Lorries Who Lunch

One of the (few) pleasures of being a truck driver is that you can take a break whenever and wherever you choose.  At least, you can in a company that has an enlightened boss who hasn’t had the lorries fitted with GPS spy devices, and doesn’t question you too closely about how long it takes to do a particular job.  Fortunately I work for one such progressive employer who isn’t overly concerned about anything provided you can produce fuel receipts at regular intervals and get the job done.  Eventually.

Thus it was that I found myself on the semi-regular plod over to Rochdale this fine Bank Holiday Friday.  With only five cars to collect it was a job for my rigid Scania rather than the usual artic, which pleased me enormously.  On my trips over the M62 my curiosity has been piqued by a long abandoned factory of some description that is clearly visible from the crest of the hill as the motorway bypasses Halifax.  Although almost a mile distant, the building sits atop a hill, and a large brick chimney makes a perfect landmark.  I’ve been scouting for an abandoned industrial building for photography purposes, and this looked ideal.  But a closer inspection was required, particularly for the all important question of access.

As I made remarkable time on my way to Rochdale I decided to pop off the motorway and take a closer look.  This isn’t a good idea in an artic as you never know what you’re going to meet, or even if you can turn round when you get there.  With a rigid, this isn’t a problem.  Indeed, with the majority of my deliveries being to the fleshpots of Leicester at addresses you’d have difficulty getting a pedal bike into, I figured I could get in and out without too much difficulty.

I duly arrived at the site without problems, and discovered it was a long abandoned factory or mill of some description.  I was impressed to find that it had HGV access, so drove straight in without any problems.  Amazingly it hasn’t been fenced off and doesn’t have lots of patronising signs about derelict buildings being dangerous places – you don’t say.  There was even room to turn round and park up, which is an idea that I wish would catch on with our company sites.  I was therefore able to go off and take some snaps (I always carry a camera with me for just such an occasion).  The scene that greets you is total devastation.  Graffiti is everywhere, walls and ceilings have fallen in and out; piles of rubbish and rubble lie strewn around the yard and the corrugated iron that hasn’t already disintegrated flaps around in the wind and looks as though it will collapse at any moment.  It’s a bit like checking into a bed and breakfast in Byker.  The perfect place for a lorry driver’s lunch.

Despite this scene of annihilation, the view forwards couldn’t be more different.  The rolling moors of Saddleworth stretch westwards, whilst a beautifully restored old mill stands guard over the valley.  Quite a contrast of styles in such a small area.

With photos taken there was time for a cuppa before retracing my steps and heading off to Rochdale for my five cars, some of which even started on the key.  Then the long, slow trundle back to base in the Charge of the People Carrier Brigade (Bank Holiday Friday).  These occasions always bring out the lunatics who only ever usually shuttle between home – school – supermarket – home run, so proper roads totally throw them.  One extremely brave – but rather gormless – Volvo driver stopped in the outside lane of the A1 near Wentbridge to change a wheel and brought the road to a standstill as far back as Doncaster.  Ironically enough, just as this traffic jam ended another was beginning because a second Volvo – this time an estate – had also parked up in the outside lane and was making a phonecall as I passed him.  Probably asking the au pair if she’d switched the iron off.  This jam wasn’t quite as bad, but no time to clock it as I entered a southbound jam of my own.  This one was down to the outright winner of ‘Dick of The Day’ contest.  At Five Lanes End junction a woman (I’m saying nothing) had inexplicably driven her new pale green Toyota Avensis down the exit sliproad.  Daft, but not entirely unexpected.  What was more questionable was what she did next.  A 44 ton Volvo FH artic was proceeding up the narrow sliproad while Madame was coming down.  Probably on her phone, but the jury’s still out on that one.  Did she stop and think, ‘Hang on, this doesn’t look entirely tickety-boo to me.  Maybe I’ll stop and assess the situation.’  Er, no.  She tries to squeeze past and takes out the side of her car against the truck’s underframe.  As I said, outright winner of Dick of The Day Award.  Unless, of course, you know better …

I can't decide if this a road accident, or Saturday morning at Grantham Asda.

