An interesting taxi ride

My piece today reflects upon a totally unexpected – and therefore shocking – national news story that occurred yesterday morning, albeit coming to my personal attention only at about 10.40am.

Unusually, I had spent my breakfast-time listening to neither the radio nor television because I had been preparing for a session at the Imperial War Museum reading room in London.

[Warning to those who might be interested: the Museum proper is currently closed because it is undergoing refurbishment in advance of a reopening in honour of WW1 in July, attended by a Royal. However, the reading/research facility remains open, subject to booking an appointment in advance.]

To reach the Imperial War Museum, I first travelled to Waterloo by train. Ordinarily I would then have walked the remainder of the journey but, in deference to my current hip problem – I would strenuously deny it has anything to do with my seniority – this time instead I chose to join the queue waiting for a taxi.

When it was my turn to take a cab, I leaned in at the window and asked to be taken to my destination. The taxi driver motioned me in. As he pulled away from the rank, he was just finishing a call upon his mobile phone. I couldn’t help overhearing him mention that Bob Crowe, the RMT union leader, was dead.

“Excuse me …” I leaned forward, “… But did I hear you say that Bob Crow has died?”

The taxi driver confirmed it.

He then began what soon became an animated exchange by saying that, completely by chance, he had enjoyed a drink and conversation in a pub with Crow, whom he did not know, only last Friday night.

He wasn’t joking, or a fantasist either – he’d just found himself in a pub quite near to York Hall that evening – on his way to a boxing bill – and noticed the union leader drinking in the corner. Somehow they’d begun chatting. It turned out that Crow was also big boxing fan and, over a period of about ten minutes, they had discussed both that evening’s bill and the forthcoming Carl Froch/George Groves rematch scheduled for the end of May.

I ‘connected’ with this information. Way back in prehistory, for a period my pals and I used to publish an occasional privately-circulated boxing magazine and regularly attended boxing bills at York Hall, the Royal Albert Hall and the Wembley Arena.

This taxi driver and I had more than just boxing in common.

He noticed I was wearing a 2015 Rugby World Cup-badged anorak – a Christmas present from my son – and presumed that I was a rugby fan (I pleaded guilty).

So, it seemed, was he, albeit a fairly new one. He now attended Blackheath’s matches  and, a fortnight ago, had visited Twickenham Stadium for the first time, seeing England’s 13-10 victory over Ireland. He said he had really enjoyed the experience – the build-up, the anthems, the crowd noise and the game itself.

In response I kept quiet about the fact that I hate Twickenham Stadium and all it stands for, far preferring to watch internationals on the box.

I then mentioned the subject I was researching, and why – a rugger match that took place behind British lines in the spring of 1915. I’d previously written a book about one of the players in the game and was currently on the trail of another. The taxi driver expressed interest, especially after I mentioned that, in Victorian and Edwardian times, Blackheath was such a famous team in Britain that it was habitually referred to simply as ‘the Club’.

Suddenly I found myself handing over a business card and promising that, if he forwarded me his address, I’d sent him a copy of my book.  Five minutes later, outside the Imperial War Museum, we parted on cordial terms. He initially refused to take a fare off me, but I insisted.

… And, if he does send me his address, I’m definitely going to keep my side of the bargain.