Driving home for Christmas!
Postby Jazzandy » Fri Dec 21, 2012 3:48 am
How about some seasonal trucking stories?
Any tales of desperation, trying to get home in time against all the odds? Overcoming loading problems, customs, ferries, weather?
How did it feel behind the wheel on your way back to your loved ones waiting for you?
Did you ever buy presents out on the road when it felt like a good idea but had second thoughts before you got home?
I bought a ginormous stuffed toy dog for my eight year old daughter at Botlek in Rotterdam thinking I was going to be driving my truck all the way home. In the event I had to leave the truck at Europoort and travel as a passenger on the ferry to Felixstowe, then by train to London, underground to Victoria and train to Dover all with this ridiculous orange and white dog under my arm!
Come on guys we need to hear your stories to brighten up this otherwise dismal Christmas tide!
Jazzandy
SENIOR MEMBER
youtube.com/watch?v=fi29soVWGGw
Re: Old Cafe’s
by cattle wagon man
Reminiscing the stories of sadly long-gone Transport Cafes , my Dad told me this story many years ago , so I ll share it on here. He was travelling south on the A 6 one morning in early December , in the early 1960s, and decided to pull in at the Mayfield Cafe at Garstang. There were other wagons parked in the large parking area , and a lot of shouting and swearing coming from one driver, as others tried to calm him down.
Apparently this now-irate driver had driven from somewhere in Scotland through the early hours of that morning , and stopped at the Mayfield for his breakfast . He was transporting a large Christmas Tree to its destination in the Midlands , for its display in a town centre.
He had eaten his breakfast , and returned to his wagon , to find … someone of dubious parentage had sawn off the
6 feet or so off the top of the tree , and nicked it !!!
Rather annoying , don`t you think ?!
Cheers , cattle wagon man.
by cattle wagon man
Tue Dec 20, 2011 7:45 am
Re: Driving home for Christmas!
Postby hutpik » Sat Dec 22, 2012 9:54 pm
Hi all.I remember in 1980 when i worked for Fransen in Holland.The week before xmas they had a load for the Nuclear Physics Institute in Bucharest,obviously non of the Dutch guys wanted to do it so the
‘‘old M.E. man’’ got ‘‘offered’’ it on a compulsory voluntary basis.I took my girlfriend with me.
After tipping on the 22nd Dec we were told we could load in Hungary on the 23rd or it would be after xmas.Obviously we went like the clappers to load.After loading we again went like hell to get out of Germany before the 25th.
On the 24th in Nurnberg my girlfriend decided she wanted to go xmas shopping at the big xmas market.Ok,no prob,but then she decided she wanted a tree for home.This was not so easy as i had a fridge and the tree was about 6ft tall.The only place i could fit the bloody thing was on the ladder on the front of the fridge.This we done,but all the way to Holland i was being passed by people hooting,waving and taking photos of me.
I dread to think what people thought of a lorry driver with a 6ft xmas tree attached to the trailer going merrily down the autobahn.
Mike.
Re: Driving home for Christmas!
Postby superswede10 » Thu Jan 31, 2013 9:05 am
About the end of November or beginning of December 1990/91 I got a call from Sandtrans, asking me if i’d do an urgent load to Izmir. It was an easy run(How many times did we get told that?). I agreed a rate to double man it down on the condition that if it went ■■■■ up they would fly us back for christmas and I would go back out in the new year. We got down without any drama but the problems started with the customs clearance, that took about a week to sort out. Then the promised backload from Vestel fell through and they didn’t go out of their way to find anything else.Excuse after excuse and the flights didn’t materialise. My mate took a lift back abt the 15th of Dec. (No point in us both missing out).
I eventually found a load and left Izmir on the 23nd of December and arrived at Marias, Ipsala late that night or early Christmas eve. I left the truck there and got a lift back to the border and walked through.( The Greeks didn’t like that). After a bus to Istanbul, i got a flight to Heathrow, arriving just in time to catch the last Glasgow flight. A train from Glasgow to Ayr and bus to Stranraer got me into the house at 22.30 on Christmas eve.
That’s the closest i’ve come to missing Christmas at home.
Ps. My mate arrived back on Christmas eve morning.
superswede10
Re: Astran / Middle East Drivers.
Postby davemackie » Sat Jan 02, 2010 11:57 pm
Airport Security
Date 2/1/2010
This story is based on lax security at Athens Airport,1980’s, Having just watched an old movie Raid on Entebbe, has prompted my memory, of an incident that happened back then.
This story begins in a restaurant in Eastern Greece, called Marie’s, this restaurant is twelve kilometres from the Turkish Border, and this was the last stop, and the first stop, for Western Drivers entering Turkey or leaving Turkey via Ipsala Border
The story starts with myself and Billy Russell arriving at Marie’s two days before Christmas, on our way home, there is a fax waiting for us, this informs us that we cannot load until The New Year, both of us are loading in Bitola, Yugoslavia, Billy then suggests that we should fly home, and return after the Holiday, after another beer, it is decided that, we should do this.
Having made a few calls we have found that the only Airport that that can offer us a Flight Home, is Halkikdi, which is an eight hour drive from we are, and we really would have push to the limits to do this, Billy said follow me. Now anyone who has followed Billy Russell will know what that meant.
Next stop Policastro, Billy leaves his vehicle there I drop my trailer, Billy & I then proceed to the Airport in my Unit, We made the Flight.
