M32. anyone that has done that road has a story to tell.mine is here.
mackie.netii.net/
Dave.
Hi Dave, good to hear form you…
I would recommend Dave’s site to anyone that is interested in real long haul trucking…
Jeff
Jelliot:
Hi Dave, good to hear form you…I would recommend Dave’s site to anyone that is interested in real long haul trucking…
Jeff
I totally agree, just don’t plan to get much done for at least half a day after logging on 
newmercman:
Jelliot:
Hi Dave, good to hear form you…I would recommend Dave’s site to anyone that is interested in real long haul trucking…
Jeff
I totally agree, just don’t plan to get much done for at least half a day after logging on
Oh yes, stopped me dead yesterday! Now Im going like stink to catch up today!
Mark, your work is very good, d`ont give it up!!!
Cheerio for now, (as the laret gurgles into my Deere)!
NNM sorry I didn’t answer the last part of your post. How rude of me.
I’ve done a fair bit of magazine work, mostly for Out Law Bike Publications many of which are run as part of far bigger corporations. As I live in the sticks ( more than 45 minutes by air from the big cities ) they wouldn’t send journos that far. So the local guys asked me if I could do photos and words. I have had many articles published and very few have been paid for, so I stopped doing them. I feel bad for the local guys as there is no longer any way for them to get their pride and joy into publication, but I’m not shy about telling them why. It’s not just road haulage that’s plagued by unscrupulous operators. Get paid for the first couple of jobs, then you get "Didn’t you get that last payment… I’ll sort something out for you… In the mean time if you can just do another six jobs soon as you can I’ll make sure your right… " nothing. left swinging. Sound familiar■■?
Don’t think there is any thing wrong or not interesting about writing about European trips, Gary Hunter has done a great book called Trucking Hell, available through Lulu or Amazon, really well written about his time on Spain and Portugal. Most of my 1st and 2nd books are about UK and Europe, I didn’t get to the M/E until the 90’s and it really wasn’t that exiting, things did happen, but nothing like Libya or Kaz. If you keep going the way you did your first trip to Italy it’ll be a good read. ( but finish it of this time )
Get it written down before you forget
Jeff
So I actually got some thing back from a publishing house, it was a NO, but unlike the usual “Unfortunately” -'However" letter it actually had a bit of information in it which was fairly helpful, and it went a bit like this. This isn’t a quote, but you’ll get the idea…
Enjoyed you story very much, well written and very entertaining, didn’t re-tell similar topics, interesting to read and informative about the subject, without being a lecture. Good pace through out, and easy to follow even for someone with out much knowledge about the subject.
So far so good and I actually think the person actually read most of it as there were a few comments about some of the subjects as well.
Dew to the economic climate at the moment, and that the subject matter would be considered to of marginal interest to the general public, more of niche market with limited sales; not willing to invest the company funds, didn’t have to guess the rest…
But there was another part to it.
The language and lay out is good, but basic, and I got the feeling of an intimate chat with friends form a similar back ground, ( well at least I got that bit right ) however the page lay out is a bit chunky, with various topics being covered in the same paragraph. Shorten the paragraphs to max, 2 subjects each, a good candidate for self publishing, good luck etc,etc, and I was also given some links to various self publishing set ups, which I have already looked at.
I took it all on board, and am now about to start re-paragraphing it.
Jeff
That looks like it will be a great read, are you the guy that used to have the Volvo F 12 Globetrotter wagon and drag, doing tanks and stuff out the Borders in the 80’s■■? My uncle used to work for Vivers, knew Jim Paxton that was on for Jo Hogg.
Yes mate that was me, I knew Jim very well. The reverend Jo so a real piece of work, he had all his yard and office registered as a church for some kind of tax dodge. Pity he send his subbies down the river at the end… Who was your uncle.■■?
Jeff
Jelliot:
Yes mate that was me, I knew Jim very well. The reverend Jo so a real piece of work, he had all his yard and office registered as a church for some kind of tax dodge. Pity he send his subbies down the river at the end… Who was your uncle.■■?Jeff
My uncle was Alan that used to work as a yard hand, and did some stuff in the 7.5 toner, if half of what he said about you was true then its going to some heck of a read. I heard you did road trains in Australia for a holiday. And did a none stop run Aberdeen to Alicante and back in a weekend for Paddy Ridge. Hijacked by the Mafia in Italy. America as well.
I remember when Jo folded, sad and unhappy faces that day.
I’m driving Road Trains doing East West and a bit of North South as well, been living in SA for 4 years now, came here in 2002. Doing 12 on and 6 of, according to the contract, but its more like 14 on and 2 of, the missus isn’t happy but there’s not much else about at the moment. Don’t fancy doing the mines, after living expenses, + flights in and out I’m not going be much better of, and it’s the same folk same bull, day in, day out.
I can’t place Alan, Vivers wasn’t a place I went a lot, if I saw a photo I might recognizes him though.
I did a bit of Road Train work out of Adelaide when I there on a holiday, mainly for NTFS and a bit for Ipec ( Toll ) as well.
It wasn’t Alicante it was more like Barcelona, I was meant to go 2 up with Paddy in his 143 but as soon as I got in the truck I could see he wasn’t good, snot running every where, bog roll up his nose. He bailed on me about Northampton and got a lift back north with Dirty Dave in the Magnum, but left me 6 signed cards and told me to get on with as good as I could. I left on Friday morning and made it back for Monday afternoon.
It wasn’t Italy it was Libya, but I’m not going to say any more as it’s all in the books.
I’m fairly new on here and noticed that most ex pats are in Canada or the US, some in the land of the long white cloud, are there many on here from the Australia. I’ve been here since 97, I think Mushroom man is up in QLD, don’t know if he’s still driving.
