The streets of Dublin may be known to come alive at night, but it takes 12 hours in a taxi to understand the racism, rage and vomit that churn up the city
WHEN YOU’RE driving a taxi, you don’t have to wait long to hear something racist. I’m sitting at the end of a taxi rank with taxi driver Brian Herron when a well-dressed woman with shopping bags ignores the first three cars and comes straight to Brian’s car at the end.
“There are three cars ahead of me there, pet,” says Herron. “I don’t want to get into those cars,” she says. “Okay,” says Herron. “There’s a journalist from The Irish Times travelling with me tonight, is that okay?” “That’s fine,” she says, before clambering in and directing us to Blackrock.
“Do you mind me asking why you didn’t get into the other cars?” Herron asks when we’re a little way down Nassau Street. She hesitates for barely a second. “They were coloured. I’m not racist but I don’t feel safe with a coloured driver.”
“You just know you’re about to hear something special,” says Herron, after we drop her off, “when someone begins a sentence with ‘I’m not racist but . . .’”
Herron is good company and an interesting life. He acts, does a bit of undersea photography, volunteers with River Rescue and teaches diving. And he’s also a proud taxi driver of 20 years standing. After picking up another fare at a rank on St Stephen’s Green – a young couple going to the O2 – we head out to “The Kesh”, where Herron usually starts his evenings.
7.15pm
The Kesh is the holding area at Dublin Airport where the taxis have to wait before being let up to the ranks at Terminal one or two. It’s nicknamed The Kesh because of the fences around it – “like Long Kesh!” When we drive in, a device on the gate makes a beeping sound as it takes Herron’s number. Then, along with around 144 taxis, we wait for our turn to be announced on the big electronic board at the end of the compound.
“It’ll take a couple of hours,” he says, so we go into the canteen where taxi men – overwhelmingly, but not entirely, middle-aged and white – sit chatting, playing cards or staring at the television in the corner. “I like to come out here,” he says. “Because you know what you’re getting out here. I’d know 90 per cent of them and they’d know me. On a taxi rank I know absolutely none of them.”
The distinction between veterans and newcomers to the industry is a controversial issue. Sometimes it’s framed in terms of simple etiquette and manners. “There’s a difference between a taxi driver and a taxi man,” explains one man. “A taxi man will go out of his way to get you home safely. A taxi driver is all about ‘give me the money’.”
However, if you heard a hint of a foreign accent in that impression of a taxi driver, you’re not mistaken. For a couple of the drivers here, it’s not so much “I’m not racist but . . .” it’s “I am racist and . . .” One man, on hearing I’m a journalist, announces: “You can quote me on this: I hate niggers.”
It’s not long after 7pm and I’ve already met racist passengers and racist taxi men. It makes me wonder how difficult life must be for black drivers. Herron, who does not have racist opinions, is embarrassed by all this. For him and most others I meet, the problems of taxi drivers has nothing to do with race. “The fact is,” says Herron’s friend Johnny later that evening, “it doesn’t matter if they’re from Darndale or Darfur, the Congo or Crumlin; the problem isn’t where people are from, it’s that there are too many taxis.”
8.30pm (Still at The Kesh)
According to the taxi men, newcomers to the trade, whether black or white, don’t respect the rules, they cut in ahead of people, they operate unofficial ranks, they also have full-time jobs such as teaching – Herron talks about seeing people correcting copies in their cabs – or are on social welfare. But most importantly, there are just too many of them. Since deregulation, the number of taxis in the city on a weekend night is well over 10,000. Taxi men can’t compete anymore, they say.
“We’re all looking for the ‘big one’,” says a man called Jack the Nut. “The that means the night is worthwhile. And that’s all we talk about. In the old days, we’d talk about everything – golf, whatever. Nobody has time for hobbies anymore. We work seven days a week.”
“Why’s he called Jack the Nut?” I ask Herron, as Jack is called away. “Because he’s a nut,” he says, as though I’m a bit slow.
There are lots of nicknames in the canteen. “Jack the Hand’s not out tonight, is he?” asks someone. “The Paw?” says Herron. “He’s about . . . I saw him earlier.”
And there’s a lot of dark-edged humour. “Why are we here?” sighs an ex-fisherman called Seán to an acquaintance as he passes. “Because we’re not all there,” says his friend. “Because we’re not all there.”
Herron is a born taxi man. His father and grandfather were taxi men. He has the same taxi number as his grandfather. “When I have to give my number to officials they think I’ve made a mistake,” he says. “They say there aren’t enough digits in it . . . It was a very good job in the old days. You’d know a taxi driver’s house because it was the best kept on the street . . . My dad would meet really interesting people. He drove Richard Burton around once. And he had the same deal with me as I had with my kids: any coins found in the back are for the kids, any notes found are for the driver!”
