For those new to CabbieBlog or readers who are slightly forgetful, on Saturdays I’m republishing posts, many going back over a decade. Some will still be very relevant while others have become dated over time. Just think of this post as your weekend paper supplement.

Not a good sign (15.05.12)

On a recent trip to Dorset, I was obliged to the local authority for erecting a sign which informed me that the adjacent beach was subject to flooding, it’s always good to know what hazards lay ahead.

In London, we have to blame King Henry I for the plethora of superfluous signage littering our streets imparting useless information. The good king deemed that a street could not be named as such unless it was paved and was wide enough for sixteen knights to ride abreast, while a lane had only to be the width of a beer barrel rolled by two men.

This Royal Declaration must have started a growth industry in signage that has continued to this day and is now cluttering every road in London.

“Humps for 263 metres”, “New Road Layout Ahead”, “Signal Priorities Changed”. Am I really going to check the distance I’ve travelled to ensure that I won’t encounter another street-calming obstacle, or that I’m so bright my memory can clearly remember the timings of every traffic signal in London?

We now employ somebody to type drivel into a gizmo that controls the M25 overhead gantries, they give us such gems as: “Road Ahead Clear” with the approximate time it will take you to reach a destination you have no intention of reaching.

Only last week while driving along the A12 the Olympic Delivery Authority shared – via a matrix board at the side of the road – the priceless information that trials were taking place within the Olympic Park.

Frequently we’re told, just in case there was any doubt, that “Sign Under Test” rather implying that the upper sixth is taking its finals and we should be quiet lest we disturb the examination.

Each time I pass a sign announcing “Concrete Curing” I have visions of a group of men in high-viz jackets performing a laying on of hands to make the road better.

Once I naïvely thought that they had been put up for the benefit of the public, but of course, they are for the benefit of the erectors of the signs. So obsessed are they with our liability culture they put up these signs so why asked they can reply “well, you were warned”.

For those new to CabbieBlog or readers who are slightly forgetful, on Saturdays I’m republishing posts, many going back over a decade. Some will still be very relevant while others have become dated over time. Just think of this post as your weekend paper supplement.

Mustn’t grumble (08.05.12)

Mustn’t grumble, which of course is what we Londoners are always doing – roadworks, litter, Boris – you name it we can moan for England. While maintaining an air of cheerful, if somewhat deferential, stoicism we go through life apologising while at the same time keeping a stiff upper lip.

This air of permanent regret can seem bewildering and perverse to tourists. We apologize when bumping into you “Sorry old chap, didn’t see you there”. When you bump into us “So sorry” meaning do that again at your peril.

When we hold open a door for another with the greeting “Don’t mention it” which of course is shorthand for “Please continue to thank me”.

When we might seem to be having a perfectly amiable conversation while in fact disagreeing with every word you have uttered the appropriate interjection is “I’m not being funny, but . . . ” which is a prelude to a socially unacceptable remark.

Punctuality was once the trademark of an Englishman, but with transport in London slowly grinding to a halt you are more likely to get the apology “I’m running 10 minutes late . . .” roughly translated this means “Boris hasn’t fixed the delays yet and I will be there anywhere from 30 minutes to an hour after we agreed to meet”.

And watch out if at a social gathering, you hear “I have half a mind to say something . . . ” that indicates “I am adding to years’ worth of unspoken resentment that you can silence with a very dry white wine”.

Sorry doesn’t seem to be the hardest word as Elton John opined: When we walk into doors when dropping anything when we want to butt into a conversation, when flustered or when brushing past you in a pub, when we cannot hear or when hearing all too well as a reflex “Sorry” suffices for what we cannot think of what else to say.

But by no means does saying “sorry” mean the speaker is in fact, well, sorry.

“Probably my fault . . . ” is about as deferential as we get. Take that to mean “This is your fault.”

The frequent apology is one of an arsenal of clever tricks Londoners employ to obscure their true feelings. If the words “Mustn’t complain. . . ” are directed at you take notice, their true meaning is “I have just complained and if you don’t sort it out I will take the matter further”.

Eastenders greet one another with “Alright?” don’t enter into a conversation about your woes, it’s the law of the jungle to show that you are one of them and a friend.

And London cabbies are not immune to this verbal gymnastics, our greeting to another cab driver of “Be Lucky” roughly translates to “I hope you don’t get a job before me”.