I still do a bit of B doubles for a mate. Don’t fancy going back onto Trains , 3 times the hassle, for a pittance more coin, and 90kph across the Nullabor was fun the first few times, but day after day did my head in.
Jeff
Jelliot:
I can’t place Alan, Vivers wasn’t a place I went a lot, if I saw a photo I might recognizes him though.
I did a bit of Road Train work out of Adelaide when I there on a holiday, mainly for NTFS and a bit for Ipec ( Toll ) as well.
It wasn’t Alicante it was more like Barcelona, I was meant to go 2 up with Paddy in his 143 but as soon as I got in the truck I could see he wasn’t good, snot running every where, bog roll up his nose. He bailed on me about Northampton and got a lift back north with Dirty Dave in the Magnum, but left me 6 signed cards and told me to get on with as good as I could. I left on Friday morning and made it back for Monday afternoon.
It wasn’t Italy it was Libya, but I’m not going to say any more as it’s all in the books.I’m fairly new on here and noticed that most ex pats are in Canada or the US, some in the land of the long white cloud, are there many on here from the Australia. I’ve been here since 97, I think Mushroom man is up in QLD, don’t know if he’s still driving.
I still do a bit of B doubles for a mate. Don’t fancy going back onto Trains , 3 times the hassle, for a pittance more coin, and 90kph across the Nullabor was fun the first few times, but day after day did my head in.Jeff
I’m new on here my self as well. I’ve had a bit of a look see and as you mentioned most of the ex pat drivers seem to be in Canada and the US. Who are you driving for at the moment, what’s the work like. I was on for Scotts of MG but there was to much politics going on in the office. I’m running for J+J with a 2010 Kenny, pulling triple sets for either Toll, Lindfox. sometimes GNR , the boss only has 4 and runs one himself, most of it’s run second hand by his wife, so it gets a bit bit messy sometimes, but not as much as some companies done. Kits all good but I would prefer a Volvo 770 XXL. Its a bit different from the DAf 95 I had in the UK, and defo not as interesting as driving in Europe. The enjoyment has gone now, it’s just about getting enough coin to pay the bills, still looking for something else but any kind of work is thin at the moment. Sat tracking has put pay to most things, and O Hand S is just getting so silly it’s stuffed up everything else.
I know what you mean about inter company politics, I was with a mob on the east cost running b double fridges, as far as I could see the office was more about politics and back stabbing than running trucks. It wasn’t unusual for 3 trucks being sent to do 1 collection, as no one in the office would talk to each other as they were all fighting with them selves. Of course it was always the drivers to blame when 3 of them turned up at the collection point.
I did a bit for Road Masters, Charters and Bon MacArthur as well, Not living on the north island now, and not doing regular driving work either. I run my Airbrushing studio full time, and driving is only to help out mates, usually on nights or weekends, mainly b doubles to and from the docks which is about 3 1/2 hours each way from the depot. If I’m lucky I get the Magnum, if not it’s a Mack or Kenworth. Not allowed to take the kids with me on dock work, O H and S, so there’s usually a long face when I go, and come back.
I know what you mean about the sat tracking, there’s a firm down here got the new stuff that has a true time feed to the office, if you go 3 k’s over the cab phone rings and the TM gives you a bollocking, 3 strikes and your out. 10 over the limit is an instant dismissal when you get back to the yard. However if your late for a delivery it’s also your fault.
I see Simon National Carriers is trying to get truck driving recognized as skilled labor so they can get migrant drivers in on visas. Makes me wonder how they are going to get round the attitude that I always came up against of. Got to have proof of at least 2 years experience before you can start. The visa would be out of time before you get going.
Jeff
Jelliot:
I know what you mean about inter company politics, I was with a mob on the east cost running b double fridges, as far as I could see the office was more about politics and back stabbing than running trucks. It wasn’t unusual for 3 trucks being sent to do 1 collection, as no one in the office would talk to each other as they were all fighting with them selves. Of course it was always the drivers to blame when 3 of them turned up at the collection point.
I did a bit for Road Masters, Charters and Bon MacArthur as well, Not living on the north island now, and not doing regular driving work either. I run my Airbrushing studio full time, and driving is only to help out mates, usually on nights or weekends, mainly b doubles to and from the docks which is about 3 1/2 hours each way from the depot. If I’m lucky I get the Magnum, if not it’s a Mack or Kenworth. Not allowed to take the kids with me on dock work, O H and S, so there’s usually a long face when I go, and come back.
I know what you mean about the sat tracking, there’s a firm down here got the new stuff that has a true time feed to the office, if you go 3 k’s over the cab phone rings and the TM gives you a bollocking, 3 strikes and your out. 10 over the limit is an instant dismissal when you get back to the yard. However if your late for a delivery it’s also your fault.
I see Simon National Carriers is trying to get truck driving recognized as skilled labor so they can get migrant drivers in on visas. Makes me wonder how they are going to get round the attitude that I always came up against of. Got to have proof of at least 2 years experience before you can start. The visa would be out of time before you get going.Jeff
I remember you used to have all your trucks airbrushed in Scotland, good to see you made the jump into it full time, your web site looks tops.
Shame it didn’t really take of down here, it would bee good to see some trucks running about like that. Most of the stuff here is that vinyl rap. just peel it of when your finished and give the dealer a white truck. It’s hard enough to get money to put fuel in let alone anything nice for the truck. My Kenny is all painted traditional Oz style but the newer ones just have a sticker on the door,
I’m just doing line haul at the moment so I just collect the trailers and haul them to another depot, do the same at the other end and haul them back.
