Who are you again?

The light was just about breaking through the curtains. A shard of bright clear sunlight punctured the dismal light of the room. It's blinding light cut through the unfamiliar room that Pete was staring through, eyes now wide open. He was in that trance like state that everyone finds themselves after a good nights sleep filled with a dream that he was just about to find out that wasn't a dream after all.

His eyes, now adjusting by the second to the light cascading through the curtains, were searching fervently around the now illuminated room as to clues of his whereabouts as his memory chip frizzed back into life. Brief clips now played through his head and subjected to him snippets of the previous night.
He had parked his truck, laden with timber products to which the local cowboy builders will be introducing to the homes of the affluent stock broker's homes of the surrounding rural West Surrey well to do bracket, outside the gates of the local builders merchants. He had after cleaning himself up in his well equipped Scania, wandered by foot into the local town, in exploration of food and jovial company. He had found both and had ended up in deep conversation with a seemingly young twenties 'bit of posh totty', as he would describe her in a brief post on Facebook whilst she was repairing the ravages of the night on her make up in the ladies. He had been warmly invited back to hers, because her parents and elder sister where 'doing Monte carlo' and she couldn't be bothered this year.
They had retired to a large even by this regions standards, bungalow, with adjacent stables and paddock. A few glasses of wine and the inevitable happened and he was now lying awake in a large bedroom on a large bed with the unmistakable feel of a sleeping beauty cradled it his arms.
"Mmmmmmmm................Hiiiiii................" she peered up with him and placed a kiss on his cheek, before gently prising her way out of his arms flinging back the single white cotton sheet as it was warm last night, and tripping over the bundle of discarded male and female clothes to the right hand side of the bed, the shard of light moving across her lightly suntanned naked hour glass peachy bottomed body as she went through to the en-suite bathroom.
A few minutes later she re-emerged, her jet black hair shoulder length straight hair now combed and swept back behind her ears. She had also covered herself in a silk half length cream coloured dressing gown that stopped at the top of her thighs of an exquisite pair of legs on her 5"4" frame and only just fastened due to the 34dd's bursting to get back out. She smiled a big happy perfect teeth smile at him, and said "Fix yourself up and I'll make some coffee.!

After dressing, Pete wandered into the kitchen that was bigger than his entire brothers flat in the Black Country.  He sat down at the welcoming barstool at the breakfast bar where he found his guest nibbling at some toast and engrossed in her laptop. He poured a some 'proper' coffee from the decanter into an adjacent mug.
"I thought you'd prefer a mug instead of a measly cup." She exclaimed in her public school educated voice.
As he slowly sipped his coffee in the mock Victorian manor house style kitchen, whilst gazing at this creature of divine beauty who was now tapping at a furious pace into her laptop, only slowing down to one handed tapping whilst sipping her coffee from a much more lady like cup, he thought, Why? Why did this young lady invite me of all people back to hers and spend what can only be described as a scene from one of those girlie type love story movies you watch only watch with a woman because of what they always lead to. Why...Why...... Why me?
He thought it so loud he actually said it. Just Blurted out "Why me?" Quickly realising what he had said when she stared up from the computer. "I'm almost twice your age, why me?" He now asked in a self mocking curiosity adorned facial expression.
"How old are you?" She asked.
"Forty five." He replied
"You, ARE more than twice my age!" She replied seductively. "But only just." She smiled and winked cheekily at him.
"I'll tell you on the way to your truck, I'll give you a lift, I'm sorry but I have to get to work, I'll explain all in the car."

Some car too. He thought, a bright red Porsche, luxury trim, not up on his Porsche models but it certainly wasn't a bargain basement job. She drove patiently, as if she'd been driving it forever and it wasn't a toy she was showing off in.
"Look, I work in the city, money and finance, the guy's I come into are soooo girlie that they are almost if not already gay. And I'm so busy I haven't got the time or desire for a boyfriend. You told me that you were a truck driver,  although you are older, your reasonably fit, your cute, you spoke to me with intelligence and made me laugh........ aaaand I think I've rudely assumed that you'd be happy with just a one night thingy. I needed last night and you were good for me, really, you were sooo goooood for me. But that's all it was, just a one night thing. I think we both needed it. You do understand don't you?"
"Yep, I sort of got that feeling that's what it was last night, and believe me with my lifestyle, I've no desire for a girlfriend either." He answered her.
"Oooh, I thought you would, Oh I do feel awful..." she paused " No.., not for what we've done but just for assuming and letting passion overtake common sense."
"Ditto." he said and beamed a friendly smile at her that seemed to settle her back down into bliss as the smile re spawned across her now glowing brown eyed gaze at him.