On arrival at Heathrow, Billy wants to hire a car , but because he does not have a Credit Card, this despite that fact that he had a lot of cash in his briefcase, he was not allowed so Billy Lived in Haverford west at that time, I lived in Livingston ,which was 15 mins from Edinburgh Airport. It was decided that we would both take the bus home
So after a few drinks, Billy & I departed, both went our separate way, only to meet up again, at the appointed time, for our Flight back to Athens.
On the Flight to Athens, Billy decided we should break our journey, and spend a night at Glfada, Unfortunate, for us, Olympic Airways did not agree, and insisted that we continue on our flight to Hallkidi.
Athens Airport at that time, Passengers had to walk to the aircraft, no tunnels like to-day, Billy befriended an old lady that needed assistance to climb the stairs into the aircraft, in doing so he left his briefcase on the Tarmac,
On arrival at Hallkidi ,and having checked all our baggage, no briefcase, now it was time to inform security.
This is when it turned nasty, they The Greeks, surrounded the plane with armoured cars, Billy & I got arrested, and it wasn’t till I suggested that there security may have been at fault, we were released.
After having survived that incident, We moved on to Policastro,There me meet with Six BRS Drivers,
Now these guys are telling Billy, that BRS are paid the same for Athens as Billy is paid for Doha,at this Billy flares, and he challenges this crew, Billy Russell was at that 68 years old, I was in my 40’s guess who was going to come second best in that row…
Billy & I Survived.
Dave.
A CHRISTMAS STORY.
by mushroomman
Thu Dec 24, 2009 1:17 pm
It’s that time of the year again, the snow might be falling where you live now so I wonder if any of you reading this can remember a Christmas about thirty years or so ago. We were not all lucky enough to get home to spend the festive season with family and friends every year were we. Our Christmas planning ( or head working ) usually started about the beginning of November wondering how many more trips we could get in before the end of the year. We nearly all had the same goal, that was to get to Zeebrugge before the last boat left for Dover which was the afternoon of Christmas Eve.
Once we were tipped it was then a mad rush up to The Telex Motel in Ankara, The Mocamp in Istanbul or The National Hotel in Belgrade to pick up that all important telex to let us know where we were back loading from. It didn’t matter where it was, wine from Bulgaria or Christmas trees from East Germany so long as we were on that last boat.
Some years the boat was already fully booked and so there would have been a couple of trucks left on the dock as their drivers had decided to hitch a lift and go over as passengers to Dover. I heard a few stories over the years of drivers arriving back in the U.K. on the 27th December with a full load of Christmas trees and it probably did happen on at least one occasion. I do know that a mate of mine Ken Singleton once missed the last boat by about half a hour and had to sit for three days in The Fina garage in Zeebrugge, with two Bulgarians and a Turkish driver. Ken would have made it home but a heavy snow fall in Czecho put a stop to that one.
Decent companies tried to get most of their drivers home for Christmas, you could forget about Easter or the September Long Weekend they just weren’t on the continental calendar but Christmas, well that was something special. If you were lucky enough to get home then there was a good chance that you would be on your way back out by January 2nd. Each company had their different policies about Christmas, with some it was like it or lump it you know where the door is.
Others would give you a bonus and a Christmas party, and some would give you the option of either flying you home or getting the truck back and letting the driver keep the airfare.
If I had to find a whinge then it would probably be about The Company Christmas party and I am sure that it happened at a lot of other companies as well. They always seemed to have it the week before Christmas or the first week in the New Year. Most of the drivers were still away while they were having it but you could always be sure that all the office staff, the warehouse lads and the fitters were there having a great time. In seven years I only ever got home in time to go to one of them and what a great night that was.
I think that it was Christmas 1982, I had arrived back in the yard in Stockport on the 14th December and thought to myself, yes a Germany or an Austria would do me nicely. So when the boss asked me could I turn around and do an Istanbul my high spirits suddenly took a nose dive. I had only just arrived back from Bucharest and I knew that the snow had already started falling in Eastern Europe, there was no way that I was going to be back home for Christmas.
The boss explained to me that Courtaulds, who were one of our biggest customers had just phoned through with two priority loads which had to be there within the week.
Somebody had already gone over to Courtaulds at Greenfield on Deeside to load one of the trailers and that Alan Morrey would be loading the other one. Alan would be travelling with me, we had been told to get as close to home as we could and we could then fly from Frankfurt or Brussels to Manchester. I always liked flying as I had a keen interest in aviation so the thought of going on an aeroplane again, something that I had not done for over two years was quite appealing. Being a single guy I had spent some of my best Christmases away from home and if it was a case of me being away so that a married guy with a couple of kids could be at home at this time of the year, then I didn’t really mind.
We left at about 9 a.m. the next morning, we sailed on a Townsend Thorenson boat from Dover to Belgium and parked up on the sea wall at Zeebrugge about 1 a.m. the following day, where we put a new tacho card in. After having an eight hour break, we parked up that night at The Lomo Truckstop near Gieselwind which had been a nine hour drive. We put another tacho in as we were going to take another eight hour break, have a shower and a meal knowing that it might be another week before we get the chance to have another one.
The nice thing was that after we paid for our meal we were each given a plastic washing bag as a Christmas present, which I used for many years. It was bright green with the words LOMO in white letters and it was large enough to hold all my toiletries.