The Road to Hull - Well, Nearly

As it was a fairly quiet day at work, I was despatched up to Beverley in East Yorkshire to the RCB dealers to collect some trade cars. This is a pleasant run, as it involves crossing the Humber Bridge. No matter how may times I see this bridge, I always find it an amazing piece of engineering, (at my age I don’t get out much), and the view on a clear day is fantastic. Today was crystal clear, and the tide was at low ebb so the Humber looked as still as a sheet of glass. Unfortunately the local constabulary take a dim view of HGV drivers parking up to take pictures, so I carried on to the toll booths to pay the outrageous £10.90 that they charge a rigid lorry to cross. The bridge is superb – but not that superb. Still, the company was paying, so never mind. As I couldn’t stop for pictures, I took this one on a previous visit when I travelled by car and could visit the viewing point. It was a much colder and windy day on that occasion!

North of the Humber the trip to Beverley is slow, due to the need for a roundabout every 25 yards. I don’t quite know what the need for a roundabout every 25 yards could possibly be; probably something to do with left over Council Tax that must be wasted before the end of the fiscal year. That’s what they do in Grantham, so I assume Beverley isn’t that much different.

Upon arriving at RCB, I was somewhat surprised to see that it was no longer RCB. The forecourt and showroom were abandoned, and a brand new 8 foot high palisade fence surrounded the complex. Oh goody, I like a challenge. Fortunately the company had had the foresight to erect a ‘We have moved’ sign – pity they didn’t have the foresight to telephone their transportation company and tell us, though. The address was given, so I made a mental note and carried on until I could stop in a layby and look it up. Everything seemed straightforward enough, it was a simple matter of finding somewhere to turnaround and backtrack past the showroom formerly known as RCB. The new site was nearby on an industrial estate. I found it easily enough, and was surprised to find that it was HGV friendly – space to turnaround, and space to load up. Is it Christmas already?

The cars were all ready for loading – okay, it is definitely Christmas – and they all started on the key with no jumpstarts, kicking or swearing required. So it’s Christmas, New Year and National Goldfish Memorial Day all rolled in one. So, no need to rush, and I was even able to stop off for a spot of lunch on the way back, after admiring the Humber Bridge for a second (expensive) time in one day. Everyday should be like this.

Steep Learning Curve

My induction into the world of HGV driving took place in early 2007. I had my HGV tuition course booked a week ahead up in York with Tockwith Training, so decided in one of my rare moments of wisdom that a bit of familiarisation might help. So, I signed up with an agency and requested some 7.5-ton work, which I could undertake on my existing car licence that I’d held for some time.

After a couple of days, the agency offered me some work, a 3-day trip from Rutland to the south coast delivering gas and electric fires plus assorted accessories. There was a mix of domestic customers and shops, so lots of variety and the chance to try my hand at nights out. It was too good an experience to pass up, so I readily accepted and the following morning presented myself at the depot in Oakham at 06:00 on an extremely chilly February morning. The friendly transport manager showed me the vehicle, an Iveco Cargo box truck on a 53 plate, which looked reasonable, for an Iveco. While it warmed up we had a coffee and warmed ourselves up, whilst going over the route that was a sprint down the M1 to the M25 (oh joy), then start a rash of deliveries in the Slough / Maidenhead / Reading area. Once these were done, head down to Woking and Guildford before continuing to Portsmouth, Southampton and Bournemouth. Return via Winchester, Newbury and some final drops in the Oxford area. Everything seemed fine, and the load itself was straightforward – gas and electric fires, plus various surrounds and add-ons. What could go wrong?


I set off with some trepidation, as this was the largest vehicle I’d ever driven at that point, and boy, did it suddenly feel enormous! (Why do my girlfriends never tell me that?) En route to the M1, I familiarised myself with the various controls and became more comfortable with the handling. As daylight grudgingly emerged things improved, and the run down the M1 was uneventful, although it took ages to figure out how to flash the headlights (it turns out to be a button underneath the indicator stalk, which I like now, but was frustrating then).

The real work commenced in Marlow, with my first customer being in an Old Folks Home. She was a very pleasant lady, once I finally found her down miles and miles of anonymous corridors and very heavy fire doors. She also had ordered an imitation marble surround, which weighed a ton and was a joy to lug down said corridors. The following few drops were all domestic, which was an interesting experience at manoeuvring the lorry in and out of estates, cul-de-sacs and back lanes. It was a lot harder than I’d imagined. Maidenhead proved a real killer. I had to go down one of those residential streets flanked by blocks of flats, so cars were dumped everywhere. Progress was further impeded by more cars trying to drive up the street and refusing to pull into spaces to let me past. They could see me coming and could have waited, but no! They have to get there first – except, of course, that they get stuck and end up going nowhere. Well done. One car was determined to get past me no matter what, so I decided to let him have a go. He lost his door mirror in the process, as the box body stuck out further than the cab. Now if he’d waited ….

