YOU’D think “Dad’s Taxi” might be slowing down now my four children are all grown up, but I’m in more demand than ever.

Take the weekend just gone. My daughter Hannah, 26, and her boyfriend, Jamie, were coming up from London for a wedding in a remote part of North Yorkshire.

“There’s nowhere to stay so we’ll have to bring a tent,” she let slip on the phone.

Well, how can any self-respecting dad allow his baby girl to sleep in a field with heavy rain forecast? I know I’m a soft-touch, but I couldn’t help myself.

“I’ll come and get you,” I found myself offering.

“But it might be two in the morning, Dad,” she replied.

“I don’t mind.”.

“Oh, thanks, Dad – would you be able to put some snuggly duvets and pillows in the car, so we can sleep on the way home?”

They got a train to our house on Friday night and my wife must be a soft-touch too because Mum’s Taxi was brought back into service to drive them the 73 miles to the wedding the following morning.

Then, after watching Match of the Day, I set off at midnight to pick them up. It seemed like a good idea at the time but trying to follow the sat-nav along dark country roads in the early hours was a nerve-racking experience.

After waiting for half an hour in the blackness outside the wrong farmhouse, listening to an owl hooting, I eventually reached the right location just before 2am.

My daughter emerged with a request: “Dad, the taxis have left without the groom’s Great Auntie Lou and she’s quite old – would you mind giving her a lift to her hotel on the way home?”

How could I say no? Great Auntie Lou tottered out with her son, Paul, and piled into my car alongside Hannah and Jamie.

Let’s just say a lot of alcohol had been consumed by my passengers and neither Great Auntie Lou, nor her son Paul, knew where their hotel was. We eventually worked it out and, on the way, the old lady went into minute detail about her family tree and how she was connected to the bride.

“You’ve got an amazing memory for someone in their nineties, Mum,” slurred Paul.

“How dare you – I’m not in my nineties!” snapped the clearly offended Great Auntie Lou. I thought she was going to hit him with her handbag, but Paul swiftly changed the subject.

“We were jolly lucky to get a taxi out here at this time in the morning, weren’t we, Mum?” he mumbled.

It’s one thing to be treated like a taxi driver by your own children but altogether more galling for a stranger to think you’re a cabbie. I wanted to shout “I’M NOT A BLOODY TAXI DRIVER!” but, quite frankly, he was in no fit state to understand.

I just kept my mouth shut, dropped them off at their hotel, and headed north with my daughter and her boyfriend snoring contentedly under their snuggly duvets.

We arrived home just after 4am. I didn’t even get a tip.


Damian, aged eight, was being driven home from school in Middleham with his friend Peter sitting beside him.

“Mum, what exactly is a condom?” asked Damian.

Embarrassed though she was, his mum thought she’d better tell the truth and launched into a matter-of-fact explanation.

After she’d finished her explanation, there was a silent pause and she looked in the rear-view mirror to see puzzled looks on both the boys’ faces.

“Oh,” said Damian. “Peter thought it was a big bird.”

MICHELLE, also aged eight, was playing with her Dad on the settee and jumping on top of him.

She suddenly asked: “Daddy, when you love Mummy, do you go on top or does she?”

“Why are you asking that?” asked her Dad, understandably taken aback.

“Because I’ve been down the dyke watching the frogs,” she replied.