"Here we are." She pulled up at the gate. The porsche growling as she halted at the gate where one of the builders merchant staff was interupted from unchaining the gate, and gazed like a curious gazelle at the spectacle of the dark haired beauty driving a porsche. He was even more bemused by the next piece of early morning theatre. As she handed a small parcel to the guy getting out of the passenger side of the car.
"Here, I made you these in case you get peckish today." Then pulled him by the t-shirted collar down to the drivers open window and kissed him passionately on the lips.
Within a second or two she had sped off up the road, the porsche bellowing out it's goodbye. The gobsmacked gatekeeper bursting with curiosity asked "WHO WAS THAT?"
"Oh, just a piece of skirt I picked uplast night. What time do you start tipping?" As if it happened to him all the time. (the latter being a transport slang phrase for unloading)
The gate keeper opened up the gate as Pete fired up his Scania truck. As he did so he unfolded the package. A Bacon buttie complete with note. It read...

You still got it,.call me anytime your around here, my number is ********150...xxxx Charlotte..(name changed)

North of Watford?

I am writing this piece after Ian Collin's comments on his very excellent Late Show on talkSPORT. The comment, or question raised was, where does the dislike, loathing, bitterness and even in some cases hatred of anything associated with London come from?

I've pondered this over the last few days, and recalled all my encounters up and down the country over the last twenty five plus years, and any relevant comments made over that time, to come up with a reason why. The conclusions I have drawn are as follows.

With any search for the reason's why, we always try to focus on just one reason why. I think there are several reason's. The first of which is in my opinion is the telly.
Over the years London has been portrayed through such television programmes sitcoms and soaps as, Eastenders, Minder, Only fools and Horses, The Sweeney, The Bill. All of which seem to stereotype all Londoners as dodgy scheming wide boys, racist xenophobic Police or miserable moaning stuck in a time warp Cockneys that work either on a fruit and veg stall, pull pints in a boozer or have a back street garage that fix's dodgy motors!
All of the above may be there in very small doses, but the Londoners I have come across are as diverse and enigmatic as any major town or city in Europe. On the whole it is a vibrant city, and will cater for every desire. But it's no different from any city in the UK. All the good and bad that are at each end of the panoramic scale, that can be found in London, can be found in every city in the UK.

Another is the BBC. Those who can remember Nationwide, will easily recognise the format. Local news and then switch to the main news. The first few news articles were always current affairs, usually to do with the Government, which is generally of national importance. But later on a local issue would then be broadcast to the nation. Now over the years it didn't matter whether I was at home, or in any other pub, truckstop or anywhere in the UK where there was a small gathering at a telly when the news was on. I can recall numerous outbursts of sentiment along the lines of, if that were in London it would be main news!
As Ian pointed out, London is our capital and our financial nerve centre. But the way the BBC, and other media outlets have portrayed it in the news, innocently or not, many people north of Watford have led me to believe, that they think that they are inferior to London where news articles are concerned.

Again, the BBC, Match of the day, very rarely did you see a game not concerning a London club. Ok it was kind of hard not to because London has always had over the years, a number of teams in the top flight of  football. There were an equal number of clubs from the midlands for a lengthy period, and it was rare not to see  one or two featured. But the perception viewed by many, was that BBC favoured London clubs.

Another is the amount of migrant workers that work in London. I'm not on about the one's from overseas, I'm on about construction workers mostly, but there are many other's that in their careers have to work and stay in London for various lengths of time and frequencies. Now, working away from home isn't the same as going on holiday. But hotel and B&B prices in London reflect the fact it is a global tourist hotspot. They can be a bit pricey compared with other parts of the UK. On the whole anybody who is anybody, will usually will find shops, pubs and eateries within their price range where they live. But if you are only staying for a few days and are putting in twelve hour shifts, you don't have the energy or will to search around. And tend to take what's convenient no matter the cost.
The above gives out the perception that London is expensive, when it's generally no worse than anywhere else, with the exception of house prices and rent. But, wages in London do compensate for this. And that slightly higher hourly rate, or salary, is what attracts so many to live there, along with the greater prospect of finding some/any work if times were to get tough. Those higher wage packets also lend to the mis-conception that all Londoners are loaded. And that can and does inspire financial jealousy!

Traveling to and around London can also be considered at best, challenging. As a truck driver, bending an articulated behemoth around streets that were designed for horses and carts ain't easy, but hey, that's what I get paid for! Every part of the UK has different unwritten rules of road etiquette. For example, in Devon and Cornwall it's all about taking your time and don't be in too much of a hurry. And you have to adapt your driving to suit the natives. London in my opinion, tends to be 'get on with it'. Other drivers will quite often ignore minor indiscretions, so long as you hurry up doing so. They will forgive the, quick change of plan I'm now going in that lane and going to turn left instead of right, because they did it less than an hour ago to someone else, just don't muck around doing it. Hesitant driving is seriously not liked. To the un-initiated this can make it seem like they've turned onto a film shoot of Whacky Races, but as most cities in Europe drive in a similar chaotic style, it puts the fear of dread into many.
With it being the capital, like most major cities, has a lot of traffic travelling to it, and one can expect to be in a jam or two quite frequently. Most people, except other city dwellers can and do a thirty-ish mile commute to work in just over half an hour. That just isn't going to happen when the average speed at peak hours is just five miles per hour. Some, on their first trip make allowances for this, but because they are simply ignorant, have no comprehension of the scale and sheer volumes that navigate in and around there and the allowances usually fall way short, so missed appointments and rendezvous are common amongst the un-intiated.  Anyone who has driven to and around London can quite easily be forgiven for being put off going again.

