Business advisor

I was slowly following Oxford Street towards Oxford Circus. On my left there was some totally smashed fellow, desperately leaning against a lamp post. A few steps from him stood three lost looking girls, clearly not able to make heads or tails of their whereabouts. I stopped and asked if they needed directions. As obviously it was the case I explain to them the way they should follow. They asked me then how much would I charge to take them there. Unfortunately they found my price too dear. I decided that it was no worthy of further haggling and moved on. At that point the boozy looked at me and slurred: "You should change your approach toward customer. You are too desperate!" For a little while I felt completely overwhelmed by his drunken master style. I put myself together though, searched for opponent's weak points and made a quick riposte: "You are too drunk! Sober off and then you will advise me!" I must had found his Achilles heel cause as I was pedalling away, for a long while, I could hear him shouting something about fucking off.

Evening Standard gives us bad name. Rickshaw riders are not criminals!

Some rogue journalist, Michael Howie, just sent this message to the world on pages of Evening Standard: "They (i.e. Police) aim to target brawling drunks, drug dealers, pickpockets, unlicensed minicabs, and DANGEROUS RICKSHAW DRIVING." Maybe Mr M. Howie and the Police believe that "he who would pun would pick a pocket", but I don't really know too may rickshaw riders who actually pun. 
What kind of a danger, a rickshaw actually represents? Imagine furiously ridden horse-drawn cart. Scary, isn't it? Now what's a relation between aforementioned cart and a pedicab? I am asking. 
A bit earlier the article reads: "A string of pedicabs were impounded last night at the launch of six-month blitz on West End crime". Since when riding a rickshaw is A CRIME? An important question rises: what did those poor riders do to get their, or some third party's, POSSESSION IMPOUNDED? Mister rogue journalist quotes Chief Superintendent Simon Ovens: "There are no laws that deal specifically with rickshaws - they are unregulated. So we are using the tools available. If we have to go back two centuries to apply the law, we will." And what is the law, then? Maybe they should go back in time a bit further and burn us all at the stake?  Why does the Police impound our tools of trade? Because we ride furiously or stop for longer than is necessary? Speeding or stopping on double yellow line is not a crime. One should get a fixed penalty for a minor offence. Instead one gets arrested (!!!) and his/her pedicab is taken away for weeks or months (if you don't plead guilty at the magistrate court). They still expect you to pay a fine, even though they deprived you of your tool of trade. Police doesn't care about rickshaw riders who work at night without lights, whose pedicabs are not properly maintained, who don't respect a highway code and thus give the whole industry a bad name. They basically choose a few poor devils each night, at random, and confiscate their tricycles, using any lame excuse. Some people prefer to live on benefits. Rickshaw riders work hard for their money.  Some people complain that immigrants take their jobs. Rickshaw industry creates plenty of new jobs. Those who are not lazy know that our profession in not only rewarding but also helps to develop serious salesman skills. There's no cheating here. You work hard but you get paid immediately. Every night I meet so many people who greatly appreciate what we do. Methinks we don't deserve to be picked on. LICENCE US NOW!

Paris of Troy

I got a lift to King's Cross with two German girls. On Judd St, not far from Russel Sq. I was passing by three boozy fellows walking the same direction as me. Going at easy pace I could hear one of them saying in a deep, theatrical voice: "My father says I'm stupid but, you know, I feel so sad every time when I wait for her all night before she comes back home..." Soon I overtook them and went on. I got to King's Cross station. The ladies paid the fare, thanked me politely and were gone. On the way back I saw those three chaps again. Same guy, raising his beautiful, deep voice dramatically, carried on with his story: "..SHE WENT TO PARIS WITH ANOTHER DUDE!!!" His two companions watched him gravely.