I’ve been asking about for other work for a while and had a hit with a fella in town that sells ag pumps and irrigation systems. Base money isn’t as good as the truck but it’s not far of, theres commission on sales and the missus and kids is keen for me to give it a go so this might be my last outing for a while.
fair dinkum and all that stuff, mate!
Things down here aren’t much better, any one wanting a half decent pay has to go the to the mainland mines, and I heard that even that was running slack. We have finally got the Forrest issue sorted out after 11 years, but most of the forest guys have had to leave the state to get work. Some hung on as long as they could, but many have been gone more than 7 years and are settled with there families in new locations, I doubt if most of them will ever return. However there was thing on the news that even though it was sorted out when a crew turned up in the Southern Forrest yesterday to start work they found half a dozen hippies chained to their machines, chanting that they had the right to free protest. No one has much confidence in the government, and anyone with a bit of money is holding on to it. I’m still chugging away with the airbrush work but not with as much work as I used to have. I did a container run at the weekend with ■■■■■■■ powered DAf 105. not much excitement, straight up and back, but at least I got out the door for a few hours.
Jeff…
So it’s been a while since I put anything up, I was hoping to have the first book ready to go by now but things needed sorted out, life got in the way, and all the other stuff happens just seemed to take over.
I took on some advice that other people had mentioned and applied them to my story. One of the things I did was to add more detail, which was a thing I didn’t really want to do as the word count for the whole thing was already around 420,000 words, and I found that offering that kind of thing to a publishing house would close the door before they even looked at it.
It was also mentioned that there was to much going on in each paragraph, and I was advised to brake it up, which would also take the chunkiness out the text.
The other thing was to single space the lines and make the text 14 point instead of 12. It doesn’t look like that on this forum, but in the computer and in printed text it’s much better.
I had a couple offers to publish through a smaller houses, but one wanted to cut the whole work to 80,000 words and there wasn’t an option for photos, which is why I have decided to go self publishing. The money the publishing houses were offering would work out to be around 2 cent a day, and they wanted me to put a whole load of money up front, as well as sign a very binding contract. The other was so vague about everything I wasn’t sure what was actually being offered, but again they wanted me to sign a contract before they would go any farther.
The company I have decided to go with offers a hard back version, paper back and E book all in the same deal, and it’s pretty much pay for the services you require. Everything is sold in individual items ( Editing, Promotion, Publishing, etc, ) or there is packages available if that’s what you want.
Hope you enjoy what will be some of the story from book 2 … All comments welcome…
Jeff…
It seemed like it hadn’t stopped raining for years. All I could remember was rain, getting soaking wet, and the constant smell of soggy gloves drying out under the passenger’s side heater vent. Sometimes I didn’t know if I should even wear my all-in-one plastic wetsuit, as there was a big plastic zipper down the front that stopped just at my crotch and it always leaked right there, making it look like I had wet myself. There was usually a bit of ■■■■■■■ stuff around while loading and unloading, which caused a lot of sweat, so wearing a plastic suit made it worse. Sweating inside it made me just about as wet as being out in the rain.
I was delivering two big tanks to a site where a farmer was doing some development. The tanks had to go in first, as they were at the far end of the complex, so as soon as the groundwork was done, they were to be delivered. The delivery address was only half an hour drive from the yard, so it was just a quick fill in job and then back to the yard for a load of plastic tanks to do another delivery south that afternoon.
Before I left the yard George had told me that the site was ready for delivery and there had been a big bulldozer in all week flattening everything out; that wasn’t how it looked to me. When I arrived the whole area was undoubtedly a quagmire, it reminded me of some photos I had seen of The Somme. It was void of everything except mud and a few rocks, and there wasn’t any kind of vegetation anywhere. The only thing I could see that was slightly comforting was the glimmer of the remnants of a bonfire over near the boundary. Even that was looked pretty miserable struggling for life in the rain, while it produced copious amounts of slow dancing, desperate smoke that struggled to get air borne.
I stopped at the end of the access road just before everything turned into a swamp, where I was met by a small dumpy man in a flat tweed cap, and green quilted jacket who looked just as wet as everything else. He was all hunched and had his head buried far into his neck and shoulders as he walked and slid across the site in his trendy green wellies which were covered in a light coating of local mud. With as little body movement as possible he half pointed and half gestured to where the tanks needed to go. As I had suspected it was about fifty metres away from any hard standing, and I knew before I even started there was no way the Volvo would make it. The F twelve was very heavy on the front end, anyway, and from experience I knew that as soon as it got on soft ground it would go down like a submarine. The seven tons of steel tank on the back of it did nothing to improve its swimming ability either.
The site manager insisted that the ground was good, as the bulldozer had been running on it all week and had compressed it. I could see it was a swamp, with water sitting on the top of it and when I walked a couple of metres into it I managed to sink the heel of my boot about six inches into it without trying too hard. I told him it wasn’t going to work, but he insisted. I knew that the farmer had placed on order for eight more tanks of the same size for different projects, and thought that I should at least give it a go, even if it was to prove to the site manager that he was wrong. Begrudgingly I got back into the truck and fired it up, and a few moments later with less than half the truck three metres from the edge of the hard standing, the front axle was buried in the mud; only another forty seven metres and I would have been there.
The site manager wasn’t put off. He said the bulldozer would pull me the rest of the way, but my suggestion was that the bulldozer could get round the back of me and pull me out. I told him that it was all too wet and there needed to be some kind of hard standing or the job should be postponed until it had at least dried out a bit. I then added that the crane would have to go in first, so there was little point on me getting in to position until he was set up. He wasn’t very happy with that suggestion, and pointed out that there was tight deadline to contend with.