Public transport in London, is on the whole quite good. It works, to a degree. Considering the amount of people that use it and it's complexity by it's very nature. And it's that complexity that will make any first timer feel like they're being sent into a maze made out of rose walls and with a blindfold on! People that are used to the idyllic country stations, where friendly staff who they can put a name to the smiling face, because they went to school with them, or they were a neighbour that was invited to their nieces wedding. These ever so gracious servants that were there to help out with the confusing choice of just two platforms, aren't there to greet you when you land in London. The ones whose job it is to assist on your arrival can quite often be seen surrounded by some Oriental visitor's, desperately waving their arms in a semaphore style giving signals to the direction in which the party of hear no,see no, speak no's need to go. If that was your daily routine for at least forty weeks you could be forgiven for seeming a tad surly.
London is a noisy place for the public transport using traveller. It moves, when it can, at what can seem like a frantic pace, and like driving, Londoner's just want you to 'get on with it'. And hesitation is seriously not liked.

All of the above, isn't how I see London, but how others see it given the conversations I have had with many, from all over the UK, over the years. This is to highlight the perception that visitors may get when they first and infrequently visit our Capital. All these visitors, upon their return to their local pub's, coffee morning's and canteen's will regale their negative experiences to their family, friends and colleagues, when asked, how was your stay/trip to London? They will omit albeit unintentionally, any positives.
All these points, seperately, do not add up to much, but put them all together and tell the stories over and over, exaggerate point or two and you can easily how the ill-informed are the ill-informed.

For me, I've had some very enjoyable times in London. I've got some really good memories from working and visiting.
I'm not a fan of athletics, but I fully understand that the Olympics is a massive global event. It going to be watched by billions and attract millions. London is an ideal host. It has the infrastructure, the accommodation, the tourist attractions and most of all the experience, to cope with the huge amount of visitors such a world wide phenomenon can expect.


The only place to hold the Olympics in the UK, is in my opinion, what is a great city, London!

And The Wall Comes Tumbling Down.

This was the part of our trip, UK to Middle East States, that we went our separate ways and did the rest alone.

It was late April, early nineteen nineties, but the actual date escapes me and it's of little significance apart from the expected weather at that time of year. Some of the mountains were still moderately snow bound and when the sun burst through the days were somewhat pleasant. By now we had long cleared the Arab States, Turkey and had survived war torn Serbia. Others chose to backload from Turkey. But that had proven to be time consuming let alone the proverbial invite for a touch the toes job on return to Dover. And after doing the maths, i.e. running empty as opposed to fully laden, and getting close to an average nine miles to the gallon as opposed to four, and also relieving yourself from arduous debates, in languages and dialects many grade 'A' interpreters would struggle to comprehend, whilst trying to explain away the dodgy Turkish paperwork that says your carrying textiles amid a pungent smell of coffee. It was much better to blow the extra £100 profit, that is if you got paid the full amount if any at all, and run empty back to Germany and backload to the UK from the reputable Davies Turner(DT's) or Frans Maas(Frams).
One quick telex from 'Bullshit Alley'(Oktay Garaji and Cafe, in Istanbul) and an e.t.a. to the German border would secure a backload to 'Blighty'. It was affectionately known as 'Bullshit Alley' amongst the real Middle East Driver's, because of bullshitting the Cockney wide boys who frequented there and who only went that far. And they only do it because they had lost their GB licences and were running as bent as a truck load of mis-shaped boomerangs.

So here I was, just inside the German border, and refueling from the eight hundred litre belly tank, situated in the chassis of my trailer. I had made use of the local phone shop, a familiar sight those days. 'Where would we be without mobiles?' wouldn't echo around the stunning scenery that surrounded me for years to come. Happy with the knowledge a two drop backload to the UK, with a second collection at Rotterdam, awaited collection a mere twenty kilometres away. I bid farewell to my two convoy buddies, with whom we'd been a part of each others lives for the last month almost, and who shall remain nameless in this tale to protect the innocent and the guilty. And it wouldn't matter if I named them as they would have no further part to play in my life until we all returned to the UK, rested, refuelled and got ready to do it all over again.

