I make no apologies for bumping this, I was talking to one of the other forum members the other day and he asked me about it but said he couldn’t find it… The frightening thing about it is that it all happened more than 27 years ago… And seeing as it’s almost Christmas… which is when it all happened anyway I thought I’d dig it out and take it for a spin round again…originally posted 23rd Feb 2014…So here we go then…
Well it looks like Jazz Andy has gone a bit quite so I though I’d chuck a bit of a tale in here. I got an email from an editing company the other day to tell me they had been working on my book series but they though that this story would be good to stand alone, and had given it quick go over.
I was going to run it as part of the Writing stories thread but I thought I’d let it stand on it’s own for now.
This bit’ll be somewhere about book 3 or 4 and as a bit of a run up to this part of my tale goes a bit like this.
Dad and I had done a tank extraction for a chemical/ cosmetic company in south west Scotland during the summer of this year. The CEO was one of Dad’s old mates and told us he was very impressed with how the whole job had gone smoothly, then out of no where he offered us a contract to do the UK and European distribution for his company. This wasn’t our game and Dad told me a 1000 excuses for why we shouldn’t get involved, but by the time we got back to the office we put a plan together which was roughly go in with such a ridiculous high offer they wouldn’t even consider us as a contender.
Before any one says anything, when you post a large block of text on Trucknet it formats everything to the left and squishes up the paragraphs so this isn’t how it looks on Word…
Dad had always been up front that it was tanks for customers first, everything else second. I knew at the back of my mind that neither he nor George really wanted to get anywhere near the project.
Dad, the Suit and the lawyers had their meeting. Everything seemed to be above board, while I was getting wet loading tanks somewhere south. When I got back to the yard, Dad, George and I had a chat in the office. The main part being stressed was that they were doing this for me and it was now time for me to step up and take on more responsibility. There was a bit of a shopping list to get, and top of it was four heavyweight trucks, followed by four tri-axle fridge trailers. Because Dad didn’t really want anyone to know he was involved and the nature of the business, they were to be standard factory colours, perhaps a bit of factory graphics, but no sign writing or distinguishing features. Most of the work going out was light, between nine and twelve tons per load, as were the back loads, but on occasion there would be raw materials coming back, up to twenty two tons at a time. Some of it would be heavy, and because of the distances involved, top of the line trucks would be needed. Some of the return bulk supplies were rated as low grade Haz Chem, meaning there would be an extra bit of training and some other stuff to be carried like fire extinguishers and spill kits, and there would also have to be a bit of extra insurance.
Because of the reliable performance of the Volvo and it being on top of the job, Dad now thought that the bigger the truck the better. Tempting as it was, I refrained from saying I told you so. A quick phone round the truck dealers found that there was a six to nine month waiting list for just about all of the new trucks that we had short listed. So, that was the first problem. The trailer manufacturers were all about the same, even ordering four at a time.
I heard back from Newcastle: we would get about half the permits we applied for. That wasn’t too bad, as most permits could be used again for a friendly handshake with the guy that was in charge of passports and stamping. The lack of trucks was a bit more of a challenge, as the contract was due to start early in the New Year. The ministry had been informed and there wasn’t a problem there, as we still had conditions for up the nine trucks and eleven trailers operating on our O licence. That left drivers. There were plenty of people that had truck licences, but there were only a few that could actually drive trucks, and most of the good ones were already working.
Dad told me that he had gone to the bank with the contract and the finances, they’d been over it and were happy enough to secured a deal so there was money to buy equipment, we just had to find it. I had been doing the rounds at the dealers, but there wasn’t much in the way of things that I would like to buy. Dad, on the other hand, said he was on to a couple of trailers, and gave me the address to go and have a look. There were three tri-axle fridges sitting at a farm in Buckinghamshire; two looked good and the other was a couple of years older a bit battered on the inside, the pogo stick retaining strips had been ripped out and badly repaired and on farther inspection found that the A.P.T. was almost out of date. Three days later, the two good ones were ours. I had to borrow a unit one weekend and go and collect them, as we didnât want to leave them sitting about. They were parked out of the way at a friend’s farm, after they had been given a good look at by the trailer guy at Broxburn.
