Jack Daniels

Before I start talking about myself, I'd like to talk more about the taxi driver. There's no rush to fill you in on my situation. There is, depressingly, far too much time for that. But Billy, as I'm calling him, let's start with him.

He would drive me home from work now and again when I was working nights. We'd drive from the centre of London to Highgate, speeding our way round Marble Arch, along Oxford Street and then winding our way up to the north of London, along country roads, past huge houses. The whole journey took about half an hour - Billy told me it was at least an hour's journey during the day - and took a childish pleasure in informing me that he was one of the few who could complete the journey in such a tremendously (read: frighteningly) short time. He wore a leather cap, had a few teeth missing and always smelt of one of coffee, tobacco or chewing gum. I have no doubt all of these still apply. He seemed to wear everything on his sleeve; grumblings, issues of the day, confusions. And smells. He did have a tendency towards the non-PC but he reminded me of a Charles Dickens character and I liked him. He had this fantastic cockney accent - in fact it reminded me of Oliver Twist's in that 1960s film. What set them apart was that Oliver's didn't break into a heavy, choking smoker's cough every few words. He'd talk to me about his water rates, his Irish heritage and the taxi touts who, he believed, took his business. I'd go into work saying "Was talking to Billy last night about his water rates..." and colleagues would stare, bemused, and reply that they had never once spoken to him during a taxi ride, never mind engaged in a debate about how much he should be paying for water. I, on the other hand, couldn't get him to shut up. To be honest, it's probably my fault. I'm a master in covering up an awkward silence. My brain could have switched off for the day but my mouth would keep producing conversational time-filling gems such as: "God, it's freezing at the moment isn't it? Can't believe it. I mean, it's not just cold, it's freezing. And just last week it was really mild but now it's cold. What is THAT all about??" Wow. Sparkling. Or, the 'generalise about the economic situation chat' which goes something like this: Taxi driver: "You hear about those jobs that went at that place?" Me: "(blow air out in a way that suggests that I have been worn away by a long life of hard labour) Yeah..I don't know, it's terrible isn't it? Every day we hear something. I mean, it's every day, you know. Unbelievable. You hear what Gordon Brown said today?..." Blah, blah, blah. So, yes, I would encourage the flow of conversation. Even at 3am. Because of this, I only had to open the door of the taxi before the conversation would begin. And because of this, I got the impression Billy was sad to see me go. I know this because I stunned my colleagues by being presented with a Jack Daniels hip-flask at the end of my last evening's taxi ride. It was a little confusing but, I suppose, sweet. A hip-flask? The next few months of my life flashed up before me like a fast-forwarded episode of Shameless. His eyes said it all: "Take this Charly (that's what he called me). You'll need it." His actual words were: "I bought a load of these the other day so you can have one as a leaving present and remember London." OK, so maybe it wasn't planned but I proudly added it to my pile of one box of M&S chocolates. Chocolates and alcohol. To be honest, that's exactly what I needed. Good thinking my two generous friends.

Another thing I needed when I left was hope and, initially, there was lashings of that. Heaped onto me by well-meaning friends and family. "You can do anything. Oh my god, just LOOK at your qualifications! The world's your oyster. Your OYSTER. You can do anything." It was almost too High School Musical to be believable. I came away feeling like I'd over-indulged on Pick 'n' Mix. The first one tasted lovely but, after a whole bag, nausea was creeping up on me. Apparently my life was an opportunity time bomb and if I didn't hurry and dive down the thousands of career paths open to me, the whole thing would explode in my face and I'd be left licking off the remains of my professional custard pie. Overwhelmed and with an inflated sense of my own importance, I rushed off to begin the job-search or what should really be referred to as the exercise in shameless self-promotion. Yes, the media world is a hard nut to crack and I was not satisfied with having done it once, I wanted to do it again. Print media? Pah! Done that. Now, it's time to take on the beast that is broadcasting! Mwah ha ha...I said, sitting on my invisible high-backed leather chair, turned deliberately away from everyone else.

And so I have begun to prey on media bosses up and down the country, ruthlessly infiltrating their inboxes in a bid to find employment. I even lured one very nice man into a little light email conversation. I think I caught the poor guy unawares. I contacted him on the day after New Year's day in my eagerness. He was probably just signing in to check for any emergency/urgent-looking emails and there I was, perched at the top of his email list. 'Happy New Year - Now Give Me A Job'. Of course I didn't write that. But the fact I was there in the first place on January 2nd suggested all of that. Once I had a reply from him, I leapt on it and hurried off another email. Questions, questions, must ask questions, ask him how he got into doing what he's doing, ("Everyone loves talking about themselves," someone once told me. Oh how true.) keep the man talking! And it did. He replied with an extensive biography of his life and told me to watch his documentary. I frantically scribbled 'Watch documentary on i-player' in my new Moleskine diary, bought in an attempt to invite constructive, job-seeking energy into my life. I sat back and read over the instruction with satisfaction. To me, it was as good as writing in the date of a job interview. Brilliant. I'll watch it and then I'll email him and tell him what I thought! Yes! Genius! He'll never escape and he'll have offered me a job as his assistant producer by the end of the week, so strong is the impression I am making on him.

Needless to say that didn't happen. But the documentary was very good. And I did tell him. Feeling bold, I had also offered some thoughts on how he could have improved the ending. I haven't heard from him again.