I had loaded up. The first bit of the two part load, it was of no significance apart from it being just five tonne in weight. This meant I was light and it made for rapid ascents through the mountains and long hilly parts. I was now heading out of the picturesque town just as the skies opened up to the kind of April shower that must have inspired the tune in Bambi! I gone but a few miles when the rain along with one to many last glasses of tchai, got the better of my bladder. I pulled into rutted layby, the rain dancing in the potholes. I relieved myself letting out a 'Awww' as the pressure was relieved on my lower abdomen. I then noticed the pine tree I was under was not a very good shelter against the now slowing downpour. I hurried back into the cab and grabbed the nearest towel and dry t-shirt. The windscreen wipers where starting to make that annoying kissing sound they do as the windscreen starts to dry as the rainspots decrease. I peered through them, winced at the annoying sound and had to almost rub my eyes as into focus appeared two dishevelled rain soaked figures one of which was holding up a sodden piece of cardboard, with streaks of black ink, that where not so long ago, where the dreams of an optimistic destination were written.
A quick blast of the air horns PHEEWAA, sparked them into life, and no sooner had I waved a beckoning hand to them they had found a reserve pocket of strength and ran, skipping over the puddles, to the cab. In their fervor they had noticed the GB stickers and failed to realise it was right hand drive.
"Ich bin rechts fahren" I bellowed, "Kommen, linken erhalte im der truck!" In my best pigeon German. They hurried around and one dark green shadow threw a load of things and moved onto the engine cover in the middle of the two single seats.
"Here, up here" I cleared a space on the top shelf were the top bunk of my Scania 143 had been. I had lowered it to give more storage. The bottom bunk was still accessible, and could be used in emergencies. Though I used it for storage mostly. The hooded figure the stashed a collection of black bags, still dripping with the remnants of the rain, and the squeezed up to let the bag thrower enter the cab and sit precariously wedged down. The door slammed, and an exhausted and drawn out but grateful,
"sankyuu" reverbed around the cab for the longest relived moment I have ever witnessed.
"Where to, spracken English?" I quizzed.
At that moment the two indistinguishable partially drowned rats removed there hoods and removed their dripping army style parkers. I thought I was picking up two feral youths, displaced and possibly orphaned from the wars in the Balkan States. Instead I was staring at two very attractive teenage girls, both had identical deep brown eyes and had very very soft olive skin. Ones face was ever so slightly rounder than the other and the other had a sightly slender nose.
They were both dressed in bottle green army fatigues and had dark brown hair. The girl with the rounder face of the two's hair was quite curly and seemed natural whereas the others was almost perfectly straight. Their faces were now moving from the joyous grateful beams of happiness and heading towards nervousness as they gathered and taking their immediate surroundings.
"Eeenglissh?" Enquired the straight haired girl.
"Yes, you speak?" I asked pointing a questioning finger at her.
"Yes, I speak good, I learn in school. I not use much, you speak slow please!" She demanded with begging eyes that would have done Oliver Twist out of a job.
"Ok... Where ....Are  You... Going...? I slowly and deliberately questioned whilst circulating my map book of western Europe with my finger in hope she could at least point.
"Here. Rotterdam!" She stabbed a well manicured finger at the page. I looked, where she was pointing to. Rotterdam. I looked back up at the poor child and smiled.
" Yes, I will go past there." I pointed at me then her and her companion and at the page in sequence.
"YES!" The other girl in a unbridled outburst through gritted but ecstatic teeth made whilst clenching two fists to her chest in a display of obvious joy. She then let out a volley in a German dialect I could not follow to her companion.
"Are you sisters?" I enquired as we rumbled along the road.
"Yes, I am Anna and this is Mitzi(names changed), I nineteen and Mitzi is eighteen." Said the straight haired girl. She spoke assertively yet almost singing like a blackbird.
Your English is good, Ich spracken bischen Deutsch, but your English ist sehr gut! Why Rotterdam?"
"I am going to be a model, I have a job and apartment waiting." Answered Mitzi, this time. her voice was more like a purring cat, just about to get her milk!
"Where are you from?" I asked.
"Chemnitz." answered Anna. We are all German again. She beamed.
"How have you ended up here."As we were were just west of Wurzburg, which is about 120km East of Frankfurt.
"It is where the other driver took us as far as he could, he was driving to Stuttgart, he said it would be best to be a hitch hiker from there."
"Was he a trucker?"
"Yes, a West German, from Stuttgart." She paused, realising what she had just said. "He was nice, a big round friendly old man." she added. "He told us we are look the same as his granddaughters."
Mitzi, who was closest to me was looking a bit uncomfortable as she was wedged with her sister onto the single passenger seat. "Here, sit on the bed, It's ok, you'll be more comfortable." I gestured by patting the bed just behind us.
"Ok." She replied with another smile. As she eased herself up she unzipped her army jacket and slipped it from her shoulders and placed on the engine hump in the middle of the cab. She had a black buttoned shirt underneath buttoned only half way up from a slender waist.. The last button that was done, strained as a pair of heavy breasts pressed against it as she bent forward and then threw herself unladylike head first onto the top bunk, showing at the same time that those green army trousers contained one peachy bottom. She swivelled herself round and crossed her legs, and adopted a comfy lotus style position.
Yep, she's got it I thought as I deliberately peered deep into the wing mirrors of the Truck in an attempt to pretend I didn't see the eyeful Mitzi had unwittingly just given me!
Anna then removed her jacket, again a black shirt underneath, but done up to two buttons below an exquisite, slender neck.
"I am going with Mitzi to make sure she is ok. Papa said this is only way she go to Rotterdam." Anna said as she settled more comfortably into her seat as we trundled along.
"Your boss, he won't be angry with you giving girls a hitch hike? enquired Anna.
"No..... He won't" I chuckled as I then explained it was my Truck and the kind of work I did.