I had a few deliveries in Maidenhead, all of which were in ludicrous places (well, I thought they were ludicrous then as it was my first time. Now they are just an occupational hazard). Once they were done, I could head for my next drop, an industrial estate near Taplow. Unlike most of my addresses, which were quite clear, this one just had the name of the estate and Taplow. No problem, I thought, head for Taplow and ask. Yeah, right – asking somebody in the south for directions is like asking an MP for a straight and honest answer. No one knew, or pretended not to know, which was annoying. Eventually, I got an answer, so headed down the appropriate road, only to be confronted with a sign warning of a 12’9 bridge half a mile ahead. Marvellous – I was in a 12’10 truck. Rather than go down and get stuck, I thought I could either reverse – not ideal – or try doing a left turn into a tight side street that curved round in a sort of horse shoe and would bring me back out half a mile down the road. That seemed my best option, so after a couple of shunts I got in. This was clearly a well-to-do area; on the left the houses were those quaint olde-worlde black timbered and white wall style places that front directly onto the road with no garden. On the right were palatial modern bungalows, each set in several acres of rolling countryside. The cheapest car to be seen was a Porsche. This was not a good road to practise manoeuvring!

Well, I was committed, so I ventured down, but soon found that the road was blocked by parked cars – and not the sort of car you'd wish to hit, either. These clearly belonged to stockbrokers, hedge fund managers and other jobs handled by men called Charles or Spencer who play golf and do little else – apart from bugger up the economy of the country, but that was a couple of years away at the time. They’re probably working in Burger King now. But I digress. Further progress was impossible. I was now in quite a predicament. I got out to have a look and assess the situation. From where the lorry was, I reckoned I could reverse into a drive for one of the bungalows, and with a couple of shunts get myself back out the way I came. Okay, give it a go. So, into reverse, and gingerly backed into the drive. Then the truck came to a jarring halt. What the f…? There was nothing in the mirrors, and I knew the drive was clear of cars as Spencer was at the 15th hole by now. Maybe one of the wheels had hit a kerb or something. So I powered up, had another go and again, the truck ground to a halt. I got out for a look. At the rear of the lorry I found the problem. The drive sloped upwards, but quite gently. And the vertical supports for the tail-lift had gouged two ravines into the tarmac. Oh shite. Damage to property was the last thing I wanted; this was my first job and I was trying to make an impression. Well, I had achieved that alright. This now meant that the lorry was straddling the road and pretty much wedged in. Not an ideal situation in this well-heeled part of the country. As my options were now severely limited, and decreasing every minute, I took stock of my unpleasant situation. There was absolutely no way I could shunt my way out of here, without causing considerable damage to the drive. So turning round was out. I had to go forwards, and try and squeeze down the road. Which is what I did - holding my breath, stomach churning, and proceeded down the impossible road at the speed of a slug that accidentally trod in some superglue. And I made it, without clipping a single expensive wing mirror on the assembled line of Mercs, BMW’s, Porsche and Audis (admittedly no one gives a toss about clipping an Audi).

This whole sorry manoeuvre had cost me the best part of half an hour, and I was by now really wishing I’d decided to take lessons before signing up for work. But, no time to dwell on my lack of foresight; press on. I got back on the lane, and headed down to the main road, and almost immediately discovered a sign for the Viking Industrial Estate. Whaaattt?!!! I’d driven right past it! So, I drove straight in, and couldn’t find the shop. Oh, for Gawd’s sake. I asked in an office, and the helpful receptionist told me that whilst I was technically in the right place, recent gales had blown down a building or a wall or something – thus cutting the complex in two halves. And yes, I was in the wrong half. Great. So I had to reverse back out into the lane, totally blind, which was un-nerving but at least nobody drove into the side of me. Proceed to the main road; hang left; left again and finally left once again into the correct place.

After that, things picked up a bit, and deliveries around the region went well, apart from one customer in Slough who had died the previous day, so when I pitched up with the gas fire he’d ordered, it did make for an uncomfortable moment on the doorstep, although his daughter was very pleasant about it. It’s one of those truly awkward moments, especially as I was being extra friendly to the domestic customers, as I know what it’s like to be greeted at the door by those delivery types that just chuck stuff at you and walk off.

I had various drops around Woking, including a shop that had a large order of fires. Because of all the messing about in Taplow, I was late and they’d gone home. No worries, I decided to find a layby, park up, and recommence early doors.