I had a chance encounter with Porridge one day while I was at a motorway services. He had moved his operations to a place near Preston and he had just taken delivery of another truck and trailer. The conversation was the same as usual, with him complaining about not getting a good rate and there being no decent work around. He did think that he was in too deep to throw it in, but didn’t really see the point of slogging his guts out seven days a week for the hire purchase man.
I had an idea - if we couldn’t get enough trucks and trailers, how about subbing out some of the work to an owner driver? After all, we knew that Porridge had Italian and Spanish permits, and he knew the job as well as anybody. I put the idea to Dad, who was thinking along the same sort of lines, and also mentioned that a Volvo dealer in the midlands may have something to look at.
Monday morning of the next week I was at the dealers yard looking at a very tidy F twelve, twin steer, Globetrotter that had been towing an exhibition trailer for two years. It was in factory metallic gray with some factory graphics which was just the thing that Dad had mentioned. The only thing against it was that it had a very small fuel tank, but I had met someone at one of the shows that was making custom tanks and was quite confident that he could sort something out for me. The mileage was so low that it was only due its third service, and the company had only sold it because of its lack of use. The asking price was a bit high, but I threw in the thing about the tank. As I was also looking at an F sixteen Globetrotter tag unit which was factory white with metallic gray factory strips that had been snatched back on finance from an owner driver as well, the sales man looked quite happy to do a deal. I phoned Dad and he told me that if I was happy with them to sign on the line and he would sort out the finances.
We now had two trucks and two trailers. It was the beginning of December and things needed to get moving. The Volvos were put into the local Volvo dealer and given a good going over. There was extended warranty on the F sixteen and something could be sorted out for the F twelve as well. The fridges had been checked out and certificates were issued just in case we needed them. Dad had come up with something to fill the gap, as he put it. He gave me a lift to Newcastle, and I drove home in a new Seventeen Forty Eight Merc. It had been a cancelled order, so the price was good. Dad had always been a fan of Mercedes and had run them in the past.
The job of interviewing for drivers went to Dad, as he was about at the time, and even though the vacancies weren’t advertised, over twenty people asked about them. It was quickly thinned down to two, as Dad already had his thoughts about who was going to drive his trucks.
Steve was the son of the farmer that had looked after the trailers. He had a reputation as being a bit of a bike nutcase around the local area. His only truck driving qualifications, though, were that he had done a bit of stuff in the last couple of harvests for a local haulage company. Dad had spoken to the guy he was working for, and was told that he hadn’t damaged anything he was driving. Other than that, he didn’t know much about him. Dad had thought that Steve being a friend of the family was a reasonable bet, and he also had a current passport.
Ally was well known in our area and had worked for a few companies, and was always regarded as a canny bloke. He had been an owner driver for a few years, and had done a bit of distance work, but had given it up, due to family commitments. He was now recently divorced and living with his mum, had never been across the water, but was willing to give it a try as long as it wasn’t too far. As far as it went, that was it: two drivers. I pointed out the flaw in Dads plan - two drivers, three trucks and no trailer for the third. The trailer was easy, as we were going to hire one until a suitable replacement could be found. I was to be the third driver for now. Pat Laing, Norforst and Brady were going to handle the tanks for a while, and in the same breath, Dad asked which truck I wanted.
All the trucks and trailers were to be on contract maintenance, fuel and tyres and tolls were handled by D.K.V. The drivers were paid into the bank every week. Porridge would be paid on receipt of C.M.R. Dad and George were going to handle wages and general bills. I was set the task of making sure everything else worked as it was meant to. That took care of as much as we could think of. We had Authorisation forms, A.T.P. forms, C.M.Rs, G.V 60s, T forums, various other bits of paper for each truck and trailer and insurance documents for everything, and a bloody good contract. As far as I knew, we were good to go.