The kilometres or should I say miles, were eaten up by endless questions to and fro about each others lives, and dreams. By the time we had got to within one hundred kilometres of the Dutch border, I had found out that as soon as the Berlin Wall had come down, their father had encouraged them to seek out their fortune 'In the West'. He and their two elder brothers had worked and saved hard to give the chance. He was somewhat shocked but pleasantly surprised that Mitzi had been offered a modelling job based only on her photo's. And it was a bonus that a flat came with it! Anna was a qualified music teacher, and could play and teach a wide range of instruments. She had an interview in a few days time at a college. What got to me, was was their enthusiasm. There eyes were literally sparkling, and their smiles were wider than two four year olds on Christmas morning gathered round the tree!
It really brightened the journey up. Here were two bright, extremely attractive and intelligent young women, who's lives's had been dramatically changed by that wall coming down. The politician's and celeb's may have embraced it for a quick photo-call. But to these girls their lives were given a whole new adventure because of it.

"We have a small problem" Two startled faces immediately spun around and looked frowning deep into my face. " My driving hours are up. Middle East driving didn't require observation of the EU drivers hours regulations. But now I was back in the West, as it were, I had to stick religiously to the rules as the truck I drove was like a sore thumb to the German Police, who like rules to be adhered to, and because I was to clear customs in Dover. That meant via Dunkerque, and bribe taking Gendarmes. So whilst I was in the EU, I kept it legal.
"Excuse, please?" Queried Anna.
"My driving Hours are up. I have to park the truck for eleven hours."
"What, now?" Asked Mitzi
"In one hour, just across the border at Venlo."
"So, what do we do?"
"You have three choices, you can hitch on through the night, you can stay at a hotel, and I take you on in the morning, or you can sleep in the truck. And we get a real early start and I drive you to your door."
There was a moments silence as both Anna and Mitzi thought about what I had just said. Anna turned to Mitzi, both stared into each others eyes long and deep. Anna broke the silence by murmuring and for the first time speaking in German. Mitzi murmured back. Then silence, then Anna then Mitzi and then both together. Although I could speak bits of German, they were murmuring a little too fast. And although I caught a handful of words I could understand they were having an argument.
Anna broke first. "We haven't money for hotel, we are tired. It take all night to hitcher hike. We could get rapist. May we stay in truck."
The bottom bunk as was the top were almost the size of a double bed after I had the cab altered, so I offered the bottom to them.
"But we need wash" said Mitzi.
"Oh so that's what you were arguing about!" I was guessing
"Yes." Said Mitzi "My hair is no good for audition."
"Let me introduce you to Truckers Heaven." I beamed. With this they both looked at each other, the smiles returned, and they both smiled back at me. Those smiles would make the devil help an old lady across the road!

Just on the outskirts of Venlo, just inside the Dutch border, was a truck stop. Not your big flashy American 500 trucks in the lot style. Or the British version, a works canteen and a public lav banged together. No this was Dutch hospitality at it's best. Just a simple bar, big enough to cope, small enough to be friendly, with a restaurant that served food that would make Michael Winner happy. It was clean and for a few Krona's(pre Euros), you could have a clean shower and turn yourself alarming to charming in next to no time. And leave the rest of the evening to have a few beers and re introduce yourself to civilisation.
It wasn't long before all three of us had brushed up fed and was now tantalising our tonsils with Dutch amber nectar. We passed the night away with usual banter, got into some lengthy discussions with Dutch truckers on how to put the world to rights and soon we were all three blowing mist like dragons from our mouths into the crisp night air as we walked back to my truck.
"Ok in you get, whilst you were showering I made the bottom bed up for you with some spare bedding. Shout me when you are in bed."
Ten minutes later two loud okays came from inside. I climbed in  and without need of the light, I quickly got myself into the top bunk.

