Confessions of a Long Distance Lorry Driver

by Timothy Lea

  ‘I always used to think that it was “Odour Cologne” meaning “pong” rather than “Eau de Cologne” meaning “water of”,’ I say, conversationally. ‘It’s funny that, isn’t it?’

  Shirl looks at me and shakes her head. ‘You’re barmy,’ she says. I don’t think that she has been exposed to my kind of breathless suavity before. It does come as a shock to a lot of girls. They don’t know how to react. ‘I don’t think I’ve had sex with a bearded bloke,’ she says.

  ‘You wouldn’t be able to remember anyway, would you?’ I say, a bit sarcastic-like.

  ‘Maybe not.’ There is a long pause and I reckon that the subject has been dropped. ‘It depends what it was like,’ she says, thoughtfully. I can feel her looking at me expectantly and goose pimples pepper my thighs. If I was not over an hour late I could be very interested in the way she delivered her last remark.

  ‘Uhm,’ I say. ‘I suppose it does, really.’

  ‘I mean, it could be quite nice. There must be lots of things you could do with a furry beard.’ She shifts her position so that she has turned towards me. Her legs part slightly and she runs a hand along the inside of her thigh. The lorry behind hoots as I pull out without looking in my mirror.

  ‘Where are you spending the night?’ I say.

  ‘That depends. I haven’t made any plans.’

  ‘I’ve got to deliver these glasses,’ I say, nodding over my shoulder. ‘Maybe when I’ve done it we could—’

  ‘Pull over.’

  ‘Why? What’s the matter?’

  ‘You are. You and my feelings. Sometimes I get it very bad for a feller. Very bad and very sudden. Pull over, I want you inside me.’

  She runs one of her hands over my beard and then down my chest and—‘Wow!’ I nearly drive over a Volkswagen like it is a humpback bridge.

  ‘I can’t pull over,’ I say. ‘It’s against the law and I’m late as it is. I only stopped because it was you. Can’t we get together when I’ve done the job? I can buy you some supper—’

  ‘No! I want it now. It won’t be the same later.’

  Oh dear. Once again, I find myself on the horn of a Dalai Lama. Duty calling in one lughole while my cream-thighed love goddess croons in the other. What would you do? Yes, me too!

  ‘I can only stop for a minute,’ I say, slamming on the anchors and steering for the hard shoulder. ‘My partner would kill me if he knew I was doing this.’

  ‘You don’t have to tell him. I know men who would give their right arm to do what you’re going to be doing in a minute.’

  Hardly have I pulled on the hand brake before she has raised her back bumpers and tugged her drawers and tights down to knee level. Percy is probing the stratosphere and all seems set for a bout of instant cock snuffing. Then I look in the driving mirror. A cop car is sliding to a halt behind us. Even as I watch it jerk to a halt, the doors open and two bules get out.

  ‘Fuzz!’ I say.

  ‘That’s right,’ says Shirl poking me playfully in the balls. ‘Haven’t you got any?’

  ‘I mean cops!’ I say. Shirl’s knicks shoot up faster than the cost of living.

  ‘What do you think you’re doing?’ the cop appears to be staring at my crutch but I try and believe that it is just my guilty conscience.

  ‘The engine was overheating,’ I say. ‘I thought I’d better pull off for a while.’

  ‘You want to watch it. You’ll stunt your growth.’ The second cop laughs to see such fun. He has a big, black bushy beard.

  ‘Hello,’ says the first cop. ‘Look who’s here. It’s Shirl. What are you up to?’

  ‘I’m up to page seven of Little Women,’ says my companion. ‘What are you up to?’

  ‘What a wonderful sense of humour,’ says the cop. ‘You ought to be on the telly.’

  The second cop sticks his mug through the window and I feel Shirl perk up as she clocks his beard. I must say, it has more promise than mine if you go for the door mat variety. Real ‘Sixteen men on a dead man’s chest’ stuff.

  ‘Where are you bound for?’ he says.

  ‘Nowhere in particular.’

  ‘We’ll give you a lift there.’

  I would not mind so much if the first cop did not start rubbing his hands together before she has even got out of the cab.

  ‘And you,’ he says, turning to me viciously. ‘Watch it! We won’t be so easy on you next time.’