There were some changes made a couple of weeks before Christmas, and Dad wasn’t very happy saying, it was a sign of things to come. Right from the start it had been mentioned that we might not get the main UK distribution contract. If we did then I would have to come of the road all the time and be a proper transport manager. There were over a hundred and fifty deliveries to be made every week, that would mean buying another five trucks, mainly six wheeler ridges as most of the deliveries were to high street shops. But that part of the deal wasn’t going to happen until after Easter so there was still time to get it sorted out. I was happy that now most of the U.K stuff was going to being delivered by a local overnight parcel delivery service. We were still to do the rest of the heavier stuff, which was mainly European work with the odd full load round the U.K. There were still three loads a month to and from Spain, and the same from Italy and Germany, three loads a week round Britain, and four a month to France. There were also a few places in Belgium, Italy, Germany and Holland where raw product was to be collected. It wasn’t going to be a holiday and there wasn’t much room for error, but neither did we have to run bent. I was quit relieved that most of the multi drop U.K. had been passed on; I think Dad was as well, but he didn’t say anything. However (and it was a fairly big however), this was road haulage, and things seldom went as planned.
There was a couple of tanks in the shed getting a fair bit of work done to them. Some of the tanks did get a fair bit of attention, but these ones were in the shed for quite some time, and Andrew the welder as well as Colin had put a fair bit of work into them. When I got back to the yard one day in mid-December, there was a guy doing a pressure test on them, so I assumed they must have been for a special customer.
Getting back into the yard around three on a wet Monday afternoon, as usual I went straight into the yard, parked at the fuel tank and washed the passenger side of the truck. While I was filling up the tanks on that side, I loosened all the ropes and nets holding on the load of plastic tanks. I had done that many times and knew exactly how long it took to fill. The fuel nozzle was taken from the front tank and put in the rear one as I started dragging the nets off the load and rolling them up. The next bit involved watching the last few gallons of the greeny blue liquid make its way to the top of the tank, then switch it off and hang the nozzle back up.
I could hear Colin in the shed and by the sound of it he was giving the pressure testing guy a hand, so I got on with unloading the plastic tanks on my own. I assumed that Dad and George would be in the office, and as it was raining there was little probability of seeing either of them, let along getting any kind of help.
In my head I was going through the next few hours. Ten minutes to unload, turn the truck and drag round, fill up the tank on the driver’s side and wash that side of the truck as well, which would take about another ten minutes. The outgoing load was two big steel tanks. If Colin was available he could give me a hand, if not I could do the forklift myself, as long as he and the testing guy weren’t using it, so I needed another ten minutes for that, including strapping it on.
I’d need the nets for the back load. Shower, avoid Mum, get all the paper work and away. I should be at Newmachar chippy for supper around eight. Up to Turriff for the crane first thing Tuesday, then back for a load of muck spreaders before lunch. Andover first thing the next day, then load tanks out of Poole and back home for Saturday lunchtime. That would work well; I could service the Volvo and drag, then do a couple of two or three quick Londons the following week, and have time to help Dad sort out the new contract for the New Year. If it went really well I could get the new trucks in the shed and do a bit of painting on some of them. Even if it was just doing the wheels all the same colour and I also knew the F16 chassis and light brackets looked a bit tatty so I could sort that as well.
Both Dad and George came round the corner of the shed. They had a bit of a look about them. It wasn’t the kind of look that meant they were going over to the tank stock to measure something or count the number of plastics tanks in stock. They were looking straight at me, and coming my way as well.
Dad started, “Bit of change of plan. You’re not loading muck spreaders.
My mind answered back with, Oh no, not reels of paper out of Aberdeen! We haven’t done that for years! but my mouth said nothing.
George chipped in with "Straight up to Turriff, then straight back here, Colin will give you a hand to load. You’ll need to be back here tomorrow as soon as possible
I came back with, So it’s not rolls of paper reels George looked at me as if I was daft.
"Don’t let that diesel overflow was Dad’s next comment, as both he and George headed back to the office, while leaving me in the cold rain to get on with things. I was sure it didn’t take both of them to tell me that, as they disappeared back round the corner of the shed. I got on with it and unloaded and stacked the plastic tanks, then turned the Volvo and drag and got on with the rest of the stuff.