It was one of those long stares, I was staring at the roof of my cab and wondering where I was and who I was. Then through the taste of fuzz on my tongue came the 'Oh yeah' realisation of what had happened the night before. I peered over side into the bottom bunk. The sight that greeted me was a sight that will stay with me forever. Mitzi fast asleep, happily dreaming of being on a front cover, and Anna, looking up from her pillow beaming a big good morning to me, slowly moved her hand up to her mouth and slowly blew the kiss straight into my heart!
Within an hour we had coffee'd up in the truck stop, made ourselves into presentable humans again, Mitzi had phoned to see if everything was still on, and was now heading for Rotterdam. I had found an old map of Rotterdam and had a good idea where there flat was. This time Anna was on the bunk and Mitzi in the passenger seat. The rest of the journey was filled with Mitzi's aspirations and Anna endlessly smiling at me. Not smiling at me, smiling, at me, that big smile, yeah, that one! We turned into a suburb of Rotterdam that wasn't typical of most of the Netherlands, and although it was early morning by anyone else but postmen and the like. I had the distinct feeling that this area wasn't what Mitzi was looking for. We quickly found the address and Mitzi bounded out of the cab like a young deer. Bang bang bang. On the door as she knocked.
"Anna this don't look good, is this the address of the flat too?"
She unravelled the crumpled piece of paper that was Mitzi's dream. " Yes"
"MITZI," I shouted,"NO, GET BACK IN THE TRUCK."
As I shouted a few of the windows curtains twitched and parted, a few scantily clad women appeared, bemused at who's making all the noise so early.
Mitzi looked at me puzzled, stumbling back a few feet from the door. "GET BACK IN THE TRUCK, QUICK" I bellowed. With that the door flung open and there stood in the doorway was this place's very own Lady Marmalade! Mitzi looked shocked, the penny had dropped. I jumped down and I don't know quite how I did it it but I managed to pick up the young rabbit in the headlights Mitzi, and fling in one go back into the cab, climb in myself and get that rig moving outa there! leaving a bewildered set of eyes staring from what seemed every window.

By now Mitzi was faced backwards into the seat, "Wahahahahaaa" Her dream shattered, her vision of western warmth and welcoming shattered by the look of that harradon.
"What now?" Asked Anna as she put her arms around Mitzi trying to hug the pain away.
"Plan b" I replied with cheesy smile
"What is plan b?" she asked.
"When I think of it I will tell you."

Within half hour we were parked up outside our office, those who gave us the outbound work, in another part of Rotterdam. I had gatecrashed Patty's office. Patty was the brains and beauty of the operation, an woman in her late forties but she'd still got it. She always seemed like a nice sort, and I was about to put that to the test. After telling Patty the plight of my two stowaways, she clasped her hands to her face and asked them in. After a brief conversation in German, patty turned to me. She asked me to take them to her house, her daughter was away at university in Amersfoort, and they could have her room until they got sorted, she would phone her husband and explain while we were on the way.
Patty's hubby, who looked a bit like Matt Munroe, and a bit more senior in years than Patty, escorted the two girls into the house with a big beaming smile. I helped them in with their bags and bid them goodbye. Mitzi and Anna gave me big hug and thanked me. As I walked up the path Anna shouted "Wait" Please give me your address and phone number.
"Why" I stupidly asked! She replied by locking her arms around my neck pulling me into her face and said .
"This is why!" And kissed me full on the lips and with all the ferocity of a firecracker!
"Nah...." I said, and just when the total look of disbelief took over her entire face, I quickly added "...Only joking I'd love to!" she hugged and kissed me for all she was worth until the tears of joy and sadness came flooding out together.

We swapped as much info as we could and before I knew it I was on the road again. I collected the back load and the miles seemed shorter to Dunkerque this time. I was in bliss. And the kind of bliss that can only be removed by British Customs Officers asking you to touch your toes, the BAS**RDS.

Anna got her job at the college teaching music. Mitzi got a job in a bar to start with, and quickly found a fella, then ended up owning a hairdressing salon. I saw Anna as often as I could but my job has always had a heavy price to pay for it's freedom and it's adventure. Too many broken hearts!

Got anything you shouldn't have Sir?

