Confessions of a Long Distance Lorry Driver

by Timothy Lea

‘Are you sure it’s all right?’ I allow my digits to take a stroll along her left thigh. They meet nobody who tells them that they are trespassing.

  ‘Oh yes. We want you to be completely satisfied with what you’re getting.’

  You can’t say much fairer than that, can you? I don’t know what sales manual this girl uses but she could go a long way.

  Wasting no further time on idle chit chat, I lean across and show her how good I am at sealing envelopes. She snuggles closer and I draw her towards me and ease her over the hand-brake which separates the two seats. Her legs are now alongside mine and she thoughtfully props one of them against the clutch pedal. In this way there is much less danger of me damaging my wristwatch as I slide my mitt up to say hello to her snatch-box. She is an eager little thing and her brewer’s bung probes for my hairy goat like it is an escaping eel. She is wearing stockings like her sister and it is a real treat to glide from nylon to warm, soft flesh. There’s not that feeling of being trapped at the end of a bag that you get with tights. I hook my finger under the rim of her knicks and she grabs hold of my balls like it is a game of Pass the Parcel and she reckons she is on to a winner.

  ‘Let me get across you,’ she says. Nothing bashful about her, is there? It’s not a question of an hour and a half’s foreplay and ‘I’m sorry but I’m saving myself for the curate’. I have hardly got my zip open before she has wrenched my pants and jeans down to knee level. Percy bobs in front of me as if nodding his agreement to some unspoken – and probably unspeakable – suggestion and Suzanne raises her chassis and sheds her panties before you can say Roger Carpenter.

  ‘Here we go then.’ With an agility that suggests that she has done something not totally unlike this before, Suzanne slides a leg across my lap and lays one of her delicate little hands on my poke spoke. ‘Say goodbye to daddy,’ she murmurs. A quick wriggle and my friend has disappeared. Suzanne slides her arms round my neck and settles into a position from which any Rhode Island Red watching would expect her to hatch out my balls.

  ‘What’s your after sales service like?’ I ask.

  Suzanne bounces up and down and closes her eyes. I think her mind is on something else. ‘Do you want me to do it faster?’ she says.

  The engine is still running and the heater is still on and I can’t help feeling that it is getting a bit on the warm side. The condensation running down the inside of the windows is a big help in reaching this conclusion.

  ‘That’s lovely,’ I say. I mean it, too. The sensation is like a butterfly’s wings tickling a naked current – don’t ask me how I know, I just do. Not wishing to interfere with anyone’s pleasure, I sneak out a hand and try and find the heater control.

  ‘Hold me.’ Suzanne intercepts my hand and guides it to her back bumpers. She is now shaking about like a sack of warm jelly beans and it is clear to me that something explosive is about to happen. Quite what it is comes as something of a surprise.

  Suzanne swings out one of her legs, there is a grinding noise – mechanical – and the lorry suddenly lurches forward. She must have knocked it into gear. Before I can take any rescue action I have been thrown back in my seat by the sudden movement and achieved some of the deepest penetration you will read about outside a sex instruction manual. The incident could not have taken place at a worse moment because I was just about to see off a few hundred thousand friends. Now I don’t reckon that I could wave goodbye to my granny if you gave me a Union Jack on a couple of sticks. Down and out, percy dives for the shelter of my thighs and I fumble for the ignition. CRUNCH! We hit something and I slide across the seat with Suzanne still on top of me. She is screaming her head off and I can’t say I blame her. We are still moving but I can’t see where because of the steamed up windows.

  Womp!! We hit something else and, more by luck than judgement, I bash against the gear lever and knock it into neutral. No sooner has the vehicle stopped than Suzanne has opened the door and started to clamber out. She does not even wait for her knicks. That is one big advantage that birds have in an emergency. There is no chance of a bloke scarpering with his trousers round his ankles.

  We seem to have come to a halt with the snout of the lorry half way through the perimeter wire. It looks like something out of a prisoner of war movie. The Great Escape – you must have seen it. They have it on the telly every other Sunday. Behind us are a couple of bashed in motors that now have a bit more knocked off them than is indicated by the price reduction.

  Sid steams up and it is soon clear that he has something on his mind beside a couple of inches of thinning barnet. ‘You bleeding half wit!!’ he screams. ‘What do you think you’re doing? I haven’t paid for them yet.’ I am disturbed to see that the idiot has what appears to be a bundle of five pound notes in his mitt.