No more sympathy for late night drunkards

After 11pm there is only one shop around West End with a licence to sell alcohol at night. Two days ago a guy I met in Soho was very thirsty. I decided to help out a poor devil. I took him to that shop. (Let me add that the shop is not exactly around the corner.) On the way he mention that, recently, he heard "a lot of shit" about rickshaw riders. I advised him to stop reading Evening Standard. When we got there, before he actually entered the off-licence, he asked if I could take him back to Tottenham Court Road station. I assured him about it and named my price. "What? I'll give you a fiver in total! Otherwise I can give you just a couple of quid for bringing me here!" Saying this he entered the shop. There he picked up three beers and produced a twenty pound note to pay for them. Next he stepped out and handed over to me two pounds and seventy three pence. I told him that he shouldn't expect people to carry him about for free. "Here's a fifty p more!" Generously he tried to stick it in my hand. It had been a while since I saw such a joker. I threw all that petty change into plastic bag where he kept his beers and told him to take that and fuck off. As I was riding off he kept shouting behind my back: "Geezer! Come here! It ain't cool! Geezer! Come back" Nevertheless I felt cooler and cooler as the distance kept growing between us. Finally, when I disappeared around the corner, I was cool as a cucumber.

Believe it or not, history is repeating. Yesterday some drunk Russian asked me for the same thing. Very innocently on my behalf, I decided to help a fellow man. On the way to the same shop he kept bitching about quite a lot. "Verrr iz dat shop! How farrr iz dat shop!" Finally he shut up. I was rather happy about it until I got there. I Looked back only to discover that my trike was empty. That bastard jumped off and ran away! I didn't even realised when... Therefore here's my message to all the late night drunks: cash upfront, you twats, or help yourselves to the water from the puddles!

Squirting

A fellow rickshaw rider told me that once, around Covent Garden, he saw two drunken women. One of them desperately needed to relieve her bladder. She went to a nearest doorway, put her pants down, squatted and started to pee. She was far too drunk though, for this kind of acrobatics. Suddenly she lost her balance and fell on her back. Nevertheless she couldn't stop peeing. So there she was: lying on her back with urine gushing from her pussy like a fountain.

Her friend was laughing so hard, that she nearly peed herself too.

Emancipation

You know those couples practically making out standing, her/his back against a wall, at night, in public places, don't you? Sure thing you do! Well, to be honest with you, sometimes they could be even more than just couples, like that lucky gay boy whom I saw one night on Old Compton Street being simultaneously jerked off and fingered by his two mates.

Those are extremities though, and much more frequently one can see couples enjoying themselves this way or another. Usually the initiative is taken by a male or a male-like partner who enthusiastically fingers a girl. Lately I spotted something significantly different. Last night I saw a girl pressed against the wall all right, by some fellow, however she smartly reached into that guy's pocket and was actually tossing him energetically. I hope he didn't cum in his pants. As a matter of fact it was all happening on the corner of New Oxford Street and Earnshaw Street, right by Centre Point. I was impressed.

Snapshots

To be a rickshaw rider is all about living the way YOU want. It's about freedom. Freedom could be dangerous but it's a whole different story. It's enough to say that freedom has its price. Every now and then somebody calls you a prick. Sometimes someone promises to stab you in the neck. "Bigmouth strikes again!" - as Chumbawamba sang. "Water off duck's tail..." - as Alex Brownie says. Yet there is something that remains. It's as if your brain stored some pictures. There's that feeling too, as if you were dreaming or as if it was just a film you were watching...

I met those two very young Turkish lads. One of them was really pissed, he could hardly walk. Obviously they craved for some affordable, immediate, physical love without strings attached. Btw what they were looking for was actually available around the corner. I charged them upfront and got them there in no time. As I stopped I took a look behind. One of them was quite strangely positioned. Upper half of his body was hanging out of trike. He was all covered with his vomit and so was side of my rickshaw next to him. "FUCK ME!" - was all I could think or say about it. That instant he heavily fell on the floor and remained there, silent, motionless, positioned like some bizarre foetus. "Hassan! Hassan!" - his friend tried to wake and lift him up but that fellow just didn't seem to be there any more. As I was about to say that, in his actual condition, he probably won't get a hard on anyway, his friend looked at me and waved. "See you later." He didn't need to say it again.