As we were discussing the situation, Jimmy the crane arrived to do the lifting. He said that he had to go in first anyway so that he could set up to avoid that power line that I had already mentioned to the irksome site manager. Jimmy looked at the site and the sunken Volvo and suggested that he come back when the site had dried out or at least when some gravel had been laid over the mud. The site manager had different ideas; he would pull the crane and the Volvo to the place that the tanks were meant to be.
I heard the phone ringing in the Volvo - George at the office wanted to know when I was coming back for the plastics. I informed him of the situation, and was told to do the best I could and try not to upset the customer, as it was a big order.
A large chain was attached to the rear of the drag and the whole lot was wrenched out of the way so that the crane could be towed to the set up point. Jimmy the crane, the bulldozer driver and I all thought it was a dumb idea, but under instructions from the site manager the bull dozer was hitched to the front of the crane. We were all soaked to the skin by the time Jimmy explained to the dozer driver exactly where he wanted to end up, and it had to be right the first time, as there was no margin for maneuvering.
The bulldozer snarled its way across the sea of mud belching black smoke, accompanied by a horrendous growl from the dumpy exhaust stack. Jimmy in the crane was not looking the happiest I’d seen him, as the assembly made its way into the quagmire. The dozer was sitting well on its wide tracks designed for mud, but the crane was sliding along on its belly with the wheels up to its axles, leaving tracks like a child’s toy that was being pushed too hard into a wet sandpit. The more I saw, the less I liked it. The ride for the crane wasn’t very smooth, and I knew if the drag had to undertake that, it would simply fall over. I put my point to the site manager, but it landed on deaf ears.
Once Jimmy the crane was in position, the dozer was dispatched for the Volvo. I thought that without the drag attached, it would stand a better chance on its own. The site manager wanted to tow the drag fist, but after Jimmy and I had explained that the chance of it falling over was very high, he backed down. I was going to give Jimmy a hand to set up the crane but the site manager insisted I get the Volvo into position, so it was positioned at the edge of the swamp while the dozer was flattening it out for the second run. Meanwhile Jimmy was still trying to find a solid bottom for the out riggers of the crane, and had already pushed most of his good wood far enough into the mud that he knew he would probably never recover them.
The chain was attached to the towing eye on the bumper and we set off at a snail’s pace. I could feel the Volvo sinking and could hear and feel it gouging its way over rocks deep underneath the mud. The tug from the dozer was steady and constant, and I noticed the next bit looked even wetter. The dozer was even sinking a bit as the front wheels of the Volvo slid and rolled over the mud. I felt it going down even farther and the chain slapped around as the rear of the dozer dug in. I blasted the horn; I’d had enough of this madness and had an uneasy feeling that something was going to break very soon. As I did, I saw the site manager telling the dozer driver to give it more gas.
Just as I blasted the horn again and signaled for them to stop, I heard a horrendous metallic wrenching noise coming from under the cab. The dozer lurched forward, but the Volvo stood still. All the warning lights started flashing on the dash as the dozer and bumper took off across the mud. There was an eerie hush as the dozer driver shut it down. I cut the engine and switched the ignition off. The sound of warning buzzers and air escaping was unmistakable, the site manager wasn’t looking too happy. I was furious.
There were air, electric and water lines attached to the bumper, and when it was wrenched off they had gone with it. As the last of the air escaped, the brakes were on hard. I was out as quick as I could to inspect the damage and straight away noticed the front of the chassis had been dragged in a bit as well. Even deep in the mud which was turning green with the antifreeze now mixing in as well it was hard not to notice that it was looking a bit drawn together towards the ends.
The site manager wanted to connect the chain onto another part of the chassis, and have another go. I pointed out that it wasn’t going to happen, not only that but he was responsible for the damage that he had already caused. I wasn’t expecting the next bit but after a bit of a heated discussion mainly with me pointing out the errors of his ways he left in his new Range Rover shouting a swearing that he quit. I was trying to figure out the stupidity of the situation. He must have seen how far the Volvo had sunk, but still he wouldn’t let up, and now the coward had done a runner.
I phoned the office, George wasn’t best pleased, and said Dad would be dispatched to lend a hand. All the air had gone from the brake lines and most of the coolant was out of the radiator. The dozer driver and Jimmy had put the bumper on the back of the Volvo under the tank, while I was talking to the site manager, so for now it was up to us to sort out the mess. The rain was relentless, but now I just didn’t care. I was angry with myself for letting it get out of hand. Should I blame myself or the absent site manager? All that was in the past; right now the situation had to be sorted out.
It was quickly decided that the dozer would pull Jimmy the crane close to the Volvo and unload the tank, as it would be easier to get it out without the tank on board. I wasn’t relishing the proposition of getting under the Volvo and winding the brakes off, but it would have to be done or it would never get shifted. This was going to be a big repair, and I couldn’t see it getting back on the road for at least a couple of weeks. The bumper and bull bar were beyond repair. At least it would give me an excuse to build another one — but I couldn’t get a sale for that one and it wasn’t covered by the insurance.
The dozer pulled Jimmy into position so the tank could be laid out of the way over by the perimeter of the site. Then we all had the great job of digging out as much of the sunken timber as we could so at he could at least have something to rig the crane on. We had just finished getting both the tank off the Volvo and drag by the time Dad arrived. He just walked about squelching in the mud and shaking his head. Dad asked who was in charge of the job and we told him the site manager had ■■■■■■ off just after it had happened. Dad had already phoned the farmer, who had heard about the goings on and was on his way from one of his other farms at the time. The Volvo was cold and out of action, sunk beyond the axles in the mud. I was concerned about the fuel tanks rupturing, as there was a full load on board and a thousand liters of diesel getting added to the mix was the last thing we needed.