  ‘We had a bit of an accident,’ I say. ‘Look, Sid. You’re not seriously thinking of buying these crates, are you?’

  ‘What about the damage?’ chips in Babs, hoisting her knicks towards waist level. ‘That’s going to cost a few bob to put right.’

  ‘And my ankle,’ says Suzanne. ‘It’s irreplaceable. I want retribution!’

  ‘Now look what you’ve done!’ snarls Sid. ‘Everything going like clockwork and you have to cock it up! Gawd, I’d love to have you along at a peace conference.’

  ‘Your flies are undone,’ I tell him.

  We called at Sid’s place on the way to Battersea but I had no idea he was arming himself with a load of expensive moola. When he told me to wait in the car and went down the end of the garden I thought he had just remembered to feed the kid’s ferrets – that tells you something about Sid, doesn’t it? Most kids have rabbits. Sid’s kids have ferrets. Mind you, when you look at the kids it is a wonder they don’t have alligators. Jason and Jerome Noggett are about as lovable as a couple of tarantulas dyed baby pink.

  ‘Daddykins isn’t going to like this,’ says Suzanne menacingly.

  ‘No-er, well, let’s see what we can work out.’ Sid goes into a huddle with the ladies and I hear the crackle of fivers changing hands. It is funny but I would swear that I could smell ferrets. Maybe that is why Sid has his finger tied up with a piece of rag – or handkerchief as he prefers to call it.

  Finally, the meeting breaks up. ‘That’ll do for now then,’ says Babs. ‘We’ll go and see what Dad says, eh Suzanne? He’s got your address, hasn’t he?’

  ‘Of course he has!’ scolds my lovely partner. ‘We all live together, don’t we!?’

  ‘Not you, you stupid cow!’ says Babs pleasantly. ‘I was talking to short arse, wasn’t I?’

  ‘What happened to Paul Newman?’ I ask.

  ‘Piss off!’

  The girls scramble through the hole I have so thoughtfully made in the wire mesh and click-clack down the empty street.

  ‘You berk!’ snarls Sid. ‘You cost me another hundred quid there.’

  ‘It might be more,’ I say, ‘You could find their old man on your doorstep.’

  ‘Not on my doorstep.’ Sid looks smug. ‘You don’t think I gave him my real address, do you? Wake up, Timmo. You’ve got to think fast in this business: “Sting like a butterfly, dance like a bee.” That’s what they say, isn’t it?’

  ‘Something like that,’ I say, wearily.

  ‘I’m afraid that money will have to come out of your wages.’

  ‘Wait a minute!’ I say. ‘I’m still employed by Slumbernog. Nitya Pullova is only half way through The Boyhood of Lenin. I reckon he’s going to get his end away soon.’

  ‘Is that all you can think about?’ sneers Sid. ‘Communist bedtime stories? Let me tell you something. Unless you join up with Noggett Transport, you’re never going to earn enough money to pay me back.’

  ‘I’ll think about it,’ I say.

  ‘You do that. Now, come on, let’s get the fleet out of here.’

  ‘Fleet’. It is almost touching, isn’t it? Sid is just like a big, soft kid with a new toy. Unless I can get him fixed up with a nursemaid I don’t see how I can le
ave him to fend for himself.

  ‘How are we going to get them out?’ I ask.

  ‘Through that bleeding hole you made. Come on!’

  I have just climbed into the cab and turned on the lights – or rather, light, as it turns out to be – when the door is wrenched open and a mean looking cove is revealed grasping a spanner.

  ‘Right!’ he says. ‘One little move and I’ll smash your ankle into matchwood. Alf! Get the rossers.’

  ‘Hang on a minute,’ I say. ‘What are you raving about?’

  ‘You’re trying to nick these lorries, aren’t you?’

  ‘Nick them?! My mate’s just bought them!’

  ‘Don’t give me that. I’d have known if he’d have bought them, wouldn’t I?’

  ‘I don’t see why,’ I say. ‘He only did it five minutes ago.’

  ‘I’d have known because I own them!’ shouts the bloke. ‘I’m Harry Trenchmouth. I own Squaredeal Cars.’

  While his words are burning their way into the innermost recesses of my lugholes their significance is moving at an even faster pace. Unless I am very much mistaken, Sid has been taken to the cleaners again. I thought there was something too good to be true about that Rogers bloke. And Babs and Suzanne did not come over like anyone’s daughters. No wonder my little charmer was puzzled when I started rabbiting about Australia. I don’t expect that anyone had told her about that.