  ‘Sorry about this,’ says Shirl. ‘But you can’t resist an invitation from the boys in blue, can you?’

  The bloke with the beard opens the back door for her and they exchange a look that would unseal an envelope. She does wave as they pull out but I don’t reply. Sometimes, I hate coppers.

  By the time I have turned off the motorway at Chorley and taken the wrong turning I am an hour and a half late and harassed – very harassed. I know the underside of Sid’s armpit better than the country around here. Barnly is a long sprawling town and the Working Men’s Club appears to be well hidden. The only action is round an enormous modern building with a commissionaire standing outside. It is picked out in floodlights and an impressive array of motor cars are dropping expensively dressed men and women outside the front door. I imagine that it must be the Town Hall and that the Mayor is holding some kind of function.

  ‘Excuse me, mate,’ I say to the geezer on the door. ‘Do you know where the Working Men’s Club is?’

  ‘Certainly,’ says the bloke in a very posh voice. ‘Your vehicle is standing in front of it.’

  ‘You’re kidding!’ I say. ‘This place? It’s like the Festival Hall.’

  ‘Slightly bigger,’ says the bloke clapping his white-gloved hands together against the cold. ‘I used to go there a lot in the old days. Evening sir.’ He touches his cap to a little old man who goes through the door carrying a whippet under his arm. ‘That chap used to sweep out under my machines.’

  ‘Your machines?’ I say.

  The man nods. ‘I used to own a mill round here. It was a luxury I can no longer afford. The wheel has turned full circle. We are the workers, now. Good evening madam.’

  The old bird sweeping through with her mate takes no notice of him. They both look like Gary Glitter in drag and they must have robbed a Christmas tree for most of the stuff they’re wearing.

  ‘It better be better than last time,’ says one of them. ‘You expect to see everything, don’t you?’

  ‘We won’t see anything if we don’t get a move on,’ says the friend. ‘You know how they hog the front rows.’

  They disappear through the swing doors and I turn my attention to the commissionaire who is carefully fitting a freshly discovered fag end into a bulging match box.

  ‘Deliveries round the back?’ I ask.

  He nods. ‘Mind you don’t scratch the catering manager’s Rolls.’

  ‘Why? Does the pastry crack up?’ It is only after I have driven off that I realise what he meant. I do feel a fool.

  I park Enid and go into the kitchens which are full of blokes shoving handfuls of scampi and chips on to cold plates. They don’t seem at all interested in my glasses and I am told to look for someone called Mr Brownlow. Out of the kitchens and along a corridor until I come to another door with a glass panel in it. I look through it and see a load of blokes and birds sitting at tables which stretch for about half a mile until they reach a stage. On the stage is a bloke singing through a microphone. Coming towards the door is a worried looking bloke in a dinner jacket being pursued by a small man wearing a dirty white shirt with a clip-on bow tie – I know it is a clip-on because only one side is attached to the collar.

  ‘If he wants brandy and tomato juice, let him have it,’ says Dinner Jacket.

  ‘Flambéd over a chocolate ice cream?’ says the little bloke.

  ‘Ah hem. Mr Brownlow?’ I say.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’m sorry I’m late. I—’

  Brownlow grabs my arm and starts pulling me down the corridor. ‘Thank God you’ve come. You came by
road, I suppose?’

  ‘Well – yes.’

  ‘You should have come by train. Another five minutes and they would have ripped the place apart.’

  I can imagine the scene. Everybody waiting for a drink and nothing to drink it out of. ‘It’s all outside,’ I say.

  ‘What is?’

  ‘The glasses,’ I say.

  ‘Glasses?’ Mr Brownlow looks at me in a very funny way.

  ‘You don’t want glasses. They wouldn’t like it with glasses. It may go down all right in London but it wouldn’t up here. Nothing sophisticated up here. That beard’s going it a bit. No, you can forget about the glasses.’

  Before I can ask him what he is talking about, Mr Brownlow stops outside a door. Through it I can hear what sounds like a female choir singing ‘Why are we waiting?’ Something tells me there is more to the Barnly Working Men’s Club than meets the eye. Could it be that I am poised on the verge of a misunderstanding?

  ‘Do you want to change?’ says Mr Brownlow, his hand on the doorknob.