As I had suspected, I had the task of getting under the sunken Volvo and winding the brakes off as Dad and the farmer who had just arrived discussed the situation. It was decided that the site manager would be relieved of his duties and the farmers insurance would cover the cost of the repair and recovery. The dozer pulled the Volvo back to the hard standing, while Dad, the farmer and I assessed the damage. The fuel tanks, although covered in mud, looked okay, as did the brackets. I was a bit surprised they weren’t bent; most of the damage was at the front where the bumper had been mercilessly ripped for the chassis. I wasn’t sure about the sump and was concerned it may be damaged. The drag link and steering arm had also been buried but I didn’t have the right equipment to see if they were still the shape they had left the factory in. All that I could do now was to wait with the sad Volvo until the recovery truck arrived to take it to the dealer in Broxburn for assessment and repair.
Cold, wet, muddy, unhappy and hungry, at least I had the night heater to put a bit of heat into the cab as I sat there soaked to the skin. The farmer told the dozer driver to fix the site and he could go for the day, which then left me alone as well. I played my guitar badly for a while to cheer myself up, and reminisced about all the places I had been. The Volvo would be fixed and I would be back on the road, but what would I do until then? Dad had organized for Pat Laing’s Ford Transcontinental to come round and tow the drag back to the yard, but it was away working all week so that would probably be Saturday before that happened. I couldn’t see the Volvo being back on the road until mid-next week, which was not long enough to go on holiday, but too long to sit about doing nothing. If I was available, no doubt Dad could find some despicable thing to for me to do. As far as he was concerned, I had just had a holiday to Tunisia anyway.
The recovery truck eventually turned up. It was one of the new state-of-the-art under-lift jobs. The prop shaft was removed in no time, and with little effort he was off, just after I phoned Dad to come and get me.
As usual, Dad was his prompt self, and after I’d spent two hours standing in the rain wearing a muddy wet suit and gum boots before he finally showed up. I was glad to have a shower that night. It was a bit strange to be in the house at night during the week, and even stranger not to have the truck sitting ready to go somewhere. I hadn’t been in this situation since the F seven had gone on fire. My guitar and all my other stuff that I lived with from day to day was still in the Volvo.
I didn’t usually phone Mick Anderson, because most of the time he was tramping round Europe in his F sixteen. I had caught up with him several times, the last being while I was sitting at the Wheel House in Dover waiting to get cleared with the marble from Italy, but I thought I would take a punt and picked up the phone. I was quite surprised to hear his voice instead of the recorded message telling me
“The phone you are trying to reach is currently out of area, please try again later.” We had a bit of a chat and I told him of my woes. He was waiting to unload a trailer full of salad at a large supermarket distribution hub. At the time, he was pulling a fridge for a company out of the Cheltenham area well known for their black Scanias and Volvos. Our chat cheered me up a bit, so I made the mistake of phoning the Volvo dealer to see what was happening with the Volvo. It wasn’t good; the insurance assessor wasn’t due to come back there until Friday at the earliest, so the work couldn’t start until then. However, the foreman told me that he’d had a good look and thought three and a half days would fix all the damage, even taking into account pulling the radiator and inter-cooler out. All the stuff needed was standard and it was all in stock. For me, that meant Thursday morning until I could go anywhere. That was a week to try to avoid Dad, who undoubtedly had something brewing. I went the shops to get some things and when I got back, George said that Mick had phoned - could I phone him back?
Mick was coming up to Aberdeen to load fish for Spain, and wanted to know if I would like to double up with him, as the return load was for Edinburgh market at Broxburn? I didn’t need to be asked twice, so we made a quick plan being that Mick would collect me at the Volvo dealer tomorrow on the way through. All I needed was my gear, which was still in the Globetrotter, and my passport. Colin was going that way in the morning to collect tanks, so I would get a lift with him. Dad was quite happy to let me go because he was sick of me moping around, even though it had only been a few hours, but added that he wasn’t going to pay me - so I could think of it as an unpaid holiday.
It was still raining as I waited at the dealers. Colin had dropped me around half past eleven in the morning and Mick wasn’t due in until just after two-ish in the afternoon, so there was going to be a bit of a wait. All I was taking were some clothes, cash, driver’s license and some bedding. While I was waiting I had a chat with the foreman about the F twelve who re-assured me that everything else in the Globetrotter would be okay where it was, and confirmed that the work should be finished for Thursday as long as the assessor arrived when he said he would.
Mike arrived, and less than two minutes later I was driving the F sixteen with the new tri-axle maxi cube fridge towards anywhere south. The F sixteen lay out was very much like my Globetrotter inside, but there was no kitchen pack, which offered more room, and it was left hand drive, which took a little bit of getting used to. Every time I went to change gear, I hit my hand on the door trim to start with, and the side of the road seemed very close, but Mick thought I was getting on all right though, and soon had his feet up. The new by-pass round Edinburgh was open, so a route round that and down the A seven O two to pick up the A seventy four was quickly decided to be the best direction. When it came to driving, Mick wasn’t one for hanging about; if he wasn’t averaging fifty miles an hour throughout the course of the day he wasn’t very happy. By his own admission the fuse was out as much as it was in and a break was something that was taken as and when he needed the toilet. On one trip a few months back he did Manchester, Alicante back to Edinburgh and only showed two thousand k’s on his cards.