Just after 3 a.m. we set off and headed for the West German / Czechoslovakian border near Furth im Wald, the snow was falling and I can still remember seeing Christmas trees lit up as we passed through the Bavarian countryside. It was one of those scenes that I don’t think that I will ever forget. By the time that we had passed through the border it was mid morning and we parked up near Pilzen to have a late breakfast and an early lunch. The snow was still falling but considering what the weather was like we were still making good progress. Alan who was a good twelve years older than me thought it might be a good idea to have an hours sleep, as all the other drivers who knew him used to say “you can’t hurry a Morrey”.
We also put another new tacho card in as the one that we were already using shown signs that on the West German Autobahn we had reached speeds up 90 k.p.h. If we would have been stopped by the Czech Police they would have fined us for driving over the 50 k.p.h. speed limit in the towns. It was always difficult to explain where you had actually been speeding and quite often in the end there was no other alternative than to pay up. Things were going well and after a couple of sixteen hour days which also included clearing borders we finally got through the Yugoslav / Bulgarian border at about two o’clock in the morning.
It was funny sometimes the conversations that drivers had while they were both sitting in the cab, making a cup of tea or having a tin of soup. We had just done a long hit through the night, something that I never liked doing unless I really had to. I knew that if I would have been involved in an accident and there was always a good chance that you could have been, then it usually turned out to be the foreign lorry driver’s fault. It wasn’t like Western Europe where you eventually got a fair trial, in some of the Commie Block countries you had a great chance of going for a ride in a police car to some poxy police station, before you had even given your account of what had happened.
I had been following Alan’s back lights for hours and started to feel a bit groggy but instead of stopping like we should have done we carried on. The thing that I used to do was to wind down the window and turn the cassette player up. I had heard tales from other drivers about how they had kept awake while doing a big hit. These ranged from eating a hand full of sugar or sucking a sugar cube to eating a spoonful of coffee, both of which never appealed to me.
Eventually I saw sense and flashed my lights for Alan to stop, he saw me and pulled into the next convenient parking place. I walked over to his Foden and said it’s no good Alan, I am falling off my perch. Well get your cup he said, let’s have a hot drink and get a few hours sleep, we will probably have plenty of time to catch up on our sleep when we get to Kapicule, at the Turkish border.
I climbed into his cab, we didn’t have night heaters but the cabs were nice and warm compared to the freezing cold night air. I remember asking Alan, how he managed to keep awake when he was driving through the night on such crap roads. He told me that what he had been doing was that as his cardboard food box, which was on the bunk behind the passenger seat, was full of tinned food and that he would reach over now and again, take out a tin and place it on the dashboard to break up a bit of the monotony.
So what do you do when you have emptied the cardboard box I asked ?. Well he said, I then take them off the dashboard one by one and then I stretch over and put them all back into the box. You know Alan, I said I think it’s time that we really should get our heads down for at least a few hours and I am glad to say that Alan agreed with me.
It was starting to go dark by the time that we had reached the Bulgarian / Turkish border at Svilengrad which some of the other British drivers used to call Syphilisgrad . We had not had a good day, the cobbled roads were covered in mud and slush and because of an accident near Plovdiv, we had lost a couple of hours waiting for the road to be cleared. Any thoughts of even getting back to Frankfurt were quickly fading as we were now in a queue, which wasn’t moving and the border would soon be closed for the night. I can’t remember how far the queue was but we were parked opposite The Bulgarian Dollar Shop. These tax free shops sold everything from foreign tyres, to foreign washing machines but you could only pay in hard foreign currency. It was unbelievable how cheap spirits and tobacco was, for instance, I can remember a bottle of Johnnie Walker whiskey costing two quid.
While we were sat in the queue three of our trucks came the other way, one of the drivers was called Lee Marland and Lee and I used to use the same local pub. Lee was on his way to reload in Zagreb and told me that there would be no way that I would be in the pub over Christmas. I am going to do my best to get there I told him but I didn’t mention about the promise of a flight home. Anyway, he said we can’t stop as we want to get loaded the day after tomorrow but if you are in the pub on Christmas Eve, then I shall stand on the bar, drop my pants and show you my backside he laughed and with that we all wished each other a Merry Christmas. Little did Lee or myself know then that on Christmas Eve the following year, that we would both be sat at Kapicule on the Turkish side, with him on his way home and that I would be on my way to Iraq. After Alan and I had a meal in The Duty Free Shop it was a case of getting back to the cab and going to bed.
At about seven o’clock the next morning Alan knocked on my cab and asked for my cup and as I usually slept in a nylon tracksuit and wore a pair of thick socks in the winter instead of pyjamas, it was just a case of slipping on a pair of shoes and getting out for a pee. After writing my name in the snow, I got back in the cab and put my jeans on and a thick pullover. As Alan’s Foden was a left hand drive I sat in the driver’s seat while he made the breakfast from the other side.
A Scania 141 belonging to Finn Wheels from Finland had pulled in behind us during the night and as Alan and I were having breakfast, we watched the driver walk over into the duty free shop. He came back out after about ten minutes carrying two plastic bags, with about four bottles of spirits in each of them, he looked over across at us and lifted the bags higher as he smiled at us and shouted “breakfast”. We watched him walk behind my truck and we saw him climb into his cab. A couple of minutes later there was a knock on the passenger side door, it was the driver from Finn Wheels with a bottle of Snaps in his hand.