I’d passed a layby on the way in, so figured I could continue down the road for a mile, spin round at the roundabout and return. No problem. Except that it was a problem, because it was a mini roundabout and there was absolutely no way I could get round in one go. Nowadays, of course, with the benefit of experience, I’d just go anyway and do a shunt, or keep on going to a larger roundabout. But I was very green, and the large amount of rush-hour traffic was intimidating. I had a choice of going left, right, or straight over, which was a pub with a sign for ‘car park at rear.’ In my infinite, but unreliable, wisdom, I decided to go down the side of the pub, spin round in the car park and emerge again without causing any congestion on the roundabout. This would have worked extremely well had it not been for one of those ridiculous height barriers blocking the carpark, which of course I didn’t encounter until I got there. It wasn’t as if I could even try to squeeze in either; it was set at a height that only a limbo-dancing pygmy could negotiate. My options were now limited. Obviously I couldn’t go forwards, and reversing out would mean hitting the roundabout, and everything on it, in the dark. Not good. But then I spied a small residents car park out of the cab window on my side. Ah ha! I could reverse in there and then drive back out. But I wasn’t taking any chances after the days adventures so far, oh no! It was unlit, and consisted of two sets of parking bays either side of a narrow access slip. None of the cars protruded too far forwards, so with care I should be able to reverse into here and pull out.

Once again I found myself reversing slowly and very carefully between the cars; it was tight but not unduly so. I was almost all the way in when ‘CRUMP!’, and the truck stopped. Shit, shit, shit, now what? Jumping out, I could see all the cars on my side were fine, so round to the nearside – no problems. I made my way into the darkness at the rear of the lorry, where the problem manifested itself. A wooden fence was leaning drunkenly at an angle I’m sure it wasn’t at before. I’d been concentrating on the cars so much that I hadn’t given much consideration as to what lay beyond them.

Well, there was nothing much I could do, and as all the expensive cars were unscathed I returned to the truck, completely fed up, and departed. I parked up for the night and spent a chilly evening in the cab, as I couldn’t get the night heater to function. I managed to nod off for an hour eventually by virtue of wrapping everything I had around my sleeping bag, but the freezing cold seeped in and it was a very uncomfortable night. When I woke in the wee small hours I thought I had rigor mortis I was so stiff.

I decided that today could not possibly as bad as yesterday. It had been a steep learning curve, but by putting those lessons into practise I reckoned that things could only get better – or at least, not hit anything. My first drop was close by, so I arrived first thing and unloaded the stock they’d ordered. Then into Guildford for another shop, which was relatively easy considering the traffic, before I could join the A31 and then A3 to my next area. I joined the slip onto the A31, a dual carriageway on a hill, and noticed that the truck was losing power. I assumed it was just cold and dropped a cog and booted it. Nothing happened, the power dropped as quickly as the speed and 100 yards up the hill the lorry ground to a halt with the thick acrid aroma of a burning clutch wafting into the cab. So now I was really in the shit, well and truly. Hazards on and call base. Not the sort of call you want to be making on your second day in a new job!

Well, base took the news calmly and said that a rescue would be arranged, so sit tight by the phone. By now a long line of traffic had built up behind me, and I had my first ever mention on Radio 2’s traffic news. Hello Lynn! Inevitably the Police turned up in a Range Rover, and I have to say they were extremely helpful and friendly considering the chaos I’d caused. I had to be moved, so they hitched the lorry to their Range Rover and towed me up the hill, dumping the truck in the Little Chef carpark. Mama, I’m home.


With nothing else to do, I updated the company and went and treated myself to a breakfast plus numerous coffees while I awaited the recovery truck. This took five hours as there was the usual behind-the-scenes wrangling about who would pay for what. But eventually an 8-wheeler DAF CF turned up, hitched up the Iveco and off we went. The trip was steady, apart from a fire on the rear axle of the Iveco, which had to be extinguished on the hard shoulder of the M25. Further up the motorway traffic was grinding to a halt as a DAF artic had come to a complete stand in the middle lane, and traffic was darting around it in a manner that would surely lead to a crash before long. The driver of the DAF looked totally fed up as we crawled past – I thought I had problems! Arrival back at Oakham was well after 7 pm, so it had been a long day and I was glad it was all over. Overall, though, it was a useful first experience, and didn’t put me off. There had been some interesting moments, times of abject horror and I’d sweated my own bodyweight in places – but nevertheless, got through it and I was ready for more! But first, I’d go and get some professional tuition …..