I got back late last night from Angouleme and travelled for 12 hours by train, bus, and plane. The final leg of my journey took me from Didcot to Moorhensroad by taxi.

I opened the taxi door.

"Hi there!" I said politely, in a cheerful tone, not bad for someone who has been travelling for 12 hours. The taxi driver ignored me and continued to type on his mobile phone.

"Churl, " I thought to myself, remembering my mother's dictum that there is no-one more miserable than a miserable Berkshire man, and recalling that she likes to walk round Didcot smiling at people.

A cunning plan forms in my tired and gremlinacious mind: I will have my revenge on this miserable character who can't be bothered to say hello to the people who pay his wages. I will make him have a conversation with me all the way back. Ha!

"Busy tonight?" I enquire.

"Steady," he replies in a tone implying that neither my question nor his answer has any interest value at all.

"Watching the rugby tomorrow?" is my next gambit.

"Couldn't care who wins or loses, to be honest with you, " he replies. Before I can be impressed by the length of this reply, he then volunteers, "Now football, that's another matter".

I am in.

"Oh yes, " I say enthusiastically, "we played on Wednesday, didn't we? What happened?"

"We were 2-1 down when I turned it off. Rooney brought someone down in the penalty area."

I opine that Rooney, while a good player up front, is a liability because of his temperament. I take the silence that follows this remark to indicate agreement.

"Did they play Owen?" I enquire.

I discover that they played a 4-5-1 formation, instead of 4-4-2 and that this was a mistake becuase Owen likes to play up front. I am unable to offer an opinion about this, so enquire who played in midfield. Apparently Ashley Cole played. I had been under the impression that Ashley Cole was a defender, so this line of conversation dries up too. We then move to the subject of David Beckham ("can't stand the man, too big for his boots and not much of a player either") I feel inclined to disagree, but cannot bring myself to suggest that he is the best crosser of the ball in the world, because this might sound if I'm taking the piss. I also discover that Posh is not happy in America and wants to come home, although my informant could not care less what she does.

We then move to the problems caused by the lack of left-sided players. I venture to suggest that Joe Cole is the solution to the problem and my friend opines that he is indeed "a useful little player". By now I am getting tired of the game and am beginning to wonder if the conversation is his punishment or mine. So I am relieved to see the familiar lights of the pub sign and move the conversation on to directions and the cost of the fare.

He does not say goodbye or thank you.