I heard Colin getting the forklift fired up, and no sooner had I got all the bearers ready than Colin lowered the first big steel tank into place. Once I had guided him into the exact position, I hammered home all the wedges and threw the straps over while he got the next tank ready for the drag. The same procedure was done to the other one, and in less the four minutes I was loaded and strapped and gave Colin a nod. That was the total extent of the conversation, then Colin and the forklift disappeared back round the corner of the shed leaving me alone once again in the rain to get on with things.
I stuck the diesel hose back into the drivers side tank and went round all the straps and ratchets while it was filling. With the wet nets on my back I trudged round the corner and into the shed where Colin and the testing guy were busy, so I let them get on with it. In the office I was told that I was needed back in the yard to load tomorrow. Well, they had already told me that, and they had also left the comfort of their nice warm office and ventured out into the rain to tell me, so who was daft now?
I got my paperwork and headed off. At least I would be having haggis and chips that night with a bottle of Irn Bur and a Tunnocks tea cake. It would be too late for tele though. I looked at the taco and did a quick time work out, then realised that it would be too late for the chippy at Newmachar, so it would have to be Laurencekirk chippy instead and eat it on the run. I wasn’t even out of the yard yet, and I’d already had to change my plans twice.
There were obviously things brewing, so when I was heading up the motorway I decided to see what Willy the crane was up to, and gave him a phone from the cab. As luck would have it, Willy had foreseen what was going on when George had phoned him earlier, and he’d parked the crane in position in the Turriff yard ready to unload me tomorrow morning. That was good news! Not only that, but he had left the keys in the usual place, so at least something as going right.
As it transpired, it was Laurencekirk chippy that evening. The newly opened by pass meant most of the traffic was going round it, so parking outside was fairly easy and there were only three or four oil field trucks parked down the high street, meaning I had to walk no more than about a hundred meters. However, with the traffic round Edinburgh, it was about half past eight before I got there, so I was a bit tempted to go to the chippy at Forfar. I ate my haggis and chips covered with brown sauce while I was pushing through the darkness and rain on the newly opened duel carriageway. Then I made my way round the western side of Aberdeen like I had done many times before. Up the hill by the awkward roundabout at the Egg and Dart Pub, then eventually into the usual layby on the north side of Newmachar. By then it was nearly half ten and the chippy was already closed and dark, so it was a good call to go to Laurencekirk.
I was off the next morning just before six, into the Turriff yard and in position by about half past. I found the keys for the crane in the pre dawn halflight, cranked it up and had the lifting bar installed not long after that. By seven, I was heading south empty. The taco card was installed at Newmachar on the way back south, and I was back in the yard just before half past eleven. No one was terribly surprised to see me, and Dad called me into the office to tell me that it had all worked out pretty well. The two tanks that were tested and passed yesterday were now ready to go, and I should load them now. Colin would give me a hand, get fuelled up and come back in and get the paperwork. Oh yes, leave the tank lids open.
Fair enough. I topped up the fuel tanks and turned the Volvo and drag and topped the other side tanks as well, while Colin was getting the tanks ready. He also came out of the shed with a load of new chocks and nails.
“Oh goodie, Christmas bonus!” I thought to myself.
The tanks were loaded directly onto the floor, as they had some kind of big skid arrangement welded to the bottom of them, and I was thinking of how good it would be if all the tanks we handled had the same kind of gear on them. As we were about to finish, Colin told me there was another bag of stuff to go that in the shed, and also not to strap the tank on the drag before I talked to Dad.
Just about on queue, Dad turned up and told me that the tanks were for Mr Hudson, and they were special order, so be careful with then. Well, I was always careful with the goods, no matter what they were. I wondered what the bag of stuff was, thought it was probably valves and seals, and no, they were not getting a lift in the cab.
Dad called me into the office.
“Right then, two tanks for Mr Hudson, special order, here’s a load of paperwork for them - but first, have you got your passport?”
Passport, I thought, another one of Dads jokes. Ha ha, very funny, if only!
"No, you’ll need your passport. I hope you haven’t lost it or anything like that? He was now engrossed in the paperwork, some of which I recognised as being transit documents and Department of Agriculture forms for Tunisia. I also saw the word Gasfa on the paperwork, meaning this was for real, not a wind up. Well that was surprise, a bit more notice would have been good though. Here I was thinking that I was going to have a quiet run down to Christmas and have a bit of time between then and the New Year to sort things out for the new contract. But this was road haulage. Who was I trying to kid?
