When like me you have chosen the tough and rugged regime of living in a lighthouse for two nights, you will know that getting your daily victuals can be a demanding task. In fact we had to walk for thirty-five minutes (the kind and helpful man explained the route to us said it would take close to an hour - the misguided and obliging fool) to a four star restaurant in a nearby town. Being a lighthouse keeper is the hardest job in the world and don't you forget it.
At the end of this sumptuous feast we were sated for both food and beverage and didn't fancy a 35 minute walk in the dark back to our sparse lodgings (only one flotation tank in the entire building. How were we meant to cope with this?) so ordered a taxi.
I knew we had a bit of a card for a driver because as he came into the restaurant looking for us I said to him, "Are you the cab?" and pointed at his car and replied, "No. That's the cab, I'm the driver." Ha ha. He is funny. He had literally turned my own sentence upon me and made me look an idiot. But perhaps the joke would be on him when the time for handing over a tip arrived.
I punched him on the arm. I assumed he'd register this as playful bonhomie, but secretly I hoped I had really hurt him. He'd made me look a fool. A fool, I tell you.
Having dine is some style in a plush restaurant we had not had a chance to watch the world cup qualifiers tonight. We weren't sure a Welshman would be interested in the England game (especially given that Wales were playing tonight as well), but I asked him if he knew the score.
"It was 3-1 to Poland," he replied.
"Yeah, right," I said, employing the necessary sarcasm to indicate that I believed he was making this crazy story up. I did after all have evidence of what a crazy joker he was.
"No straight up," he replied convincingly, "It was 3-1 and Beckham was sent off in the second half."
"Don't take the piss," said my dining companion and fellow lighthouse inhabitant. It was clearly time for this "joke" to be over.
The taxi driver remained steadfast in his assertion. He even went as far as to give us a run down of the match highlights - Defoe scored first, then Poland equalised just after half-time, then Beckham was sent off for a reckless challenge and England fell apart, conceeding a goal quite quickly and then a penalty in the final minutes.
I was sceptical (never forgetting the whole "Are you the cab?" incident which had already humiliated me once) and yet the normal form in this kind of sports based joshing is to admit that you are only pulling the other's "plonker" and then to reveal the correct score. He didn't do this. I found myself contemplating the future of Sven and David and our whole World Cup campaign.
As we drove back the driver enquired how much the cab out to the restaurant had cost us. We told him that we'd walked, but it was clear that he was just trying to work out how much he could fleece us for (he must have known he'd be getting no tip after his humiliatory opening crack and his subsequent lambasting of our national team). I considered telling him that we'd done the same trip the night before and been charged a pound,just to get him back, so he'd have to charge us the same. But I am not one for practical jokes.
The track to the lighthouse is a bumpy one, full of pot-holes (lighthouse keepers haveing no respect for the outside world or any wish to commune with it) and I felt guilty for making this unpleasant man damage the underside of his cab getting us right to the front door, so I accepted his almost fair fare of £5 and gave him an extra £1 (20% - not bad) for his trouble.
It was only back in my room that I wondered whether I could trust this crafty Welsh Dom Joly and looked up the score on my mobile phone. The driver had lied to us. England had won 2-1.
I respected this man for playing his trick so adeptly and also for the fact that all the pleasure he could really derive from it came from imagining our reaction when we discovered his pointless ruse. And in a way it's quite a nice trick to play, because finding out that England had in fact won and Beckham had not lashed out at anyone was thus a rather positive and pleasant experience.
He hated us and loved us at the same time. I wished that I had both not given him the tip and had tipped him double at the same time.
He was a benevolent idiot.