Good morning Englishmen he said, it’s my birthday, would you like to join me in a little birthday drink. Alan opened the door for him and then Alan moved over and sat on the bunk. The Finnish driver had brought a cup with him and Alan asked him if he would like a coffee. As Alan poured the coffee out The Finn poured more than a generous amount of Snaps into each cup. I think that he said that his name was Lahrs, we introduced ourselves and said “happy birthday Lahrs” and drank his good health. Before we had even finished our coffee, he had put another large tot Snaps into our cups.
After a while the traffic in front of us in the distance started moving forward, Lahrs and I jumped out of the Foden and ran back to our cabs. The queue stopped just short of the Bulgarian customs post and l went back into Alan’s cab. A couple of minutes later Lahrs joined us along with a bottle of Vodka. Do you like Russian Vodka he asked, Alan said that he didn’t mind it and I said not particularly and then I realised that the bottle of Snaps was almost empty and it wasn’t even 10 o’clock in the morning. The way that things were now beginning to look, there was no way that we would be home for Christmas. Lahrs wasn’t bothered, he was on his way to Saudi Arabia and he was getting extra money for doing the trip at this time of the year.
Sometime later the traffic began to move forwards and we did our Bulgarian customs, we then moved into what we referred to as no man’s land which was the area from the Bulgarian customs and the short distance to where the Turkish gate was. On our left hand side, which was the lane coming into Bulgaria, was a thing that we called the lorry wash or the wheel wash or ‘the sheep dip’. This was where you drove through a thing like a sunken bath, which was filled with disinfectant. As you entered it, one of the Bulgarian soldiers turned a tap on and from a couple of pipes that stretched across the road above the truck you could smell the strong stench of disinfectant. Once again, the queue came to a standstill and for Lahrs it was a case of handbrake on, Vodka bottle out.
Eventually, we pulled forward again through a gate with two watch towers that had the word TURKEI on one of them. A huge, red Turkish flag with a white crescent moon and a star emblazoned on it, flew from the top of a tall white flagpole. Two Turkish soldiers with automatic weapons looked down at us and as they were wearing white steel helmets with the words Aziz or Asis on them, you could tell that they were The Turkish Military Police and as rumour had it, that these were the guys who you didn’t mess about with.
As far as I can remember the scene that resembled The Somme unfolded before us as there was mud, craters and trucks everywhere, some of them were leaning at precarious angles. A double drive Bulgarian Volvo F88 appeared to be in a jack knifed position, with one of his countrymen trying desperately to pull him out on a rigid towbar but he wasn’t going anywhere. Some of the trucks in front of us were parked over ten vehicles side by side and we were all going to try and get to another gate on the other side of the field, which was only wide enough to fit two trucks at a time. This was where the shunting, shuffling, squeezing and jockeying for a forward position started.
The words good manners, politeness and organisation didn’t belong here, it was a case of everyman for himself.
When the Turkish soldiers at the next gate waved several more trucks forward, there was a mad dash of drivers going back to their own cabs. The revving up of the engines building up the fallen air pressure, the spinning of the drive wheels in the thick mud and as soon as the truck in front moved an inch forward, you had to follow him. You just had to make sure that nobody squeezed in front of you, going down the middle was the way to go. It was no good trying to sneak down the outsides as when you got near to the front, nobody except a very sympathetic driver would have let you in and there were not many of those about.
After moving forward about a trucks length, the noise of the hissing air brakes could be heard from all over the mud filled field and then most of the engines would soon be switched off. You never knew how many trucks had moved through into the next compound, it could have been five, ten or fifteen but you always hoped that when the next batch moved in, that you had been able to move nearer to the front.
I eventually swapped places with Alan, he sat in the passenger seat and I sat on the bed while Lahrs, who was sitting in the driver’s seat, kept on topping up the cups with vodka. Lahrs was explaining to Alan how expensive alcohol was in Finland, there was no way that we could keep up with him as he was having four tots to our one.
Alan and I had each bought a carton of Heineken on the boat and until now, we had only drunk four cans from one box. Alan offered Lahrs a can and he said no thank you, do you want to get me drunk. He was a big fellow, his English was nearly perfect and he could certainly handle his drink. I must have dozed off while I was sitting on the bed and Alan, woke me up sometime later as the trunks in front once again prepared to move forward. After we had moved about another two truck lengths, I sat in the passenger seat, Alan sat on the bed and it wasn’t long before he also had fallen asleep.
The sleet had turned to rain and our shoes, after moving from cab to cab were caked in mud. The inside of Alan’s cabs over the seven years that I worked with him were always immaculate. He was the only driver that I ever met who kept a small pastry brush in a leather glasses case attached to the dashboard. The first time that I ever sat in his cab I asked him what it was for, he took the brush out and started cleaning the rims of the dials and the instruments where a bit of dust had settled. It was handy for getting in those awkward little corners and those tiny nooks and crannies he said. But now his cab was looking a bit of a mess, he had already made Lahrs and myself some lunch. We had made some sandwiches in the cab as it was too wet and cold outside to sit around the trailer box. Alan still liked to keep on top of cleanliness but there was nothing that he could do about the mud on the carpets, even though we had kicked off our shoes.