The load in the back paying its way was fish from Peterhead. It was meant to be from Aberdeen, but that one fell through, so an extra fifty miles was added to the north end of the trip before it started. Mick was like me when it came to driving and tended to go it alone, making his own speed, but for this trip he was meeting a guy that was running for the agent for the first time - an Irish owner driver with a Scania one four two driven by Peter Owen Ridge, better known as Porridge. The plan was catch up with him at the Penrith truck stop around half past two, so there wasn’t any time for hold ups.
As soon as Mick and I got all the catching up out of the way, he phoned Porridge to see where he was. He had come of the boat at Stranraer and was currently at Newton Stewart on the A seventy five. As far as he was concerned, everything was going fine and we shouldn’t have to wait for each other very long. Porridge had his own fridge and was loaded with packed meat in boxes. Both loads were for Murcia in south east Spain. Mick said that according to the agent, Porridge liked to go a bit.
It was three in the afternoon now. Mick had tipped at load Glasgow after arriving late the night before, then run up to Peterhead and back to Broxburn to collect me, so I reckoned he must have two or three hours driving left at best. Porridge started on a fresh card at Stranraer, after having one of his invisible mates kindly drive his truck to the ferry.
Mick’s plan of attack was to get both trucks to Calais on that shift. Porridge should have enough time, as should I, and if we could get them to Calais we could have a break while the paper work was clearing. Mick would then be right to drive again. At the moment he was signed off, I could drive Porridge’s truck and between the three of us we could juggle the cards a bit and get the two trucks to the Spanish border of Irun for the next shift.
The F sixteen felt a bit heavy, heavier than my Globetrotter. Mick said that was because it had twenty six tons of fish in the back. It would seem that weight for Mick was the same kind of obstacle as driving speed and taco time. The truck for all its weight sat very well and the A seventy four was reached in no time. The C.B. was turned up a bit, and crackled away to check information about Smokey the Bear, or the guy with the hair dryer as he was called in that part of the country. Fifty five miles an hour was the thing to do in that part of the woods, as any faster would draw too much attention. Offering a packet of cigarettes to the man in the uniform would most likely be taken the wrong way, and I’m sure he would be interested in opening the weighbridge just to have a look - so steady as she goes, for now.
The agent had already given Mick running money for Porridge when he called in on the way up yesterday. Porridge had told Mick during the phone conversation that he only had enough fuel to get him to Penrith, so that’s why we were meeting him there. Porridge had only been waiting a couple of minutes when the F sixteen pitched and rolled its way onto the truck stop forecourt, and we pulled alongside his white Scania with the pulsating fridge screaming its head off.
Porridge turned out to be a bloke that wasn’t very tall, quite hairy, and a bit wild looking, sporting the usual garb of Scania dealer jacket, with the Griffin logo on the back, jeans, a t-shirt and boots, pretty much like most other guys that were driving trucks at that time. No time was wasted fueling the two trucks and trailers, and once we got the pumps running Mick gave Porridge his money and told him his plan of attack while I finished pumping fuel into both the trucks and trailers. Porridge’s only objection to the plan was that the last time he had gone through the border at Irun someone had broken the seal on the fridge door, causing no end of paperwork.
Porridge’s fridge seemed to be in a very quick cycle, revving high one minute, then shutting off the next. None of us thought it was right, so before we set off we had a look. Mick thought it would be a faulty thermostat and gave it a bit of a tap. As soon as he did, the fridge shut down, so we moved the trucks off the forecourt and parked over by a couple of other fridges that were also getting a soaking in the rain. After a bit of fiddling for a few minutes, the fault was traced to a bad earth on the thermostat. With a bit of a road side repair using the wrong kind of screw driver, pocket knife and some insulation tape, it was deemed ready to have a go. Porridge pushed the switch, fired it up again and we waited a few minutes to see what was going to happen. It seemed better and given that none of us had eaten for while we all went to the restaurant to give the fridge some time to settle down.
We all traded stories as we ate. Porridge had been an owner driver for a couple of years, but before that he had worked for a few Irish fridge companies, so he knew how to load heavy sheet steel into fridge boxes then have hanging meet on top of that. He still wasn’t convinced that being an owner driver was worth the hassle and always seemed to be chasing money that was owed. He and his wife wanted the best they could afford for their kids and the only way to do that was for him to be down the road most of the time. It wasn’t the best think for family life, but for him it was the best he could offer. Mick and I knew exactly where he was coming from. All the expenses were going up and the rate was coming down. Big companies were blaming owner drivers; owner drivers were blaming big companies. The way it was put was that owner divers were rate takers not rate makers, gone were the days when an owner driver could walk into a company and even see the person in charge of the transport side of things. Anything worth having now had all been eaten up by the larger companies. If you were an owner driver now you had to rely largely on a getting descent sub rates from someone that was thought to be reliable, but pretty much it was luck of the draw.
When we got back to the trucks, it was good to hear that Porridge’s fridge was behaving its self, so we all had a look at the new fridge that was sitting behind Mick’s truck, then set off for the next stop, which was planned to be Toddington. That was a bit of stretch as far as I was concerned, but Mick and Porridge thought it would be alright. It was now four o’clock, and by the time we reached the M sixty one turn it would be half fiveish. I knew there would be quite heavy commuter traffic until at least the south side of the Thelwell viaduct and it could slow to at least thirty miles an hour, but after that it would get going again.
We set off with Mick driving the F sixteen, and sat just over a hundred Ks an hour with Porridge, who was right there in the wheel spray. It was starting to get dark as we wound our way through valley by Tebay and dark by the time we had cleared the Lake District at the Carnforth exit. Porridge had some very distinctive marker lights on the front of his truck and it was easy to spot his truck in the darkness and water spray. He was lacking a bit on the hills, but was happy to let it roll on and was soon catching up on the flat.