  ‘I think there’s been some mistake,’ I say. ‘My brother-in-law will be able to explain everything.’

  As if on cue, another villainous herbert appears prodding Sid at the end of an iron bar. ‘You hold them here, Alf,’ says Mr T. ‘I’ll phone for the police. If they try anything, don’t hesitate to bash them repeatedly with your winkle pin.’

  ‘You must listen to me!’ whines Sid. ‘We were conned. We bought these vehicles in good faith. I had no idea the people who sold them to us weren’t the rightful owners.’

  ‘You expect me to believe that?!’ says Mr Trench-mouth, scornfully. ‘I catch you red-handed, absconding with the vehicles through a hole you have clearly made for that very purpose, and you have the bare-faced cheek to say that you have purchased the aforementioned vehicles in the course of a normal business transaction. Do you expect anyone in their right senses to believe a story like that? Alf, give him a little tap for being naughty.’

  ‘Hang on a minute!’ says Sid, taking a fast step backwards. ‘Don’t call the fuzz. Maybe we can come to some arrangement.’

  ‘What kind of arrangement?’ says Mr T suspiciously.

  ‘You want to sell these lorries, don’t you?’

  ‘They’re not here for decoration,’ says Mr T.

  ‘Well,’ says Sid, wringing his hands nervously. ‘To save a lot of awkwardness, I’ll buy them from you – of course, I’ve already bought them once but I can understand your not believing that.’

  Mr T looks at Sid and shakes his head. ‘Did you hear that, Alf? He’s offering me a bribe not to turn him in. He’s trying to corrupt the course of justice.’

  ‘That’s not true!’ yelps Sid. ‘I’m just trying to do what’s best.’

  ‘What’s best for you,’ says Trenchmouth.

  ‘What’s best for all of us!’ says Sid.

  ‘I’d be breaking the law if I didn’t hand you over,’ says Mr T. There is a slight waver in his voice and Sid leaps in desperately.

  ‘I’d make it worth your while,’ he says.

  ‘There’s a lot of damage to the site, guvnor,’ chips in Alf. ‘I reckon the Ford’s a write-off.’

  ‘To say nothing of what you’ve done to the fencing,’ muses Trenchmouth. ‘No, we’ll have to do our duty, Alf. I wouldn’t let these two out of my sight, anyway.’

  ‘I’ve got cash,’ says Sid. A bundle of notes leaps into his Margates, and Trenchmouth’s minces open wide.

  ‘Did you pull a bank before you came round here?’ he says.

  ‘My life savings,’ said Sid, pathetically.

  Ten minutes later, the bulge in Mr Trenchmouth’s jacket looks like a pregnant moggy and Sid is set to start saving all over again.

  ‘Right,’ says the fortunate owner of Squaredeal Motors. ‘I still think I may have done the wrong thing. This incident could haunt me for the rest of my life.’

  ‘It’s certainly going to haunt me,’ mutters Sid.

  ‘Let my soft heart be a warning to you,’ says Mr T. ‘Tread ye the ways of righteousness and honesty for the rest of your days.’

  ‘Amen,’ says Alf.

  With that, they step into an XK 120 and are away. ‘Phew!’ says Sid. ‘It took all my fast talking to get us out of that one, didn’t it?’

  ‘That and a few million quid,’ I say. ‘Blimey! How much money have you got?’

  ‘Practically sweet FA after that lot,’ says Sid. ‘Come on, let’s get out of here before something else happens.’

  It is now about one o’clock in the morning and I am really knackered. It is amazing how a few beers with Sid can stretch into half a lifetime of incident. I drag myself into the cabin, tap the gear stick and feel for the ignition. It would be just my luck if the bastard did not start. Vroom! Thank God for that. I find first gear, ease out the clutch and slowly crawl forward with the wire mesh scraping against the side panels.

  Ringa-ding-ding-ding-ding-ding-ring-ring-!!! At first, I think it is a fire engine. Then I cop an eyeful of the flashing blue light. The fuzz! What a night this is turning out to be. I hope they are not going to keep us hanging about with a lot of damn fool questions.

  ‘OK. Turn off the motor and get out!’ The bule is standing beside me almost before the door of his Panda car has slammed. I don’t mess about but do as he says.

