I only joined Uber, the taxi service thingy-app-wotsit and care home for ageing Toyotas, a few weeks ago. I don’t get a lot of taxis. But I felt I should get in the Uber groove. So I did. Not easily because nothing that happens between me and smart phone is easy. In fact I got guy in the O2 shop to do it for me. Even though I’m an EE guy.

So I was up and running. Ready for Uber. Ready to call. And I did. We were in a restaurant, paying the bill (not me, thank God, someone else f’ra change) and I gave the younger daughter my phone and said: uber me up, baby. Not in so many words. By the time we’d retrieved out coats and walked outside, there he was; the man of my dreams, Essem, ready to take us all home. Brilliant. And very cheap.

Like heroin; one hit and I was hooked.

Thus last night Mel & I prepared to go to the wedding reception, and trust me, I looked fucking gorgeous, I hit the Uber app. There were 3 drivers within 3 minutes of home and the price quote was very very cheap, as always. Bring it on.

Normally I might have driven to the West End, but parking… cold weather… high heels… plus they never named Park Lane after the easiest thing to do or find there. Otherwise it would be called Sleazy Fat Arab Lane. Mercedes Lane. Call Girl Lane.

Anyway. Me, Uber, app me up daddyo.

“PLEASE VALIDATE YOUR CREDIT CARD”.

Oh. What does that mean. Its the same credit card they held on file for the last trip. It hasn’t changed. It has a ridiculous credit limit. One that can certainly stand the £14.85p fare, I felt sure.

“GO TO YOUR PAYMENTS PAGE AND VALIDATE”

I eventually managed to find that place and it wanted to scan my card. No other instructions. So scan it it did. Rather clever, I thought. Then I went back to call the Uber and:

“PLEASE VALIDATE YOUR CREDIT CARD”.

I went to the page, did it again and

“PLEASE VALIDATE YOUR CREDIT CARD”.

Rinse and repeat for about 20 minutes. We’re now running late and I’m standing there shouting “JUST FUCK OFF WITH YOUR VALIDATE BOLLOCKS!!!!” at my phone. Still looking gorgeous though.

Eventually, having called the normal local taxi service; “about 30 minutes for a car, Sir, the usual unregistered Syrian Jihadi rapist”, we just jumped into the car and drove to town. Parked in a car park, for an eye-watering cost, in Shepherd’s Market, the one time scene of Jeffrey Archer’s long-ago dalliance of the oral variety with a very dirty person, and hoofed it, on me heels, to the Hotel.

It would have taken three Scotches to calm me down, but I was FUCKING DRIVING so settled for one and some chicken tikka instead.

Uber’s Ober. We’re done. Can’t trust them. Hate them. Sent them an email this morning telling how they RUINED MY ENTIRE LIFE. Don’t like to overstate things. Their shares will doubtless plummet as a consequence. Can’t be helped. They were worse than useless. They sent me to techno-Hell. A place I don’t do very well in.

Now COME ON YOU SPURS; this is the day of our destiny. Arsenal lost. Man City lost. Chelsea won but that doesn’t count, Leicester are top of the league, for God’s sake. We must win. We shall win.

Happy Sunday, except for Uber, may their car batteries all go flat.

A xxxx