A knife fight in my taxi.

Me, my taxi and knife fighting passengers.

This is a funny. Nothing bad happened.

I was a university student, living in a suburb of Stockholm, in 1962. The pay as a part-time taxi driver was terrific. I usually drove Saturday nights so the owners could have the wheels spinning, making money, without driving themselves.

I loved it.

Now, imagine this: February in Sweden, - 30 C or colder.

Two elderly friends, both affected by their Koskenkorva, of Finnish origin, seated themselves behind the safety shield. (I apologize to all Finns, and all of you who know Koskenkorva, but you know where this story goes.)

They started arguing. The argument got louder and they soon pulled a long, impressive-looking Mora knife each. Deadly weapons.

I spoke to our dispatcher on the radio. He knew these gentlemen.

“Drive so you scare the s..t out of them.”

Not hard to do on a frozen-over empty country road in Sweden.

After a few skids (I recovered “before the ditch hit us”) they got quiet.

Their coats had some cuts but no blood had been spilled.

I was properly paid, even got a good-size tip.

Then one of them said:

“You are a terrible driver, skidding all over on a night like this, you could have had us killed.”

The dispatcher, who knew so well how to handle Fighting Finns by remote control on a dark night, turned 80 the next week.

I gave him a big bottle of Whisky.

He was very happy over that.

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