Cameron the taxi-driver: ready for an earful?

A taxi ride with our Prime Minister behind the steering wheel

(Getty Images)

Norwegian Prime Minister Jens Stoltenberg has spent a day working as a taxi driver in order to engage with voters. He wore sunglasses and a driver’s uniform, only revealing his identity once he was recognised by his passengers. We wondered what would happen if David Cameron tried to do the same thing.

Punter: Tufnell Park, please.

Cameron: Right ho, squire. (Crunches gears horribly.) So whotcher think about the Government’s new Buy to Let incentive? Great boost to the housing market, I mean haasing market, doncha think?

Punter: (takes out iPad)

Cameron: I mean, the way I see it, the engine of a smooth-running economy is determined by its housing market. Thatcher understood that. Great woman.

Punter (sighs, starts tapping intently at iPad screen)

Cameron: Now look at that Ed Miliband. I mean, what a muppet, right? (Knocks cyclist off bike) I mean, he couldn’t (furtively riffles through ancient copy of 200 Working-Class Phrases For The Understanding of Gentlefolk) er, knock the skin off a rice pudding, if you know what I mean.

Punter: (begins to look faintly alarmed)

Cameron: And that economic crisis, that was all his brother Dave’s fault, innit? I mean stands to reason. (Clips old lady on zebra crossing) Gaw, look at ’er. Scrounger if ever I saw one. What I don’t understand is how these people think we owe them a living. I mean, I pay my taxes, right? I work hard, right? Why should these people get a free ride off us? (Runs over dog, turns on to M40)

Punter: Are you sure this is the right way?

Cameron: Course it is, squire, I’m Lannon born and bred, I am. Talking of which, you seen what those Dagoes are up to in Gibraltar? Bleedin’ liberty if you ask me. (Turns off M40 to Chipping Norton, has nice country supper with Rebekah Brooks and a few cronies, comes back to taxi a few hours later) Nah, where was I? Oh yes. You seen that internet? Saw it the other day. Couldn’t believe my mince pies, I couldn’t. Wall to wall FILTH. I tell you what I’d do with them kiddie-fiddlers, I would. String ’em all up, I would. Course, if you’re one of them Labour supporters, you’d probably give them all knighthoods. You want a paedo living next door to ya, you vote Labour, my son. (Heads back to London via Birmingham, Peterborough, Braintree and Chelmsford).

Look at all that empty space. Nuffink a bit of fracking wouldn’t fix. You know who’s against fracking? Paedos and Dagoes, that’s who. Tree-huggers. Don’t give this country a chance, they don’t. And you know who gets all the stick who shouldn’t? Bankers. Wivaht them we’d be no better than them Greeks. Anyway, here we are, guv. That’ll be £6,432, please. A tip wouldn’t go amiss either, if you catch my drift. I mean, we’re all in this together, ain’t we? Guv? Guv? (Taxi blows up)