The traffic started getting a bit heavy on the south side of Lancaster and was at crawl by the time we were negotiating Preston. Mick wasn’t too happy about that, but there was nothing to do but follow on as good as we could and get into the middle lane as the left one disappeared towards Blackpool a bit farther along. By the time we got to Knutsford services it was starting to clear and we were back to a hundred plus Ks an hour. It stayed that way until Keel, where Mick said that his hours were just about up, so he phoned Porridge and told him he was pulling in. We all had a bit of discussion and it was decided that Mick would drive Porridge’s truck and I would drive the F sixteen. Porridge wasn’t too worried about taco cards and never kept any, as southern Irish law was a bit different from the U.K. The changeover was as quick as it took to go the toilet, shop, and check the fridges, then we fired off into the darkness and rain again. I tagged along behind Mick and Porridge.
The traffic was fairly thin now, the pace was faster and the running was flatter. We were counting a services every twenty five minutes. I was happy I wasn’t paying the fuel bills, and as the rain kept coming, we kept making spray, until Mick pulled in at Watford Gap. There was a switch on the dash of Mick’s Volvo which he had already shown me; it switched off the taco speed pulse, just like taking the fuse out but with less hustle. Porridge had his fuse removal down to a fine art and we set off again, only stopping just before the Dartford crossing to switch it back on, and Porridge put his back in. Mick joined me in the F sixteen, saying that Porridge had a bit of a sleep on the way down the M one and round the M twenty five, so as far as the taco was concerned we had an hour and twenty minutes break and everything was fine.
Mick was happy it was raining, as water kept the tires cool and there was less chance of them overheating and bursting. With me in front I peddled on up the climbs on the A two towards Dover, while Porridge was in hot pursuit. We held it steady for a bit and cruised past ■■■■■■■ Corner towards the coast with both trucks just chipping away at the k’s in a steady fashion. After the turn we started easing off as we made our final twenty or so miles. I didn’t want to draw too much unwanted attention to ourselves, Porridge who was an old hand knew the score and tagged along about half a K behind. The final bit was through the road works and past Husks, where a lot of people did diesel bunkering, then the drop down Jubilee drive to the ferry terminal.
Once into Dover we found a spot to park up and went to the agent to collect all the paperwork, then on to the weighbridge. Porridge went first and set it off at Forty two tons. I put the F sixteen on at forty two and a half. Mick thought that was fine and his Volvo was pulling fairly well with the new fridge on the back. We sat side by side at the loading lanes, with Porridge’s fridge now behaving itself, but some of the other drivers trying to get a bit of a quick sleep weren’t too impressed.
We were lucky to get the next ferry, and an hour after getting into the docks, we were on the ferry. Pie, chips and a glass of Coke for me, Mick had the same only with coffee, and Porridge had the steak and chips with a fried egg on top. We changed the money at trucker’s rate, had a look round the shop, then went to watch the cartoons that played night and day. Everywhere I went there was always all day breakfast, but there was never all day pie and chips — however, the ferry did do all day ice cream. I was pleasantly surprised that the crossing was fairly flat and I managed to retain all the food that I had eaten. Mick and Porridge both mentioned that neither of them were very good at keeping things in their stomach on the boats either, so I didn’t feel like such a bad sailor after all.
It wasn’t long before we were off the boat and I tagged along behind all the other trucks doing the big snake through the docks and finally parked with the other fridges. The paper work was handed into the office and we headed off to the new showers, with the plan being to have a few hours sleep while things were sorted out.
Five in the morning local time we were off, which wasn’t a good idea if you are heading for the Paris and the wonders of the Peripherique. I decided that staying in bed and having a sleep would be quite good, but the motion of the truck rocking was bit much for a decent sleep. I only managed to get a bit of a doze to the sounds of the Volvo, fridge, and tires pushing through the rain.
It was the south side of Paris when I got up, and Mick said it was my turn to drive. We pulled into a service area and had some food to find that Mick’s trailer smelt like fish more than it should have, but the readout said it was all going fine. Porridge mentioned that on the odd occasion when it was dry he had seen a bit of discharge coming from his rear pipes.
Mick’s theory was that the fridge was going through cycles; the readout said it was fine, running between minus fifteen and minus twelve. Se we pushed of again with me and Porridge doing another four hour drive before we stopped again. Porridge kept up with us no problem, as I was sitting around ninety, to ninety five Ks an hour through the course of the day, so we just kept chipping away at the kilometers. At one stop, Porridge announced that he was alright to keep going, as he had just finished a break so we kept pushing, because Mick’s plan was to get to the border that afternoon. It rained all the way down while Porridge, Mick and I kept changing driving duties every three hours or so. During a short toilet stop we noticed Mick’s fridge now smelt quite strongly of fish, but the computer still said it was running between minus fifteen and minus twelve, so we kept pushing on.
We did the papers at Bitatou, crossed the river and pushed onwards into Spain, where the terrain almost instantly changed. As usual there was thirty francs in the passport to grease the wheels. Things were getting a bit more hilly as we swung south for Pamplona and Zaragoza, the idea being to turn off the motorway there and run down the national round Teruel to Valencia, then follow the coast route via Alicante, and finally on to the cold store at Murcia. Porridge was starting to nod just the north side of Zaragoza, so Mick and I thought it would be a good idea to stop, as we had been going at it from Aberdeen with only a few hours at Calais.