  As usual, Sid has got more to say. ‘What is the meaning of this, officer? Can’t an innocent man go about his business without being hounded by the forces of the law?’

  Before any answer can be given to this interesting question a tiny geezer in a camel hair overcoat bristles before Sid like a balding Yorkshire terrier.

  ‘Bring back the birch!’ he screams. ‘It’s the only thing these swine understand.’

  Sid turns to the copper. ‘Would you mind asking Tiny Tim to step out of the way of my lorry? Otherwise he might land up wedged in one of the treads.’

  The bule fixes Sid with a beady eye. ‘Your lorry? That’s very interesting. This is Mr Deal of Squaredeal Motors and he says that it’s his lorry.’

  CHAPTER THREE

  ‘You should never have hit that copper,’ I say.

  ‘I’d had enough,’ says Sid. ‘I was overcome, distraught. In the circumstances, it was a very normal thing to do. Anyway, there was something funny about him.’

  ‘Yeah, he was a black belt judo expert.’

  ‘I didn’t mean that,’ says Sid, massaging the back of his neck. ‘I meant something funny about the way he behaved. I was dead certain he was an impostor. Did you see his feet?’

  I nod. ‘I did catch a glimpse of them when he was standing on your chest.’

  ‘They weren’t like copper’s feet. More like a bleeding ballet dancer.’

  ‘Well, aren’t you the lucky one,’ I tell him. ‘It might have been Jack Warner.’

  ‘It’s a blooming disgrace,’ grumbles Sid. ‘When I was a kiddy, a copper looked like a copper. You could hear him coming a mile off. Now, they trip around like a load of fairies.’

  ‘It’s a pity you didn’t suss out that some of those other geezers were impostors, isn’t it?’ I tell him.

  Sid adopts his martyred expression. ‘I’m not ashamed to have faith in my fellow men. If we all went round wearing a black mask of suspicion, where would we be?’

  ‘I don’t know where we’d be,’ I say. ‘But I know, wherever it was, we’d be a lot richer.’

  ‘That’s right, that’s right,’ says Sid, bitterly, ‘Always ready with the cheap gag. It’s easy, isn’t it?’

  ‘I’m sorry Sid,’ I say. ‘But it was a bit – how shall I put it? – unfortunate. I
f you hadn’t bought all those tickets for the Policeman’s Ball we might have ended up in the chokey.’

  ‘You didn’t help by thinking it was a raffle,’ snarls Sid. ‘I thought that bloke was going to charge us when you asked what they were going to do with the other half of the set.’ We are standing beside the lorries which are now parked outside the ancestral home of the Leas in Scraggs Lane. Sid eventually bought them from Mr Deal who by some miracle turned out to actually own them. Sid – very understandably – keeps pretty quiet about the details but I am led to understand that he could have bought two new lorries for what he ended up laying out in the three transactions. Needless to say, Will Rogers, Harry Trenchmouth, Alf, Babs and Suzanne have not been seen since. I reckon they are probably drinking Sid’s health in the South of France.

  Sid shapes as if to give one of the lorries a cheerful slap and then thinks better of it. ‘Right,’ he says. ‘That’s all behind us now – as the snake said when the doctor told him he had piles.’ Sid waits hopefully and I run a bit of bird shit off what remains of the paintwork. ‘You’ve no sense of humour, have you?’ he says bitterly.

  ‘I think it’s spending so much time with you,’ I say. ‘What have you got lined up for us now, stock car racing? Or straight round to the scrap metal yard?’

  ‘Sarcasm is the lowest form of wit, Einstein,’ sneers Sid. ‘While you’ve been looking on the black side. I’ve been doing something positive. I’ve lined you up with a nice little number already.’

  ‘What are you on about?’ I ask him. ‘I’m still employed by Slumbernog.’

  ‘No you’re not,’ says Sid. ‘I rang up the acting shop steward and told him that you thought the TUC were a bunch of pricks. I wouldn’t go back there for a few years if I were you.’

  ‘You rotten sod!’ I say. ‘Now I’ll never know what happened to Vladimir Ilyich when he returned from exile.’

  ‘And a good thing too!’ says Sid. ‘That Russian tart was poisoning your mind with her big tits.’

  Sid may say what he likes but I will always have a soft spot for the fair maid of Omsk. I only wish that Nitya Pullova had been prepared to repay the compliment.