  ‘I’ve got the overall in the cab,’ I say, a bit puzzled.

  ‘Cab?’ says Mr B. ‘You came all the way from London in a cab? Still, I suppose it’s not surprising on the money I’m paying you. What I can’t understand is the overall. They won’t like that either. They’re kinky for sequins up here.’

  I take a deep breath. ‘Listen Mr Brownjob,’ I say. ‘I think there’s been a—’

  ‘It’s Brownlow and you’d best forget about the overall. Where’s your music?’

  ‘Music?’

  ‘You must have music!’

  ‘Well, there’s a radio in the cab.’

  Brownlow strikes his fists against his head in exasperation. ‘By gum but you’re a rum ’un! I don’t know what they’re going to make of you. You do it to patter, do you?’

  ‘Patter?’ I say.

  The sound of ‘Why are we waiting’ is joined by the uneven stamping of feet. Brownlow tightens his grip on the door knob. ‘We can’t wait any longer,’ he says. ‘You’ll have to go on as you are. The panic button is on the right of the bongos.’

  I don’t have time to ask him what the hell he is talking about because he pulls open the door and pushes me through. At first I think I am in the big hall I caught a glimpse of earlier but I soon see that this room is much smaller. There is a small stage in the middle of it and a lot of tables with birds sitting at them – in fact, the only bloke I can see is standing helplessly on the stage. Brownlow gives him a thumbs up sign and he immediately extends an arm towards me. ‘Here we are! Here we are! I said we wouldn’t let you down, ladies. Better late than never I’m certain you will agree—’ I turn towards the door but it is closed. There is no sign of Brownlow – ‘We’ve had a lot of firsts at the Barnly WMC: we were the first to bring you Hughie Green wrestling alligators in foam, the first to bring you the now nationally televised football supporters’ club toilet roll throwing competition and, from your point of view the most important of all, the first to bring you male striptease for a purely female audience—’

  As the true import of those word sinks in, my blood turns to water. A glance at these birds tells you that they do not spend a lot of time knitting ear muffs for budgies. And they have been drinking, too. The tables are littered with empty stout bottles. Oh my gawd! How am I going to get out?

  On the stage, the M.C.’s voice drones on. ‘Just a polite reminder, ladies. Please don’t touch the artiste—’

  The nearest old bag to me, sinks her talons into my thigh. ‘Hello, luv,’ she croons. She gives me a wink and one of her false eyelashes drops in her Babycham. ‘Booger!’ she says.

  ‘– the shadow of legal action still hangs over the club after last month’s incident. High spirits are one thing, but biting police dogs is something completely different.’

  ‘Get on with it!’ shouts an impatient voice and there is an ugly rumble of agreement.

  ‘Now, if you’ve all ordered your drinks—’ Some swing doors burst open and three waiters appear carrying trays loaded with booze. In what seems like seconds, the trays have been emptied and one of the waiters has lost his trousers. ‘— all males will leave the room, the doors will be sealed, and you, ladies, will be able to enjoy Mr Show-All’s act in privacy and seclusion.’

  ‘Give us a kiss,’ says an old biddy who looks like Liberace’s mum. I smile nervously and step into an unorthodox handshake from a bird who must be able to strip the tyres off a ten ten lorry with her bare hands.

  ‘Ladies and ladies. I give you Mr Show-All!!’

  I am still bent double as I approach the platform. The MC passes me going like a rocket. Even the waiters are running. ‘Good luck, chum,’ mutters the MC. ‘Don’t inflame them too much. The panic button is—’

  ‘By the bongos,’ I gasp. ‘Yeah, I know.’

  Suddenly, I feel very much alone. The doors slam with an echoing sound like you get when you close a vault – you know, you close vaults all the time, don’t you – and the lights go down. I can see the ornamental bits round the birds’ specs glinting in the darkness. That one over there looks a bit like – no, it couldn’t be her, could it? Still, you never know. She might be doing a spot of research. Trying to find something else to complain about.

  ‘Come on. Show us your muscles!’ There is a burst of laughter and somebody knocks a glass over.

  I take a deep breath. ‘You’re not going to believe this—’

  ‘Why? Have you got a big one?’ More laughter and shouts of ‘Get ’em off!’

  ‘I like the beard.’

  ‘Come and tickle my fancy!’