"So they’re not going to Aberdeen, then? "was about as good as I could muster.
“No, Gasfa, and as soon as you can, because you’re needed back here on the forth of January to start the new job.”
As usual, Pat Laing, Brady, and Norfrost would be brought in to cover for me when I was away. Hmmm! It was now taking three haulage companies to cover the work I was doing with just one truck.
He said all that while wandering around the office looking for other bits of paperwork. I hoped that if that was what was really happening, it would’ve been all sorted out by now.
“Here, have a look at that. Just go through it and make sure it’s all there and in order. After all, if it’s not, then you’re the one that’ll be sitting on the other side of the world thinking you would have been better spending a few minutes getting it right before you left.” He tapped the pile of paperwork, then asked George if he wanted a chocolate biscuit with his coffee.
George didn’t even look up as he said, “Aye, a Hobnob would be good.”
I got on looking at the paperwork, and within five minutes I could see that most of it looked good. The rest I wasn’t sure about, as I had never seen it before, but when Dad came back with the coffee and biscuits for three he told me that Mr Hudson had sent the other paperwork and assured me they were all done right.
Dad and George were now sipping their coffee, when Dad started up with, “Now the other thing I’ve been told is that you have to carry snow chains at this time of year, so there’s a pair in a bag in the shed, and they’re bloody expensive things, so lock them in the cab.”
After having another sip, George looked up and said that they had borrowed a couple of spare wheels and tyres from one of the local hauliers. I assumed that was them I’d seen in the shed earlier and as they both had mud and snow tread they were probably Pat Laing’s. George said, that I should get Colin to give me a hand to fit the wheel rack back on the drag before I went - and when I saw him in the shed, I was to tell him that there was a coffee and Hobnob in the office for him before it got cold.
Well, I wasn’t expecting any of that, and not only that, but when I saw Colin in the shed he told me I was reloading marble from Marni Sud. Talk about being a mushroom man.
Colin disappeared into the office for his coffee and Hobnob as I went up the back of the shed, just hoping that the spare wheel rack hadn’t been converted into something else. As luck would have it, it was a bit dusty, but fine. So much for getting a hand, but inside half an hour it was fitted back onto the drag, and I proceeded to strap the tank with the skids to the drag. They weren’t the prettiest things to have as a load, as they were ex-rubberlined rail barrels, and all the new steel work was in the traditional red oxide, which Colin was never afraid to trowel on with a four inch Hamilton brush. They both still bore the original ProCor livery and even though Colin had slapped a coat of red oxide paint over them, they still proudly proclaimed they were designed for hauling Caustic Soda. The last thing to do was get the wooden box containing the spares, which was still in the other shed, and fit that into the middle of the spare wheel rack along with the spare wheels for the truck and drag.
Back in the office, George, Dad and Colin were on their second cups of coffee, but at least Dad now had the paperwork and running money sorted out. He pulled out one specific document and told me that it was an official tank cleaning document. I would need to show it all border crossings to confirm that the tanks had been de-commissioned. All that was left for me to do was get going after Dad and George had given me their shopping list, which was whiskey, cigars, vodka, Martini for the wives, and a few of those Italian cakes in the blue boxes.
The route Dad had planned was Dover Calais. As I was under twenty eight tons, it was going to be Basil into Swiss, Ciasso into Italy, Ferry from Sicily, into Tunis then down to Gasfa. Then, load the drag onto the Volvo back up into Italy, load Marble from Marni Sud, ten tons for a tombstone guy near Rochdale and nine ton for a bloke in Dundee.
One last thing - he thought that the last ferry to Tunis was on the twenty third and the next one wasn’t going to be until after Christmas, but I would have to be back here no later than the third, as the new job started on the fourth of January. And he also gave me a stack of signed taco cards, with his name on them, and as usual told me they weren’t to get back to Britain.
