I sympathise with Lammy and his rogue taxi driver,
it happened once to me too

I don’t think it will catch on, but I find myself sympathising with David Lammy.

The Foreign Secretary got into a barney with a rogue taxi driver who had been booked to take him and his wife 360 miles from Italy to a ski resort in France.

When the driver, Nasim Mimun, found out who they were, he demanded an extra €700 (£590) on top of the agreed fare already paid by the Foreign Office.

He claims Lammy, 53, became aggressive and said “F***ing French”. He also alleges that Lammy was carrying a gun.

When the couple refused to pay, Mimun, 40, drove off with their luggage. He has been charged with theft.

Now, I don’t know about you, but the expletive seems to me like a perfectly acceptable British response in these circumstances (and probably many others).

But my main reason for siding with the Labour MP for Tottenham is that I was once involved in a similar incident, albeit in Denmark, not France.

I would like to know what primal instinct is awakened in us at the appearance of a chancer. But it happens every time.

My defences went on red alert the moment the taxi driver rocked up, ten minutes late, waving his square of cardboard, upside down with my name scrawled on it in felt-tip.

We had arrived at Copenhagen airport expecting a pre-arranged transfer to the city centre. Nobody was waiting.

Just as we were about to join the cab queue, we were accosted by this hustler, dressed too nattily for a cabbie and talking much too fast.

The bullshit meter was going crazy, ticking like a Geiger counter in an Iranian silo.

“Traffic, traffic… sorry,” explained this fake cab driver. “Follow me.”

He led us to a Mercedes, popped the boot lid and invited us to put our luggage inside, which we did.

But we held on to our shoulder bags containing passports, cash and valuables. As experienced travellers, we never part with these. If the luggage goes one way and we go another – it happens, doesn’t it? – at least we are not stranded without travel documents or money.

“Put your bags in there,” the driver instructed us.

“No,” I said, and got in the car.

We set off for the hotel and it wasn’t long before he brought up the question of the fare.

“You will have to pay 45 euros,” he told us.

“We’ve already paid,” I said.

“No, no, you must pay. It’s €45.”

I flourished the letter confirming we had paid in advance. “I told you – already paid.”

He didn’t like this and turned to give me the evil eye. I batted it right back at him.

We drove in hostile silence until we reached the city. “Which hotel was it?” he asked.

I told him but it clearly didn’t ring any bells. We drove around aimlessly for a while and finally he pulled in to a layby, ostensibly to consult the map.

But I noticed him glancing in his mirrors and I began to worry now, half expecting a car to pull in behind us with friends of his who wanted to part us from our belongings.

I reached into my shoulder bag and brought out one of those Pentel propelling pencils I used to use for drawing pages. The body is plastic and fits snugly in the hand. But the business end is fashioned from steel and tapers to a sharp point.

If someone wants my stuff, I thought, they’ll have to take it off me.

But the highwaymen never materialised and eventually the driver set off again. It turned out we were only a few hundred yards from the hotel. All pretence at civility was gone by now as he drew up outside and waited for us to get out.

My wife did so and waited beside the still-closed boot. I stayed seated. If he planned to scarper with the luggage, I was going with him.

Finally, exasperated, he opened the boot. I waited while my wife took out our suitcases. Ungallant, perhaps, but safer. Only when I could see our bags on the hotel forecourt did I get out.

I closed the door of the Mercedes, though not the boot, and walked away as he clambered from the car and shot me a look of pure malice.

If I had offered him a tip, it would have been: Choose your mugs more carefully next time.

*****

Former Daily Express boss Richard Desmond languishes at 122nd in this year’s Rich List, though his fortune has climbed slightly from £1.31 billion a year ago to £1.325.

Desmond, 73, now divides his time between London and Dubai, where he has bought a house. He obtained a so-called golden visa last summer from the United Arab Emirates for “lifestyle” reasons.

He likes the climate, say friends – both in the weather and business sense. He is said to be diversifying his investment portfolio with overseas property.

He remains a UK taxpayer, both personally and with his company, Northern & Shell. Desmond, who has three children from his two marriages, is holding on to his home in The Bishops Avenue, Hampstead, which is said to be magnificent. (In typical Desmond fashion, he offset the cost by flogging off the bottom of his enormous garden.)

He is also keeping his company offices in the Blue Lubyanka overlooking the river in Lower Thames Street in the City of London.

Looking back, I think he was considering a move to the Middle East years ago. At one of those interminable meetings in the 10th floor board room, I remember he brought up the subject of the booming new cities taking shape there. What did we think?

I suggested that without history or a reason to be there – beyond something to spend your oil wealth on – they were not really proper cities.

It seems he did not agree.

*****

OVERHEARD

Grandson: “Mummy, the man on the television said naughty words.”

His mother: “That’s the Pope, darling, he’s allowed to say ‘Jesus Christ’.”

RICHARD DISMORE

21 May, 2025