On street corners, in taxi ranks, behind steering wheels, a war is raging. Britain's black-cab drivers are on the warpath. The enemy? Uber: a new piece of booking software that allows smartphone users to hail private-hire cars from any location. London's cabbies rage that Uber drivers are using their phones as meters, which under current law is illegal for private-hire vehicles. Meanwhile, Uber drivers just keep on driving.
While the intricacies of transport law are examined in the UK courts, who is winning the battle on the streets? In an entirely selfless act, the Guardian threw itself into the fray, road-testing both Uber and a traditional black cab in a dash across London.
The Uber leg does not start well. After the app is downloaded, it stubbornly refuses to acknowledge that the Guardian exists. Only with the help of an old-fashioned desktop computer is registration completed and a car booked for a four-mile journey from the Guardian's offices in King's Cross to Big Ben in Westminster. Like the welcome letter of an overpriced American pony camp, an email instantly exclaims: "We're excited to have you join us and start riding!" And at a touch of a smartphone screen, the nearest car, shown making its way towards our blue blob in King's Cross, promises to arrive in seven minutes.
In the meantime, inevitably, a black cab pulls up outside Guardian HQ and two more sail regally past. But right on schedule, Paramjit Paramjit – a man with a name so good his mother gave it to him twice – pulls up in a shiny brand-new Prius. "Hello Lexy," he says. We set off at 1.23pm on the dot.
Paramjit, formerly a minicab driver, only started with Uber last week, after a friend told him he could choose your own hours. He is hiring this motor, but saving for his own. So far, he is happy. He's making similar money – while giving Uber about 20% of his fares – and working fewer hours. "It's mostly decent customers, people who behave politely," he says. "When they call, they are ready to go, so you don't spend too long waiting."
This car is clean enough to perform open heart surgery in. Paramjit, who's from Delhi and has lived in London for seven years, is smartly dressed, helpful and friendly.
He has good reason to be – at the end of every Uber trip, the passenger rates the journey; drivers with bad ratings get fewer fares. But it goes both ways: clients who are drunk, disorderly, miserly or rude – traits only occasionally demonstrated in this fine city – can get a thumbs-down from drivers too, and if they are not careful could find themselves short of a ride in Barking after falling asleep on the night bus home.
Paramjit drops us off outside Portcullis House at 1.45pm, 22 minutes after we set off. A bill, giving the exact distance travelled, a map of the journey and the time it took, drops instantaneously into my inbox. The £12 fare is taken automatically from my account.
Stage one complete, we look for a cab, which takes four whole minutes, and we get into the hackney carriage for the return leg at 1.49pm. John Smith (yes, really) has been a cabbie for 18 years; his brother and brother-in-law are cabbies too. Once we are settled into the luxurious bosom of his car, the diesel-guzzling matron rumbling into action, he happily shares his discontent.
'What's the point of spending three years of your life doing the Knowledge? It is worrying, because it's not a fair playing field," he says. "Why bother paying 36 grand for this, when you pay 10 and get a saloon?" Still, he's not jumping ship any time soon.
"I wouldn't do it, not in a million years," he says. "I'm not blowing my own trumpet, but black-cab drivers are the best in the world. This is not a stopgap job, it's a profession, it's something to take pride in. I love London, and I love being a cab driver."
Earlier in the day, he took an American couple from Tower Bridge to Westminster Abbey, pointing out the sights and taking a picture of them in the cab when they were done. "Uber's not going to give them that, is it?" he says, interrupting himself to ask if it's OK to take the Farringdon route, to try to avoid traffic. The long cut taken, we get back to the Guardian's offices at 2.07pm; the journey has taken 18 minutes and cost £13.
"I took you the long way then, to be quicker," he says, with a just a smidgen of triumph. "That's why my knowledge is better than his satnav any day of the week." He switches his light back on and gives a wave. "You take care, Sweets," he says, and pulls back into the traffic.
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