Lahrs had kept the conversation and the vodka flowing all day, Alan and I both liked a drink but this was getting a bit too much although it didn’t appear to bother the big man from Finland.
By four o’clock that afternoon we had nearly reached the front of the queue and we were all feeling in good spirits, thinking that we were going to get through in the next batch. We all thought that we had a good chance of moving into the next compound where the customs offices were within the next couple of hours but we had forgotten about the time difference. Turkey was one hour ahead of Bulgaria so if we didn’t move within the next hour we would be sitting here until the next morning and that is exactly what happened.
At six o’clock we were told tomorrow by the soldiers, tomorrow at seven o’clock. It was already dark by then and once again Alan’s gas cooker was fired up as we made a camion stew. I was now parked on Alan’s right hand side in my right hand drive M.A.N. 280. We were both able to sit in our passenger seats while we passed tins and pans to each other. Lahrs was still sat in the left hand drive Foden’s drivers seat, he had donated a tin of potatoes to the meal and asked if we needed a dash of Bacardi to spice things up but Alan was adamant that it didn’t need it. The bottle of Bacardi appeared when Lahrs went to get the spuds and like Alan kept saying, you sit back Lahrs, it’s your birthday.
We sat there in Alan’s Foden until ten o’clock when we decided to go to bed, if I remember correctly there wasn’t much of the Bacardi left by then. Lahrs got out of the cab to go to bed and I remember saying good night Lahrs, I hope that you had a good birthday. He then said no it’s not my birthday today, my birthday is next week. I think that I was a bit shocked at that moment and it was only then that I realised that he had a night heater in his Scania, while Alan had been starting his engine up every now and again so that we could keep warm.
The next morning at seven o’clock the soldiers waved us forward, we parked up near to the customs buildings and we put our papers in, our luck must have been changing as we were cleared by lunchtime. We drove around to YoungTurks office which was just outside the customs compound on the left hand side of the road to pay for his services and while we were there we phoned Taci Kochman who was our agent in Istanbul. We spoke to his assistant who was known as The Colonel and who was a really nice old Turkish gentleman. He told us to drive down to the football stadium in Istanbul and one of his boys would meet us early the next morning to sort out our paperwork. He would then take us to where we had to deliver the load, also said The Colonel, I have a telex here where you are reloading from. You are reloading at Taurus Tyres in Budapest and the load is for Bradford, I shall send a copy over to you tomorrow.
Alan and I drove down to the Londra camp in Istanbul where we stayed the night and we left early the next morning to drive down to the stadium, which was a place where we had often cleared customs. After we had both tipped, we ran up that afternoon and the evening to the Turkish / Greek border at Ipsala. We had decided that due to our slow progress through Bulgaria and the hassle we had at Kapicule that we would give Bulgaria a miss. The weather in Greece at the time of the year could also be terrible but we were prepared to take the chance and we arrived in Budapest in the early hours of December 24th.
As Alan will remember, I have left a large part of this story out to protect the innocent, who was Alan. So there will be no mention of the two Irish hitchhikers who I gave a lift to on the outskirts of Thessalonica, one of whom had her rucksack stolen when my cab was broken into at The National Hotel in Belgrade but I hoped that they reached Milan in time for Christmas.
Anyway back to the story, the tyre factory looked very quiet when we got there in the early hours of the morning but after speaking to the security man in the gatehouse, he assured us that we would get loaded that day. He told us to pull into the yard and to go to bed and that somebody would wake us up when they were ready to load us.
At about eight o’clock there was a knock on the cab and we were told to reverse into a large building. A girl who spoke a bit of English came over and asked us to open up the back of the tilt and to give her our empty carnet’s and a C.M.R.
We asked her if there was a British Airways office in Budapest and she looked them up in the phone book. We were able to have a shower in the washrooms at the factory and after having some breakfast, we were told that the customs man had arrived to watch the loading and that we would be sealed and that the paperwork would be finished by twelve o’clock.
We asked the girl that if were able to get a flight back to the U.K. would we be able to leave the trucks parked in the factory on the car park, by the security gate. After she had spoken to the works manager, he said that there would be no problem and that the trucks would be safe.
Alan and I then took a taxi into the city where we found The British Airways office. The girl in the office was very helpful, yes we have a flight this afternoon she said, it leaves Budapest at three o’clock then it goes to Prague and because of the one hour time difference between Europe and The U.K. it arrives at Heathrow at five thirty U.K. time and yes we have a lot of spare seats she said. I forget exactly how much it cost it was something like £100 which was near enough equal to five nights continental allowance.
We asked the girl would it be possible to phone the U.K. she said that it was not a problem and gave us the phone. Alan spoke to Jackie our receptionist, who after what seemed like a bit of stalling, put another person from our airfreight office on the line. As our boss was not there, Alan said it’s about flying home from Budapest.
Ah yes, said the airfreight guy, there are no flights from Budapest now until after Christmas. Yes there is said Alan, it’s flight number B.A. blah blah blah and it goes at three o’clock local time. Oh that one, was the reply but I have been told that it is it fully booked.
No it’s not said Alan there are still some seats left.
But I don’t think that you can book a flight over there he said. Yes we can said Alan, we are sat in British Airways office in Budapest at the moment. Hang on a minute, Alan was told there is a call on the other line, Alan said that he had a feeling that a message was being relayed here as there sounded like there were more than two people in the office at that moment.