One of the things I didn’t understand was why Dad hadn’t mentioned where I was going before I filled the fuel tanks, which combined held the best part of a thousand litres. Very handy for tramping round Britain, carrying lightweight loads, but not for going into France where they would tax you for every drop you had over three hundred litres. When I told him, he had a look on his face like he had been sucking lemons. He then told me to meet him at the bank and he would draw me a bit extra to pay the French fuel tax.
There was just enough time to have a quite shower, try to avoid Mum, and grab as many clothes as I could before I headed out of the yard. The first stop was the large carpark down in the old Galashiels station yard, behind the new medical centre. I literally ran through town doing as much shopping as I could before making it back to the bank, where I got two hundred quid from Dad, who still didn’t look too happy.
The taco told me it was five past two, as I got the Volvo and drag pointed out the station yard carpark. It was still raining as I headed off down the road, and as I was driving along, much as I knew I shouldn’t, I started planning ahead. I’ll get to Toddington tonight, Turriff to Toddington, no one can complain that that’s not a good effort. Wednesday, Reims tomorrow, then an early start and into Swiss by lunchtime, and clear and through into the Italian side. Early start Thursday, lazy day to Napoli, then from there a big push over Sicily to the ferry, I should get an early start so I can get to the ferry terminal as soon as possible. That doesn’t allow for any kind of mishaps or breakdowns. It’s going to be fairly tight."
The farther down the A seven I got, the more I changed the plan. Jethro Tull was puffing into his flute as hard as he could on the cassette as I wound my way across the moor at Moss Paul. Still, in the back of my head I was laughing at the voices of all the old local drivers saying how that was one of the bleakest places on the planet. Granted it was still raining and there were a few low clouds about, but I had been in worse places then this.
By the time I got to Longtown I’d had a fairly good run, the rain had eased and I knew I was out of the worst traffic. At the very least there might be a couple of slower cars between here and the motorway, but at the most it would only be a couple more minutes, if anything. I put the radio back on and listened to the news. Supper at Forton tonight: pie, chips and Coke with a bit of the nice chocolate cake; that should be about half seven by then, on to Toddington for tenish. Robert Plant was belting out his dulcet tones accompanied by the guitar thrashing of Jimmy Page, as the relentless rain hammered the Globetrotter from every direction.
Round the roundabout onto the motorway, and I checked the mirrors to have a look down each side of the drag for anything out of the ordinary. In my haste to leave the station yard car park, I had left my stock of Coke over on the passenger side, so I decided to stop at Southwaite and get a couple of cans for the rest of the trip and have a better look at the trailer. Another fifteen minutes in the rain and I was parked in the long loads section. I went around everything. The chains were still holding the wheels on the rack in place as a backup measure, the main thing being the new gates that Andrew the welder had made recently. The tanks were sitting really good, they weren’t swaying about as much as they used to when they were just chocked to cross bearers. Three straps per tank were working well and I had an extra six of them just in case something happened.
Back up the steps and with the company of Jethro Tull on the stereo, once more I was off into the rain. To take full advantage of it I decided that sixty five miles an hour would be fine, as the rain water would keep everything cool, and before I knew it I was through the hills and into Forton. No super there for me that evening; I’d never seen the truck park so full. Not even the long load bays were free, but I still had another few hours left before Dad’s card needed a break, so I kept pushing.
I was getting along just dandy, Mr Tull was rasping away on his flute, when the phone went, I could easily pretend not to hear it but instead I answered it. Dad was on the other end and he informed me the Mum was not happy about the situation. Not only that but she was on the other line and he was going to put her through. Mum had her say, she was less than happy about things, mainly me not being home for Christmas, family blackmail, guilt trip and all that sort of stuff. Dad had been a stingy with the truth, and Mum didn’t know it would be after the New Year before I was dew back. Well that set her off again. I was only doing my job I didn’t make the schedule. I was a bit relieved that I would miss the usual Christmas extended family argument, of course I didn’t tell her that, but just passed the buck back to Dad to sort out, after all he was the boss.
Most of the commuter traffic had gone home by then, so into the centre lane at the Blackpool turn-off as the left one disappeared, then on to the dips round Preston. Once past the Leyland turn-off, most of the locals were gone, and with it still raining and dark, it was mainly freight that was left now. I was back up to sixty five and held it there for the next hour and a half. I had a look at both Sandbach and Knutsford, but again there wasn’t anywhere to park, and as they had put up height barrier on the car park entrance so there was no room in the Inn tonight, there was nothing left to do but push on to Keele.