We were well ahead of where we should have been and there was no point stuffing it up now so a big lay-by was found for parking. It was well frequented by trucks from all over Europe, but at least the rain had stopped in fact we hadn’t seen it since the north side of Bordeaux. However it did make it more noticeable that there was a fair bit of discharge still coming from the rear pipes of Micks trailer.
Porridge opened his trailer box to reveal a very well thought out mobile catering environment. Mick was as impressed as I was; it had everything including the kitchen sink, and left the kitchen pack in the Globetrotter looking very basic. However, I wouldn’t like to use it in winter up the north of Scotland.
The daylight had already gone as we cooked up bacon, eggs, mushrooms and beans, but the on board lighting system that Porridge had installed in the box soon put that right. I had bought some baguettes from the services on the way down, and once everything was cooked we just divided everything up. After the food was eaten and stories told, Porridge heated some water for a bit of a wash and shave, and the fridges hummed away as we all got some sleep.
Three in the morning we were off, having had an eight hour break, well sort of. Mick and Porridge checked the oil and water before we got going. The run down the national three thirty was very good and we managed to hold ninety to a hundred Ks for most of the way, as long as it wasn’t too much up hill and we weren’t held up by slower traffic. We were backed on the dock and unloading before lunch time and all the paperwork was completed, but there wasn’t much ice left in the fish crates.
Mick phoned back to the agent who advised that we go the local fridge dealer and have it looked at, but it was now Friday lunch time and the back load of strawberries and salad was waiting to be collected. That idea wasn’t very popular but it had to be done, and after an hour of hunting we finally found the place in the old part of town down a very inaccessible tight lane.
The fridge dealer wasn’t the best pleased to see us, as he was very busy, and we were sitting there until four, until someone came to have a look. Mick was getting a bit fidgety, knowing that some of the packing houses in the area would be going home for the weekend. The fault was traced to the computer and a new unit was plugged in and we were told that it was fixed:
“ Sign dees… now you go, mister.”
The strawberries that we were meant to collect first had gone on another truck, but the salad collection near Savilla could be loaded first thing tomorrow morning. Mick wasn’t very happy, but that’s how it is sometimes. He also mentioned that the probability of going into Portugal for the second part of the load was very likely, as most of the Spanish packing houses wanted to get everything out for Friday evening at the latest.
The evening drive westwards was as good as it gets; there wasn’t much traffic about and the empty F sixteen handled very well, but it was still push hard and go, go, go. There was a whole lot of nothing in that part of the world and it was hard to imagine that we were heading for anywhere at all. Once past Lorca, we swang right and just kept going through the valleys without much of anything. Granada was as good a place as any to stop for food. Mick handed over the wheel to me after that and I took it the rest of the way to Savilla. It was stinking hot that night, and Mick mentioned that he had heard that some of the Middle East drivers used to sleep on the top of their tilts in hot weather. If we tried that here, we would either get eaten by mosquitoes or roll off the edge of the fridge.
We discussed at length the kind of thing with which Mick would like to adorn the side of his beloved F sixteen - it always came back to women with not many clothes on, which was a big change from the factory plain white on it at the moment.
Mick mentioned that it was fairly easy getting work for his truck, but sometimes the money wasn’t too good. Everyone he had tried along the way had offered the earth and delivered dirt, and some deals hadn’t worked at all. The guy he was hauling the fridge for now was the best rate he’d ever had, but he pushed hard to get the stuff delivered, sometimes with unreasonable timing, and the harder he went, the harder the agent pushed. It didn’t seem like a sweet deal to me, as I sat on the passenger seat watching Spain go by mulling it over but saying nothing.
The talk changed to Porridge’s fridge locker and how well it was put together. Mick had his eye on one of the Danish ones with all those stainless steel fittings. As an owner driver, he was pretty ambitious and wanted to be running three trucks in two years, all fridges and all paid for, but at least he had a plan. For now, I was happy hauling tanks in my Globetrotter and letting Dad take care of the day to day running of things, although I knew it couldn’t go on forever.
I parked outside the packing house and once we had a wash we got our heads down. Mick said they would give us a knock up in the morning and hopefully the agent would have sent a fax to them telling us the next collection point. If we were really lucky, there might even be a full load there and we wouldn’t have to go any farther.
As I drifted of to sleep on the top bunk I wondered if next week when the good people of Edinburgh were tucking into their crisp salad they would even spare a thought for the guys in trucks all round Europe that were out collecting it. Most likely not.
That was a bit before my time but I can remember similar tales. I know how much it can rain in the Scottish borders, I remember the soakings I used to get when I was there, it’s a pity we don’t get that kind of weather in South Australia from time to time.
Classic trip, none stop Scotland to south of Spain in an F16 Globby with a fridge full of fish, and an Irish 142 as a running mate, I can almost smell the fishyness coming out those discharge pipes. And as you mentioned no one eating salad in Scotland would give stuff about what trucks went through to get the stuff to their table.
Fantastic story can’t wait for the book.
a great story,looking forward to your book,you asked for comments…meters,as in length is spelt metres!!
David
Hi Yes sorry about that Mr Nut, my wife has also pointed out that there’s only one T in writing as well. Metres… I ran it through a spell check ( American ) before I posted it up and didn’t think to check, but I’ve changed it now, thanks… Yes I will be getting it pro edited before it goes into the publishers. Both my self and my wife have been through it about a dozen times and still things that would seem obvious keep coming up.
I should probably have stuck to yards, but I wanted to be sophisticated and modern. 
Jeff…
Man… yon story brings back memories…never to be seen again…
im sitting here wi a smile on my face thinking o similar events and friends long passed. 
you certainly have one book sold in MB.
jimmy.
it doesnt detract from a great story Jeff,bring it on…!!!metres or yards!!!
David 