Alan was told, now I want you both to think about this, you can either fly home or keep the airfare, straight away Alan said we have thought about it we want to fly home, we shall phone the office on the 28th good bye and Merry Christmas and he put the phone down rather quickly.
We booked the tickets and were told to be back at the B.A. office by one o’clock, then we got a taxi back to the factory which was on the main road south out of Budapest. By the time we had arrived back to the trucks the customs man had already started the carnet, the trailer was loaded and laced up and he was about to put the customs seal on.
We drove the vehicles out of the building and parked opposite the gatehouse, we closed the curtains and we both got our holdalls out of the cab. We had no idea when we would definitely be back but after double manning with two other of our drivers who were going to Greece, we got back to Budapest on the 4th of January.
When we arrived back at the B.A. office the girl was waiting to meet us, she locked up the shop and called a taxi and the three of us drove to the airport. It had started to snow again and she took us to the B.A. desk to book in, she was a very friendly girl and we had a bit of a laugh and a joke with her. She looked very attractive in her B.A. uniform and I seem to remember that she had a good sense of humour.
Budapest Airport was quite dismal, dimly lit and very drab, we offered to buy our B.A. friend a coffee at the coffee counter which she accepted and she told us that she had upgraded us into business class for the same price. Half an hour before the flight we checked into a waiting room and our friend was still with us as she seemed to be displaying an airport security pass around her neck. There were about twenty other passengers in the room who all sounded English, in fact they sounded like a bunch of Hooray Henrys. Two Hungarian policemen were stood by the doors at the entrance to the waiting room as we were informed that our flight was now boarding. We had our passports and our tickets checked once again as we were ushered into a small room with glass walls where two soldiers armed with A.K.47 rifles stood guard.
The glass door behind us was locked and after a couple of minutes a bus appeared at the other side of the room, on the side where the aircraft were parked. The other door was unlocked and we were counted once again as we went through and got onto the bus. We were driven over to the, I think it was a B.A.C. 111 aircraft which was parked away from the rest of the other planes, which all appeared to be from other Commie Block countries. We were counted once again as we got off the bus and walked up the steps and the B.A. girl was still with us. She spoke to the English stewardesses and took us towards the front of the plane, the rest of the passengers went towards the back. She showed us to our seats, wished us a Merry Christmas and said goodbye. After talking to the flight crew for a couple of minutes she left the aircraft, they closed the door and the captain made an announcement. He welcomed us aboard and informed us that as they were no passengers to collect from Prague, he had been given permission to fly straight to London Heathrow.
I looked out of the window as the snow was now falling heavily and I was beginning to wonder if we would be allowed to take off. For some reason, I started remembering about the Munich air disaster many years before and it had made me feel very uncomfortable. There were still large banks of snow at the side of the runway and I felt a lot better when the no smoking and the seat belts signs were switched off and Alan and I settled down to a glass of champagne, well it was free so waste not want not. We were the only two passengers in business class and there was a lot of loud laughter coming out of cattle class at the back of the aircraft, in fact it sounded like somebody was having a really good party.
We asked the stewardess what was going on and she told us that it was the staff from The British Embassy in high spirits. Alan and I agreed that it was disgraceful, high spirits, it sounded like they had drunk more spirits than a dozen Finnish lorry drivers. The great thing was that when we were asked if we wanted any duty frees and we both asked for two hundred cigarettes and a bottle of whisky they didn’t charge us for the whisky saying that it was a Christmas present from British Airways.
We arrived at Heathrow and made our way to Euston where Alan booked on the six o’clock train to Liverpool, which also stopped at Crewe where he lived.
I booked on the six o’ five to Manchester and as the two trains were on the platform next to each other, I could see him sat on the other train.
My train arrived in Manchester and after a quick wash and change at home, I dashed down to the local pub at 10.15 p.m. on Christmas Eve. I knew that there was going to be a lock in after time that night and I was certain that I was going to get an invite. When I walked into the pub Lee was gob smacked and I asked him not to stand on the bar and show his backside as I didn’t want a sight like that to spoil my Christmas. 
Many thanks to everybody who has contributed to this thread over the last year, I have enjoyed reading all of your stories. 
Thanks to all the people on the TruckNet U.K. team and to all the TruckNet members, I hope that you all have a very Merry Christmas and a great New Year.
Merry Christmas and best regards Steve. 
A Christmas Tale
Postby Jazzandy » Sun Dec 23, 2012 3:51 am
It was seven in the morning of December the twenty second and I was heading home in my faded yellow GMC Astro and it’s Dorsey tilt trailer with the axles right at the back. I was loaded with bales of cotton from Istanbul and my aim was to make it through to Ludwigsburg just north of Stuttgart to catch the last westbound kombiverkehr train before Christmas. It would leave at around ten o’clock that night and drop me off at Koln Eifeltor guterbahnhof at seven in the morning in good time to catch an early evening ferry out of Zeebrugge which would mean I could drop my trailer in the Eastern docks and be home in time for lunch on Christmas eve. The children, I knew, would be delighted to know that dad had made it home, hopefully laden with many of the goodies they had intimated during the previous few weeks that they not only would like but absolutely needed or it would be the end of the world!