9.30pm
When our number comes up we find ourselves taking a man and his son to Collins Avenue. Then, after another wait at The Kesh (in the car this time as the canteen has closed for the evening), we take a couple returning from a French skiing holiday to the Phoenix Park. Afterwards, on the Navan Road, we bring an electrician to A&E to see an electrocuted colleague.
11.25pm
Herron is eager to show me what town is like. As we weave through the city, we see fighting couples, animal-themed hen parties (“sexy” kittens and then later “sexy” bunnies), a drunk man with his trousers around his ankles and, more imaginatively, a goth girl who actually pirouettes across the road towards Capel Street bridge. “People sometimes just walk straight out in front of you,” sighs Herron, who doesn’t drink himself.
He shows me the illegal ranks in the side streets off Dawson Street and at the end of Grafton Street, where less ethical drivers try to poach passengers from those on the legitimate ranks. Nobody hails us for an hour-and-a-half.
1.10am
Two young women frantically flag us down at the top of Harcourt Street. The blonde girl asks to go to a southern suburb. “Her ‘friend’ came out with us and the bitch stole my f***ing handbag and jacket.” “She’s usually alright!” protests her dark haired friend. “Well, tonight she was a f***ing bitch, so we’re going back to her house to get my handbag,” she tells us. “I should kick her head in,” she adds. “Ah don’t,” says her friend.
For the whole journey the blonde girl talks about what a "bitch" the "thief" is. I get nervous, imagining myself in a Garda station filling out a witness report. Herron is preternaturally calm. At one point he gently sings along to Up Where We Belongby Jennifer Warnes as the girls bicker in the back seat. When we arrive at the house, the blonde girl storms up to the door and begins an argument with someone in pyjamas. The dark haired girl, still in the car, starts asking me casual questions about journalism. "Is it hard to get into?" she asks. The shouting gets louder. "I work for the bank myself," she says, as though nothing weird is happening.
Ten minutes later the blonde girl is in the back of the car with her handbag and a big grin on her face. “The fat bitch was fast asleep but I got it!” “To Clondalkin now, please,” says the dark haired girl. At the news of this long journey, Herron’s face is impassive, but his eyes widen ever so slightly. This, I assume, is taxi man code for ka-ching.
After we drop them off, I tell Herron that I found the whole episode a bit worrying. “You should never get involved,” he says. “I bite my tongue a lot. If they’ve had a bad night and are in a bad mood, who do they take it out on? The last person they see. That’s usually the taxi driver.”
A couple of years ago two guys beat him up and took his car. He also has bite marks on his arm from a time he was attacked by a guy who didn’t want to pay his fare. “And you get oddballs,” he says. “Fellas who sit beside you and say at the end ‘Yer man’ll pay’ . And there’s nobody else in the cab.”
2.10am
Herron derives his own sanity from his mates. Throughout the night they keep in touch by phone and they have a standing appointment for coffee at the Spar on Baggot Street at 2am. When Willie and Johnny slide into the back of Herron’s car with their coffees and chocolate bars, the first thing they do is start teasing him about his neat shirt and slacks. “He told me he dresses like that every night,” I say. Johnny nearly spills his coffee laughing. Herron, it seems, usually wears T-shirts. It also turns out that Herron has a nickname. “We call him Bag of Heads,” says Johnny. “He drives a taxi, he plays guitar, he does some acting, he dives . . . so Bag of Heads!”
They start comparing earnings. Thanks to over €40 from the Clondalkin girls, Herron is doing best with about €120. Johnny has €90 and Willie only has €67. “But I need more money for hair products than you!” says Johnny to Herron, who’s bald.
They all love their job. “But if I was to meet you at a function the last thing I’d say I was was a taxi driver,” says Johnny.
3.30am
Back on Harcourt Street, there are two lanes of taxis and four gardaí trying to manage them. People are spilling drunkenly from the clubs. There’s yelling, a piggyback race, and four well-dressed young men are crooning at girls as though they’re in a boyband. “Would you be the one for meee!” they caterwaul as one girl struggles by them into a taxi ahead of us.
We pick up three middle-aged ladies from the Rathmines and Rathgar Musical Society who had been performing at the National Concert Hall.
4.30am
An hour later, at the same spot, we pick up two girls barely out of their teens. “You’re not going to get sick are you?” one asks the other as they clamber into the cab. “Just to be clear,” says Herron firmly. “If she does get sick there’s an automatic spoilage charge.” “I’ll be fine,” slurs a small voice from behind a mouthful of tissues. She manages, despite occasional retching noises, not to vomit.
At 5am, after more than 11 hours and eight fares, I’m risking the spoilage charge myself. Thankfully Herron calls it a night.
“So, just over €140 for nearly 12 hours work,” he says. “Take maybe €35 out for fuel and that’s the best night of the week.” He laughs. “Same again tomorrow?”
