly.
The Author, age eleven.
The Author with his bundle of twins, a long time ago.