I was travelling north in Czechoslovakia somewhere between Tabor and Pilsen on that old rat run we used to negotiate in order to avoid Prague. The weather was foul but, it had to be admitted, very seasonal. Snow was relentlessly falling, large soft flakes dashing themselves against the windscreen before being swept aside by the powerful wipers. The villages were aglow as I trundled past and I could imagine we were journeying through old England of the nineteenth century, the rural vistas being almost untouched by modernity and the roads seemingly as they had been originally constructed with the desire to go round the farms rather than through them, speed and thirty eight ton juggernauts having held no brief for those ancient roadbuilders. It was however a ■■■■ sight faster than the circuitous route through the capital city avoiding the myriad of low bridges and tram lines which were every truck driver’s nightmare. The road itself was snow covered but not too dangerous so long as you didn’t steer or brake too violently and held the rig at a sensible speed. Vast pine forests came and went and small fields, their fences sagging from the weight of the winter ice, abounded on each side of the route. Just after Nepomuk there was a diversion and I gingerly guided the truck through what seemed like a farmyard and out onto what can only be described as a rutted farm track which then disappeared into another of the vast forests.
Leaving the farmyard I had felt a slight jolt but looking in the mirrors nothing seemed amiss so I continued on into the woods where the road conditions actually improved but I was beginning to realise that my trailer was not following as it ought to have been and on the corners was taking a distinctly shorter route than the tractor. I had no option but to stop in the early morning gloom of the forest and investigate. Pulling on my leather boots, I dropped down from the high cab of the Jimmy and trudged back along the length of the trailer. It was not long before I identified the problem, two blown tyres on the offside rear of the trailer’s tandem bogie.
I had already had my two spare wheels stolen in a layby near Adapazari in Turkey while I slept so had nothing to change them with. The only option was to split them down, repair the punctures and build them up again. I had an airline which would inflate them but what I didn’t have were tyre levers and whereas a couple of dessert spoons would have saved the day on a bicycle they would be of no use whatever on the truck. Resignedly I returned to the cab, started the Detroit and attached the air hose to the valve on the underside of my main air tank. I then attempted to inflate both tyres which in the freezing conditions was a fiddly job, my fingers not entirely responding to my commands. They both inflated to about one hundred p.s.i. and I returned to the cab, started the Detroit and edged the rig forward to find a passing place where I could safely stop while I flagged down a passing truck for assistance.
I was rather hoping that a womble (a Bulgarian state transport truck), would come along as they were always well equipped and had a good reputation that they would always help a fellow trucker. Within a kilometre I had come to a clearing in the forest and was able to steer the rig into it. Walking back to check the rear bogie however, I found that both tyres were flat once again so there was nothing for it but to wait. After about half an hour I was suddenly struck by the realisation that no vehicles, either cars or trucks, had come along in either direction and I was starting to feel rather alone. I rationalised this fact by working out that I was possibly the last vehicle to be diverted and that the road blockage had been cleared but if that was the case I could be stuck here for days. Being at home for Christmas was starting to become unachievable and I was feeling very down in the dumps. I decided to take the wheels off to save time when some kindly passing truck would stop to help and half an hour later I had jacked up the axle, undone the nuts and wrestled the heavy wheels onto the ground. Still there was no sign of any traffic. The only thing for it I decided was to walk back to the farm, which could only be three or four kilometres back down the track, and summon help.
Before setting out I thought I had better brew a cup of tea on my camping gaz stove to warm myself up for the trek. Thus fortified I locked up the wagon and started trudging through the light snow. The forest was eerily silent apart from the intermittent rustling of the top branches of the pines which resulted in occasional flurries of falling snow onto the track. I wondered if there was any animal life in the wood, perhaps some deer or wild boar or may be even wolves or bears. My imagination was taking the wrong direction to keep up my morale so I diverted it to thinking of home; Mary and the two children, Tom the eldest and Lucy my little two year old blue eyed blonde who followed me round like a shadow when I was there. These thoughts made me smile and I took up a brisker pace.
Then I thought I could hear a new sound, tinkling bells perhaps, the sound of horses hooves and their heavy breathing as they toiled through the forest pulling some unseen load? Soon the noises became more distinct and I was aware that something heavy and horsedrawn was about to round the corner in front of me.
To my delight in a couple of minutes a large cart carrying logs rounded the corner pulled by three horses with jingling harnesses, a veritable troika. Driving this contraption was a forester and two compatriots dressed in what I assumed was the local traditional costume, a muddy red jerkin with thick fur at the neck and cuffs, dull grey lederhosen, thick wooly stockings and stout leather boots. The stranger bellowed up the local equivalent of ‘Whoah’ and the ensemble came to a halt right next to me. The three foresters looked at me quizzically. “Camion Kaput” was all I could think of saying. “Sind sie Deutsche?” the driver yelled at me a little accusingly. I shook my head. “English,” I replied. “Ah Anglicina,” he explained to his friends. They all smiled and proferred their hands to shake. “Speak leetle Eenglish,” the driver said. “My truck is broken,” I tried to explain, “Back there.” “Ah kom mit us,” was the reply and I was pulled up onto the troika and sat astride a tree trunk behind the driver. The Czech for ‘Walk on’ was bellowed at the horses and off we set on our jingly way back through the forest. All the way the three comrades were laughing and joking and indeed seemed like very affable fellows to fall in with.