Four hours and twenty nine wet minutes after leaving the station yard car park, I was parked. I didn’t really like the food at Keele, so I had a bit of a wander round the shop, bought a few pork pies to last the rest of the trip, waited, and had a bit more of think about the time scale. It was going to be very tight; I had to get a bit of a safety zone in there somewhere.
Without thinking, I lifted the centre cooker pack and took the fuse out. After all, I was on Dad’s card and already out of time, and they would throw the book at me if I got caught, so it wasn’t going to make any kind of difference now.
I got myself going down the slip road and into the wet night. I was just starting to pick up some speed when I saw a set of truck lights bearing down on me going fairly fast, but he’d seen me from a long way back and was getting into the centre lane.
The C.B. jumped into life. "Fit like a day loon!" came the broad Aberdeen accent.
I knew the voice at once to be Captain Burdseye.
"Aye, no bad." I tried not to sound too much like a choocter.
"Bring it oot sun, it’s me and Wee Willy D. Where yeh gon on a night like this?"
There was another voice coming through before I had a chance to key the mike.
"Fazz that then, Burdseye!"crackled the C.B.
"It’s that night time bandit that runs yon tanks fah the borders, in that muckle motor!"
The answer was quick as Captain Burdseye gathered speed on the down-hill section; he wasn’t hanging about as he shot past. My headlight illuminated copious clouds of water spray getting spewed from all fourteen tires as they mashed the rain relentlessly into the tarmac. By now I was getting rolling and doing the best part of sixty again. When he was clear I gave him a flash of the headlights to let him know the job was done and he could bring it back into the left side lane. This was followed by a well-rehearsed combination of him flashing off and on his rear lights and indicators both left and right.
Wee Willy was equally quick to come back with his reply of, “If it’s him then there’s something amiss, as I saw him gettn roond the Egg and Dart late last night when I was goin hame in ma car!”
I was straight back on the mike as I flipped the switch on the side of the gear stick and did a half thinking dip on the clutch, as the Volvo got going into top gear, with its self-picking up speed.
"If I’m up to no good, how come you made it here, Willy D "
Willy was straight in there with, "Ma aunty Betty drove it doon tah Forfar for me!'
And Captain Burdseye had a similar answer.
We all chatted away for the next few hours and it gave me the lift I needed. Willy D and the Captain were heading to Billingsgate with a couple of loads of fish. I sat in between them for the next hour and a bit until I stopped at Toddington, not for the night but to go to the toilet and put the fuse back in. Three hours after that I was weighing into Dover and ready to do my paperwork.
On the weighbridge I was in for a surprise, as I found my gross weight to be twenty nine and half tons, far too heavy to transit Switzerland with their strict twenty eight ton limit. So I guess I wouldn’t be seeing their snow-capped mountains this trip. I managed to get a bit of head down before I was on the four A.M. boat and elected to have a sleep in the Volvo rather than going up stairs. I felt that was justified, as it was blowing up rough, I was already exhausted from the long day, and I didn’t think that two hours of throwing up would help anything. I slipped onto the bottom bunk as soon as no one was looking.
Calais six A.M. was still blowing rough and still raining. I was off the boat and looking for somewhere to park where I wouldn’t have to walk too far to do the paperwork.
Mr Hudson had already booked me in with an agent to sort things out, so after parking, I found the office and went back to bed. It was a bit after nine when I got up again, still feeling a bit worse for wear after a long day driving in the rain. Wash gear under my arm, I went off to have a shower and after ten minutes in there I was ready to get on with things.
Let me know what you think.
I’ll be along next Sunday with the rest of the tale, in the mean time here’s some photos.
Here’s me with a load of plastic tanks. 385 bhp @ 780kg per load, just gone 21 years old.
Here’s me with a load of steel tanks.
Here’s me in France land on a previous export trip with a couple of tanks that were similar to the tanks I took to Tunisia but with out the steel cradles.
Jeff…