It's the early nineties, and I had left an overcast and dreary Birmingham, UK, and was heading for downtown Doha,Qatar, along with two other forty foot artics laden with not the usual pipeline technology, or any other oil exploration equipment that was our normal cargo, but seating for a football stadium. Oh yes, the Qatarian's loved there football, this was there fifth stadium the size of Wembley. How this would feature in future World Cup bids was far from my mind, as this, one of my first trips to the Middle East, had so far by the time we were approaching the Syrian Border at Cilvagazoo in the bottom left corner of Turkey, been uneventful.
Bob had been his, what I found to be, his normal whinging, whineing, brummie, moaning self every time we stopped. Yeah he moaned alright,but with twenty years experience of trucking down here, there was no better to run with, with the exception of H. Almost equal in experience but completely the opposite in character. H just laughed at everything with his chirpy Cockney wit refusing to be serious.
We had crossed no mans land and were greeted by the 'deaf and dumb' man. Yes he was deaf and dumb and could only manage a elongated yawn similar to Chewbakka out of Star Wars. But this pint sized pen pusher would translate all our documents from English into Arabic to prevent us from sharing a room with hasheesh traders.
While Bob and H headed to the phones(no cab phone or mobiles those days) to call there loved ones and let them now we had survived the Turkish mountain roads of Bolu, Eskendrun ad Tarsus. These were twisty narrow hairpin bended spaghetti shaped roads that draped the mountain's, where the natives would overtake, three abreast at times, whether it be on a bend or with you right next to a sheer drop of over a hundred and fifty feet, where if you dared to take your eyes off the road, you could very frequently see the carcasses of trucks, buses and cars that weren't so lucky. As they were having the much needed long distance arguments, I was brewing some 'chai', a strong version of tea for their return.
I was disturbed by a bearded six foot four Arab dressed in army combats with an AK47 machine gun strapped to his side.
"ENGLISH?" he bellowed as he stormed towards me. I nodded, somewhat nervously. "You have cataloger sex?" he forcefully asked.
"No."I replied
"You HAVE cataloger sex?" he bellowed even more forcefully.
"NO." I replied with equal measure. To which he unbridled his weapon with that all familiar sound only heard when someone slaps the side of a gun to let you know they mean business. He went straight to my cab and ripped open the door. He went through all my possessions, bags, bedding, briefcase. Lifted my bed, looked under my seats finding nothing he went to the storage bins on my trailer that contained my tools in one and tinned food in the other.
"YOU HAVE CATALOGER SEX?" I was comfortable that this law enforcer would not find any hasheesh or porno mags, or anything slightly risky as I'd been advised not to carry any as the punishment for doing so was severe.
"No." I replied with a huge sigh of frustration at this burly blundering beast ransacked all my possessions.
He then stood up, and with the look of thunder engrossed into his brow, he came right up to me, his spice engulfed breath panted into my face as he raised his AK47 and poked it into my stomach.
"You, have, cataloger, sex?" he asked again pausing between each word. And with a look I borrowed from John Wayne I stared with a steely gaze straight right back into his anger filled bloodshot brown eyes and said with equal steel.
"NO!"
The footsteps behind heralded the return of Bob and H, with that the Arab issued a begrudged "Humph" lowered and shouldered his gun and left brushing forcefully past Bob and H. With the look of bewilderment on both their faces, I offered Bob a thanks for the advice by saying.
"You were right, Bob, but that copper didn't find anything 'cause I won't carry anything dodgy!"
H quipped "That weren't no coppa, that were the local mafia bloke, he wants it so 'e can sell it you muppet! Ain't you got that tea done yet, what you bin playin' at?" he chuckled.

Get Off My Lawn!!!!