On our arrival in the clearing it was easy to explain the problem to the grey bearded round faced driver as he paced around the trailer and kicked the flat tyres with his boots. I was wondering if he was a little over rotund or perhaps it was his mode of dress layered against the inclement weather. “Ve take,” he suddenly announced and he and the two others lifted the wheels onto their cart. “Ve kom back,” he assured me as he again commanded the horses to resume their labour and within seconds I was once again on my own listening to the diminishing sound of the leather harness, the bells, and the jocularity of the foresters and then all was silent once more. I had to pinch myself to check that I was not dreaming this episode but walking round to the back of the truck it was obvious that the wheels had indeed gone.
I jumped back up into the cab and started the engine to warm things up. Maybe if they were as good as their word they would soon be back with mended tyres and I could still comfortably catch the night Kombiverkehr, or had I just lost two wheels to a band of desperadoes intent on fleecing itinerant trucks purposely diverted off the main route for just such a purpose? I turned the dial on my radio and eventually caught American Forces Network. “It’s the morning show with Charlie Tuna. Remember folks always ‘Stay Tuna’d’” came the familiar voice of the DJ proving that I was still in the real world. I dozed while the cab warmed and the music for the expatriate troops droned on. Jim Croce was just starting to belt out ‘Big Bad Leroy Brown’ when I noted the time at ten o’ clock. I shut the radio down pulled the engine stop and climbed down from the cab to walk around the clearing at the far side of which was an old tumbledown woodsman’s hut. I distinctly heard what I thought was the howling of wolves and pictured a pack of them pounding into the clearing to tear me limb from limb. This thought had me retracing my steps back in the direction of the truck but at that moment I heard the sound of jingling harness and my spirits revived as the troika came into view.
It slewed into the clearing at speed, the horses’ distended nostrils steaming with exertion as it slowed and stopped at the rear of my truck. The ruddy faced driver beamed down at me. “All finish,” he yelled as the three foresters pulled the wheels off their trailer and laid them beside my rear axle. I pulled out my wallet and opened it asking them how much they wanted. “No no no money,” the driver chortled as if it was some big joke and the two comrades, heavy thickset workers, lifted the wheels onto the axle with ease. All I had to do was tighten up the nuts with my wheelbrace. “All OK?” the driver asked. “Very OK,” I replied “Thank you so much.” “No thanks, we like help,” my full faced bearded friend roared with laughter as he and his team remounted their wagon and within minutes had disappeared back through the wood their laughter being all that was left to me.
I was in a state of disbelief as I gunned the rig back onto the forest track. After about another five kilometres we were out of that forest and the track rejoined the main road. Driving towards Pilsen I was still shaking my head. Had I really heard Ho Ho Ho as that troika spun out of the clearing. I smiled to myself. Maybe the spirit of Christmas did exist after all.
The rest of the trip went like clockwork, straight through Waidhaus customs, everyone for a change in a good humour and not as usual trying to create problems where none existed. The German roads were well gritted and my cross country route via Nurnberg and Schwabisch Gmund was as clear as a bell. I arrived at Ludwigsburg Guterbahnhof by six o’ clock and booked onto the last train before Christmas. Once my place was reserved I had my customary peppersteak with a couple of lagers in the station restaurant and at eight-thirty we were called forward for loading onto the train. Parked on board we had to chock our wheels for the journey before retiring to an old sleeping car at the front behind the electric engine. Prompt at ten o’ clock we slid out of the goods station for the run through the Rhine valley up to Cologne. I turned into my sleeping bag on the couchette and for a change slept the whole way.
Once on board the Free Enterprise 5 leaving Zeebrugge at 1830 hrs. I met some old mates and regaled them with this tale but they were a disbelieving bunch of reprobates and they reckoned I had made it up. “You sure it wasn’t Santa Claus?” one of them ribbed me.
Back home I received the warm and loving welcome which always greeted me. Mary hugged me while Tom and Lucy tugged at my trousers seeking the attention which they soon got. That night we tucked them into bed and warned them against staying awake in case they heard the sound of jingling bells as Father Christmas only delivered presents to children who were fast asleep. Their childish excitement was infectious and both Mary and I found it difficult to drop off. Eventually we did however and my dreams of forests and merry ruddy faced woodsmen and jingly horses were rudely interrupted by shouts of “Mummy, Daddy, he’s been,” as our two little ones tugged at our duvet and dumped their sacks of presents on top of us. It was still dark and I checked my watch. It was all of four o’ clock!
We both dozed as the children excitedly opened their present with occasional shrieks of ‘Wow,” and “It’s a ‘My Little Pony’”. I think I had dropped off once again when I was woken by Tom, “Daddy daddy there’s a present here for you,” he shrieked. Mary and I looked at each other and she shook her head. She had not put a present for me in their sacks. He handed me a small neatly wrapped package , dark green paper with black pine trees scattered across it secured with gold string. I opened it carefully and inside a small white box there was a John Bull puncture repair kit! A folded note had been attached. I opened it to read the words ‘Next time - Be prepared.’ Was that a Hohoho I could hear disappearing into the night?
Typical Czechoslovakian Roads In Winter.
youtube.com/watch?v=I9h_-l8kJRo
They’d moved off the seat and were pressing their faces against the windscreen. There were five or six confirmed sightings and dozens of maybe it’s him, before we got home half an hour before Christmas. 
I stood by my guns and soon arranged to fight this scotsman in a lay by just out of range of her radio