Not since the dawn of civilization has one man moaned as much about the smell from a pine shaped air freshener than this chap. I became quite frightened when he ripped the offending item from where it was dangling, experts tell me it's called the rear view mirror but whatever, and with more force required shoved it in the direction of my nose. Oh my.

"Does that there smell like a forest to you? Eh? Does it like?"

Now, I'm not sure if it was his fist that was shaking inches from my nose or because he was staring at me whilst careering through the city centre but I got confused. I'm sure confusion is a natural emotion to experience when staring down the barrel of a taxi driver shaped fist. Instead of replying in the appropriate manner, ie agreeing with the lunatic with the pine freshener in one hand and your life in the other, I said, "Doesn't smell too bad mate"

D'oh

"Doesn't smell too bad? Doesn't smell too bad? Wha?"

Oh dear, thought I, I've angered it. And I had indeed angered it. Checking the road for like a nano second he sticks the offending item up to his nose and goes at it like he was backstage at a Motley Crue concert. I mean he sniffed the pine right out of it.

"Doesn't smell too bad like? What you on mate? Here get a good whiff of that" and he reaches the bloody thing over to me.

"Get a good smell of it....", I did. I mean what choice did I have faced with the irrationality of the situation?! You know what I discovered you cant do? You cant fake the sound of sniffing without actually sniffing. This was very disappointing as I really didn't want my nostrils filled with the odor of fake pine.

"Well?", he says glaring at me.

"Aye yer right...", I wasn't sure now what I was supposed to be saying or agreeing to. Did he want me say that it did or didn't smell of something? Was that something meant to be good or bad? Jesus I was so confused. I just wanted to get home and nestle up to a chicken and chickpea curry and let it make everything better.

"Now does that smell like a forest then does it?"

"No...no I suppose it doesn't", said I handing the air freshener back to Crazy McMad-Bastard, the craziest maddest bastard driving in Belfast.

"You know what I'd like to do mate?" I did not know what he wanted to do. I didn't have a notion, maybe stick his winkle in a fish? It wouldn't have surprised me such was the manic nature of his discourse.

"I'd like til take the eejits that make this here shite to an actual forest and ask em if they think their air freshener smells the same." Christ it would be the scariest trip to the forest since Hansel and Gretel were abandoned by their parents. But his use of the word eejit made me giggle, into myself obviously, I'm not completely clueless about how to handle myself round grade A whack jobs. I mean right up to that point everybody was a "fucker" a "bastard" and a "cunt". Clearly went to a very refined finishing school.

He went quiet after that. I finished the holy rosary I had been reciting in my head whilst he was brooding. He was fingering the tree shaped problem with the intensity of a serial killer who has just lopped the ear of his 33rd victim. I thought he would probably regret doing that as his hands would stink of faux pine by now. Oh I just wanted to be home.

"Fuck this....", he yells.

Oh holy fuckarama I'm gonna die. He's gonna drive the car off a bridge with me in it. And me with a lovely fresh made curry in the fridge. Who would eat my curry after I'm dead, who?

But he just wound down his window and threw the offending item out.

"So were working tonight or just out for something til eat?", says he with all the calmness and gentleness of a visiting head of state asking the oik what they do for a living. I was stunned by his change in mood. It was all very perplexing and totally uncalled for on a Sunday night. Tree shaped air fresheners appear to work like some sort of angry kryptonite on him.

I was quite relieved to get home. I considered phoning the taxi firm to remonstrate about the quality of mentalist they entrust with their mid range saloon cars but changed my mind when I realised I didn't want to spend the rest of the night fending of an angry taxi driver/mentalist who reeks of faux pine trees. I've seen Assault on Precinct 13 and my house simply isn't prepared for such shenanigans. If this continues, the mentalism of Belfast taxi drivers, I may have to start walking home. Oh my!

For what it's worth the curry was good.

"Where yis for mate?" he asked as we sped away. I assumed he was trying to break the land speed record as we took off like Richard Noble's Thrust2 machine.

"Lisburn Road please." I answered as I scrambled for my seat belt.

"Reeeet." And for some reason he went completely the other way. I've learned the hard way never to question taxi drivers about their chosen route to your destination. I don't like it when people question my methods so out of professional courtesy I said nothing. But a moment later I found myself hurtling towards the North of the city quicker than I really wanted to be.

"Eh, sorry driver..." I was nervous for so many reasons ".....but where are you going?"

"Lisburn Road der fella. Why do youse wanna drive?"

"No no no." Fuck I've gone and upset the mentalist who's doing the best part of 70 in the city centre.

"This here's the quackest way." Says he. I pondered explaining to him how ludicrous his proposition was that the quickest (quackest) way to go South was by heading North but thought better of it. I was on an adventure whether I liked it or not.

Then his phone went. Not that someone was phoning him but rather someone, (probably Anto, Minto, Dorzo, or Jaunty not that I want to stereotype but it is easier) had sent him a message. Our hero couldn't wait. So he didn't. And he wasn't gonna let a little thing like the law, well he was breaking about five laws as it was so what would another matter, or the fact that he was driving like a man with death wish get in the way of him reading said text message.