  ‘I’m not what you think I am,’ I say desperately.

  ‘He’s one of those!’ Everybody screams with laughter.

  ‘We’ll straighten you out, luv.’

  ‘Off! Off! Off!’

  They are stamping again. What am I going to do? If I make a run for it, they’ll cut me down before I get to the doors. If I do get to the doors, they are locked. There is only one thing for it: ‘Give me the moonlight, give me the girl, and leave the rest to—’ I start humming and begin to slide my tank top off my left shoulder. I don’t half feel a berk! What’s more, I get a crick in my neck. I wouldn’t fancy doing this for a living. I wonder where the real Mr Show-All is? Show-All. Does that mean I’m supposed to strip to the buff?

  ‘Get on with it!’

  ‘Leave him alone. He’s being artistic, isn’t he?’

  I am touched that the lady springing to my defence should have noticed. I am also touched by a lady who springs on to the stage and runs her hand up the inside of my leg. I can’t do anything about it because both my arms are trapped in the tank top I am struggling to pull off behind my back. At least she is gentle. Not like the one on the way to the stage. By the time I have got an arm free, the groper has returned to her seat, cackling. Trying to keep my cool, I swing the jacket round and round with one hand while popping open the buttons on my shirt with the other. Judging by the sound of squeals and breaking glass, this is a very popular manoeuvre.

  ‘Come on! Show us what you’ve got!’

  ‘Let it all hang out!’

  ‘Get your drawers off!’

  Somehow or other, I have got to spin this out. Who knows? Help may arrive. Perhaps, even, the real Mr Show-All. I would hate to steal his thunder. Very slowly, I begin to slide my shirt off my shoulders and pull it down my chest.

  ‘Show us your nipples!’

  ‘Get your trousers off.’

  ‘Leave him alone, he knows what he’s doing!’

  ‘You shut your mouth!’

  ‘You try and make me!’

  One of the ladies by the stage rises to her feet and years of experience suggest to me that she is not about to go to the karsi. A bunch of fives up the bracket is more likely what she has in mind.

  ‘Relax, ladies,’ I say, deciding to adapt the role of Timothy the Peacemaker. ‘Perhaps I could ask you to assist me in my performance?’ I make each of th
e birds cop hold of a cuff and swivel round so that they can pull off my shirt like it is a skin. Though I say so myself, it is highly artistic and there is a satisfied ‘Oooooh’ from the audience.

  Now I am down to jeans, socks and underpants. If I was that bloke who can make his muscles jump about like he has a clockwork mouse under his skin, I might be able to hold them off for a bit longer, but I am not. When I flex my arms, the only thing that moves is the second hand on my wrist watch.

  ‘Get ’em down!!’

  Now I know how the Christians must have felt when they heard the crowd roaring in the arena. There is a very ugly glint in some of the eyes I can see out there. I don’t know what they get at home apart from the housekeeping money but it does not seem to be sufficient to satisfy appetites not catered for in the Marguerite Patten Cookery Book.

  One thing I must be careful to do is take off my shoes and socks before my trousers. Not only because it looks prettier but because I don’t want to fall flat on my mug like Sid in Maureen Ripley’s bedroom. It is very easy to look a bit of a berk when you are hopping round the room with your trousers trapped over your heel.

  ‘Come and sit on my lap, luv.’ The lady is swift to spot my predicament – amongst other things. Hardly have I settled on her boney knees than she is having a go at my action man kit. ‘What colour pants have you got on?’ she says.

  ‘All kinds, I expect,’ says her mate, knowingly. ‘You remember that other feller? He had forty-six pairs. All transparent. Everyone in the room took a pair off and there were three left over.’

  It occurs to me that in my case, forty-odd ladies could be disappointed. Now I am not even certain that I have a pair on. I must have, yet, somehow, I can’t feel them. Someone who can feel them is one of the other birds at the table. She shoves her mitt down the front of my jeans like it is a lucky dip.

  ‘Hang on!’ I say.

  For a moment, I think she is taking me literally. I would not mind so much if her hands were not colder than an Eskimo’s arsehole. She is not gentle, either. I reckon she must size mangel wurzels for a living. In the end it is necessary for me to change laps in order to rescue percy from a fate worse than poking a power drive potato peeler.