The feral youths had no idea who he was as he walked home to his humble flat with his two kids. He had been away for nearly twenty years, and they’re parents hadn’t even had the drug and drink induced one night stand that had spawned these feckless youths.
As they, his nine year old smiley all the time daughter just happy to be with her great and lovely dad, and his ten year old head full of all the cars that he’d seen on Top Gear son, walked towards the low rise ‘mature’ block of flats, she said “Oh…Ooooh!”
In the doorway was a large group of less desirables, ages ranging from about eight to twelve or thirteen, complete with cans of Stella ‘giving it large’.
“Don’t worry, darling, just say nothing as we walk past.” The dad said reassuringly. As they walked up the path to the door, one of the adolescents was just about to pee up the front door.
“Oi!” bellowed the dad gruffly.
“Oops, sorry mate” the youth nervously and hurriedly tidied himself.
The rest of the youths cleared a walk way to the door, some looking sheepishly, wondering if the ‘Tough’ ones in the gang were going to allow this middle aged biker jacket clad dinosaur to shout ‘Oi’ at one of the gang?
Handing the keys to his daughter, saying “Let yourself in!” he turned back towards the pack. His daughter hurriedly opened and closed the slightly frosted door, behind her. Peering through the hard to see through glass, her anguished face looked nervously on as her dad walked towards the obvious gang leader.
“That’s my front door, and this is my garden,“ He indicated to the fenced of area of grass that they were standing in. “You are now gonna leave!”
He took a slow sip from his can of Stella and looked straight into the dad’s eyes, they were cold and his face was full of small scars, trophies of violent encounters throughout his life. Even though the Stella was cursing through every testosterone filled blood cell, he knew that going up against this guy would be a bad move, tooled up or not. His horde of subjects looked on hoping their chief would tell this guy what to do, and they could carry on there al fresco party. Instead, he begrudgingly turned towards the gate and said “C’mon let’s go.”
They retreated to the adjacent shops, as he went inside the block and took his daughter an son into the flat. Taking his beloved biker jacket off, and replacing it with a black hoody he said to his kids, “Don’t answer the doors to anyone, and if I’m not back in an hour call the Police!” He said to his brother who was sitting on the couch watching the rubbish put on the telly at Christmas.
“Why?” he asked with a fervent curiosity!
“Just gonna play with the kids outside!”
“Leave the kids alone, you don’t want to upset them, just leave it!” he begged.
“Trust me, I know what I’m doing.” he chuckled sarcastically, quoting from the T.V. show Sledgehammer.
“We weren’t doing Fuck All!” they protested to each other. Amongst all the gang this was the sentiment most were howling, along with “Bald headed prick, he’s no fucking body, he’ll pay for this, who the fuck does he think he is?”
“Well I don’t give a fuck” said the number two in the gang as he picked up a brick and walked back towards the flat. What he didn’t expect was for the ‘bald headed, goatee bearded middle aged twat’ to come straight back out a walk straight toward the gang. Why wasn’t he scared, there’s twenty of us, he’s still coming straight towards me, he thought as he dropped the half ender on the floor and turned back towards his mates looking to the ‘cock’ of the gang to stand up to this loser.
He had the look of thunder on his face, not a tall man, but big, the lower caste members of the gang were not used to this, a challenge to their authority.
“Is he an Hell’s Angel?” one of them fearfully quipped.
“What?” The leader quizzed.
“Oh, SHIT!” Another snapped.
“I’m outa here!” another said panicking turning and sprinting away. Soon all of them ran back to safe distance up the road. He was still walking towards them, he kept coming and coming, closer and closer, so they turned and ran, this time frantically texting for back up on their mobile’s whilst running for the alley that led to the playing fields. Consumed in darkness their bravery would return.
Help was on it’s way, a big brother, with mates, with bike’s, were on the way. The rendezvous was the road at other end the fields. Through the second dark alley they ran, towards the reinforcements, he‘d be a right dim wit to follow them over here now! The streetlight at the end of the alley that led out to the road, where help was coming from, was like a beacon to them When help arrives we’ll show him, the collective thoughts echoed through the panting breathes as they ran.
But wait, They all froze, as in the shadows of the streetlight, was a figure, a dark menacing figure.
IT WAS HIM.
How did he do that, how did he get there in front, the gang looked to their leader in hope as he sunk to his knees. What now, they thought, who was this man, who should be scared but wasn’t, was he really hard? Surely he couldn’t take us all on, why’s the chief running too, he wasn’t scared of adults, they’re scared of ‘us’, we do what we want.
Then the dark cold winter’s night was punctured by a rasping sound, the rasping sound of three scramblers. It was the big brother. They turned into the entrance to the alley, revving their bike’s violently. As the man slowly turned to face the big brother and his mates, they switched off their engines and dismounted. They stood in front of their machines, like gladiators before their adoring fans, who dares challenge their authority of fear over the neighbourhood?
The man walked slowly out of the shadow’s, the light slowly revealing to big brother who the hell this nutter is!
“OH SHIT, IT’S ******!” he shouted to his mates, “Let’s go, QUICK.” Jumping back onto his bike firing it up and hurtling away with his companions very close behind.
When he turned back, the gang had scattered, dispersed to the safety of their own homes and parents who were normally blissfully unaware of what they’re little darling’s normally do on a night, when they’re told “Get out from under my feet, can’t you clear off round your mates?” They’d find them home remarkably early tonight. Shivering and saying it was the cold to hide their unaccustomed fear.
He’d returned slowly to his flat, well within the hour he’d told his brother, to find a quivering snivelling adolescent on a bicycle at the gate.
“My brother sent me, he’s told ‘em all to stay away from your flats, ‘e just don’t want anyfink to ‘appen to him, ‘e dain’t know it was you.”
“Tell him, as long as keep of my lawn(echoing Clint Eastwood) nothing’s going to happen.
The following day, the leader was stood outside the paper shop as the man exited after getting his daily pint of milk.
“Sorry for last night mate” He looked, the child back in his eyes, a crushed leader who’s authority and status amongst his mates had been blown open in one night.
The following night was a peaceful night. The wail of the banshee’s, Police/Ambulance/Fire were tonight speeding to other run down ghetto’s. Throughout the week, offers of give us a call if you need any help, came from all manner of local inhabitants. Living in fear of the ‘kids’ had been lifted by the return of this guy, news stories of dad killed by the gang he confronted was not going to happen. His brother bemused and somewhat confused, his daughter was proud, her dad was hero, she had often thought it, but now he’d proved it. His son, well, he knew his dad was tough all the time. “But how did you know they’d run Dad?”
“I didn’t, I was shitting myself all the time!” he replied.
(Based upon real events. Names and Identities have been omitted to protect the innocent and the guilty)