Not all taxi drivers are cunts. It's true. They're not.
Of course, this runs contrary to a recent blog where I wished death upon one member of the species, but tonight I met the Jekyll to his Hyde, or the Hyde to his Jekyll as it's late and I forgot the one from the other.
I finished up at 11 and fled to Townsend Street, thence on to the quays. I hailed down this fella and he regaled me with stories of supporting St Pat's and having Kevin Doyle in his car.
I phoned in my interest, wanting no conversation and a sleepy seven minute trip of silence and the inevitable Q102.
We got to my road and I padded myself down for my wallet. Nothing. Not a sign. An empty pocket save for a Bus Eireann ticket stub and some chewing gum.
He told me this happened all the time and he could tell the 'genuine from the chancers, Bud.'
I had six euro in change, a fiver shortfall, but he let me off. He wouldn't even take my number and off he went.
Straight away and the flat ravaged open for the card company number. Only at this point did I remember there was an interweb ripe for the scouring and that was that.
I probably just left it on my desk in work, as I needed something to throw when that Portuguese haircut lashed one in from forty yards and more.
P.S. Don't worry about me tapping you up for a few bob. Before writing this message I counted out twenty euro in shiny 20p pieces. Miser is as misery does.