So there I was in a blinged up Mercedes careering through Belfast city centre heading the wrong way from my house with an angry mentalist taxi driver reading a text message on his phone. Who needs to pay for adventure holidays when you can get your own white knuckle experience with one call to your local taxi firm?

"Fucking beezer wah." He laughed as he read the message and then showed it to me. He swiveled in his seat and stuck the bloody phone in my face! Mother of Jesus is there any chance?! It was from his son who was saying night-night. I nodded politely as I gripped the really rather swish leather seat for dear life. I guessed that his son has been in the car with his dad and even he realised that daddy may not make it home one night considering the way he drives.

Thankfully though he didn't reply to the message. For a moment I imagined the last thing I would hear on this Earth being the clickty click of him tapping on his mobile phone as we smashed into a wall.

We rounded a few corners. Smashed, not literally, our way down tiny and unheard off alleys and back streets and after a moments blind panic as I faced the very wrong end of town for a boy like me I found myself back in the leafy end of South Belfast. This was indeed a relief. There were other cars now so I, wrongly, assumed this would chasten his driving. Not our hero, no way. He was spurred on by the "challenge" of other people, other lives. He dodged in and out and up their asses. Charming chap.

Then his phone went again. He plugged in his Bluetooth device and answered the call. It was a chum of his. I only got his side of the call. I pictured another customer in another taxi somewhere on the streets of Belfast gripping on for dear life too. Bear in mind this driver is from Belfast.....

"Aye mate, I maw rite. Wassa mar way you?"

"Aye me too." He glanced at me which left me rather unnerved.

"Har's yer mawn gettin on?"

"Aye they hard him. S'what I wus told."

"Sarong wa at? Though you laked him?"

Christ by this point we had passed the turn off to my street so I had to interrupt this meeting of minds.

"Eh next on the right please."

"Righ..gotta go. Nah I'm tarred. Wont be out fer long."

"£7.80 mate" he said turning to me.

Home, sweet sweet home. I nearly did a pope and kissed the ground but that don't fly round here either. Jesus the driving was rough but the conversation was worse. Still, it wasn't my worst taxi experience. That happened 12 years and four days ago. I'll save that for Friday......

"Here mate, check the huge Walter Mittys on yer woman!" said the taxi man driving me to work. It was early in the morning and I wasn't in the mood for a "we're all blokes here" sort of conversation. It as followed up with "I had this woman in the car the other night, fucking great she was, she didn't have enough money for the fare......" I switched off. I didn't want to hear anymore of his made up drivel. And he was smelly, and looked like a gargoyle with a carbuncle for a nose. Lies, lies, lies.

I should have said, "Shut the fuck up, you are full of shit and your lies are ruining the start of my day. The last time you "had" a woman was in your dreams, now fuck up and drive." But I didn't, obviously.

"Now, do you see that service charge? We aren't going to pay that, Okay?" said the nasty little woman on the phone who was booking her office Christmas party. Well done madam, you can look forward to some wonderful service come the 7th of December. And some festive "extras" in your soup as well. Happy Christmas, scrooge. Oh and get this, she let slip that her company are paying £25 per person towards the meal, leaving her with less than £10 to add on! Mean, mean, mean.

I should have said, "Listen here, you tight fisted scrooge with a void where your shame should be, catch a bloody grip to yourself. Not paying the service charge? Then take your tight ass else where as I don't need or want your business. I can fill your spot ten times over between now and the 1st of December." But I didn't, obviously.

"You want to try it on? You sure you don't want to try it on?" said the skinny sales assistant, who probably never asked his mother for a second helping of anything at the dinner table, as he sized me up and down. It wasn't that he was sizing me more than he was judging me. Was he calling me fat? Cheeky bastard. Let me tell you if XL doesn't fit me then I'm going on a diet for sure. I'm cuddly and proud! Cuddly, cuddly, cuddly.

I should have said, "Are you calling me fat?" And then broke down in tears wailing about glandular problems and not having been breast fed as a child. That would have put a downer on his perky day. But I didn't, obviously.

"A reservation? Why would I need a reservation on a Thursday night?" said the sneering and patronising man in Farahesque slacks and and bad sports jacket just before he was dumped into the section that time forgot. Wait there and think about booking next time asshole. Dick, dick, dick! (How many dicks is that? A lot! ) Name the film

I should have said, "Because without a reservation you aren't getting in. Now take your bad sports jacket and appalling slacks and fuck off to KFC you Moe Sizlack look-a-like son of a bitch. But I didn't because putting him in the section that time forgot was just as bad.

"Try the wine? When do I get to try the waiter?" said the frisky 50-something lady in front of me and her giggling friends. I went very red and said "eh um er um ha ha ha." Which reads much better than it sounded. In 20 seconds I went from being a cool, sophisticated, professional waiter (Ha!-LMM) to being a 14 year old teenage boy being asked if he had a girlfriend by his dad's mates! Not cool!!

I should have said, "eh um er ha ha ha." Because that is the correct answer to that situation. What the hell else would you say?

I'm off to sit in a darkened room and think about puppies and ice cream and Eric Cantona and all the things that make life liveable.