King Adz: Ishy’s disco taxi
Another tale demonstrating why it is not so grim up north.
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In my last-but-one column, I wrote about the reality of life up north and how it differed from the clichéd image of back-to-back houses, flat caps and whippets. The weather may be grim but it’s one hellava place. Recently, I was reminded me of another corker of a story…
Several years ago, I was shooting a pilot of a pretty random show call Lenny Let Loose for a blokey satellite channel. Lenny Let Loose starred a mentalist mate of mine from Essex, who at the time was a drum 'n' bass emcee, club promoter and weed dealer in Amsterdam (he’s now a music video director). I had this idea for a street-level travel show and Lenny was the ideal guy to present it. As you might imagine, he was well up for it and mad for it at the same time. So I got a production plan together and flew out to Amsterdam to do some ‘research’.
My flight was at 6am so I booked a taxi for 4am. There I was getting into the cab at the crack of dawn, yawning and trying to be nice. The cab was a traditional black taxi and as it sped away I sized up the driver: a big but young and friendly-looking British Asian dude who then started the chat rolling.
"Where you going?" he asked.
"Amsterdam."
"Oh aye!"
This was all I needed as a nod is as good as a wink. "Can I smoke in here?" I asked.
"Sure."
"A spliff?"
"Sure. Not a problem."
This was back in 2004 and so I sparked up something I’d rolled whilst waiting for the cab and puffed away, offering the joint to the driver. He toked and passed it back.
"Ishy!" he said by way of introduction.
"Adz."
"You want some music?"
"Fuck yes!"
What happened next was unbelievable. Ishy flicked a switch and in a nano-second, turned the dark cab into a very small club with strobes, neon tubes and a huge sound system pumping out dancefloor bangers. This took me by surprise and sent me out there, into the ether. Okay, so it was 4.12am and I was fucked but this was something else. I must admit I got down, throwing the worst sat-down-in-the-back-of-a-cab shapes imaginable as we rushed along the dark satanic streets, past mills and viaducts, belting out R'n'B and throwing some much-needed colour onto the wet streets.
"Welcome to Ishy’s disco taxi!" he shouted back, swerving to miss a pothole.
I was speechless. What the fuck had just happened? Another tune began to play and I sat back and smoked the rest of the joint wondering why can’t the rest of life be as surprising as this? Tune followed tune and soon I was at the airport in a very good mood indeed. I knew the pilot episode had to open with Lenny in the back of the disco taxi!
Cut to a couple of months later and me and Lenny are sat in the back of the disco taxi at 4am smoking good. We drive off, I roll the camera I give Ishy the nod and he drops the bomb! I’ve not told Lenny anything except we’re shooting the opening in the cab. As the magic happens, I capture his surprise on tape. Soon he’s moving, gurning and pointing to the 100proof logo on his t-shirt. And it’s still very early in the morning and we’re totally fucked and on the way to shoot a pilot in Amsterdam. You can imagine how it goes. Well, just watch the video.
This is yet another example of how the North may well be a better, more creative and altogether more interesting place than London or 'dahn sarf' in general (the alleged centre of the universe). I mean, what the fuck would you get in a London cab?! Either some bloke who won’t shut up about how brill Dubai or Las Vegas is, as he’s been taken there on an all-expenses paid jolly, or some silent, half-wit driving a shitty Mondeo who gets lost going round the block and charges you for the privilege.
Okay so I’m polarising things slightly here, but that’s one good thing about writing a column, I can say what I want and then walk away - hopefully into the waiting door of a disco taxi!
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Ishy’s disco taxi (text) by King Adz is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License.Comments (1)
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You know, sometimes Northerners cross the Watford Gap as well. Maybe we start writing patronising faux-ownership columns about how great the 'creative' South is before plugging our own shit. That'd be mental.