Timothy Lea - Confessions of a Long Distance Lorry Driver

I have hardly had time to open my cakehole again when – zomp! The bed bashes into the side of the boat and goes down faster than Britain’s gold reserves. So much for the pride of the Noggett fleet. I fling out my arms and find myself clutching the thick links of a gunge-encrusted chain. For a few seconds the current plucks at my body and then I manage to haul myself up and find a foothold on the chain. Exciting, isn’t it? I bet you are all on the edge of your seats. No? Well, do you mind edging forward a bit as I get discouraged very easily? Ta. Anyway, there I am, shivering with cold and terror and trying not to think why the anchor chain I am clinging to smells the way it does. All those rats running up and down it can’t help a lot. I suck in a few deep breaths, square my enormous shoulders, and start struggling up to where the chain disappears through a hole in the side of the ship.

Above me, I can begin to make out the name of the boat. It looks like Len Grade . It must be named after one of the famous Grade family. Funny, I have heard of Lew and Leslie but not Len. As I get nearer I see that there is a lot of other writing, like the symbols they use in cartoons when someone is swearing, and that it is Leningrad not Len Grade . The boat must come from Russia which accounts for the balalaika music smiting my earholes. I thought it was a bit haunting for a banjo.

This news cools down my blood another couple of degrees. I know that the Ruskies do not take kindly to unannounced visitors snooping round their goodies and I hope that there are going to be no misunderstandings about the reason for my appearance on board. Better, perhaps, if nobody knows about it. With this thought in mind, I slide my hand up the side of the boat and close my fingers round the lowermost of the rails. A few more contortions that Charles Atlas would envy – well, he must be about seventy now – and I pull myself up so that I can look on to the deck. There seems to be no one about so I swing my leg over the side and—

‘Haltski! Stay exactly where you are!’

I wish the bloke with the gun had not said that because the ship’s rail is threatening to carry the cleft in my arse round to the front of my body. ‘I’m not a spy,’ I say. ‘My bed sank.’

‘Your what?!’

‘My boat sank,’ I say. I mean, there is no point in making the confusion worse, is there? I flirt with a few items of verbal jollity that involve Vulgar Bedmen and Volgar Boatmen and decide against them. The gentlemen with the submachine-gun pointed at the centre of my nut cluster could well fail to be amused. Their ways are not our ways.

‘You looking for asylum?’

What a funny thing to ask a bloke! I suppose I do look a bit odd but there is no reason to start jumping to conclusions. The geezer reads the expression of surprise on my face. ‘I mean political asylum.’

‘Oh, The House of Lords,’ I say. ‘You should have said. That’s further up the river.’

‘What is it, Boris?’ Another bloke rolls up wearing long boots and a fur hat. I wonder whether to tell him that his shirt has come out of his trousers but decide against it.

‘I think it is another refugee from the fascist hyenas, Excellency.’

‘Indeed.’ The newcomer leans towards me and I suddenly tumble to the fact that it is a bird. I thought the voice was a bit funny. On closer inspection she reminds me of Vanessa Redgrave. You know, everything there, but stretched a bit. ‘So, you want to go to Urals?’

‘I wouldn’t mind,’ I say. You know how it is when you’re cold and you’ve had a few beers. It goes right through you.

‘Come, follow me. I wish to examine your credentials.’ I have heard how the Commies are great ones for spying on you but this is too much. Nobody follows me into the karsi. I am about to say something but the bird turns on her heel and the bloke gives me a playful nudge with his submachine-gun that clearly means ‘get a move on’. In the circumstances I see no alternative but to do as I am nudged. I never reckoned myself with perforations.

Down some steps we go and along a narrow, dimly lit corridor that smells like a baby camel’s chewing rag. The cold is now really getting through to me and I am shivering like your mum’s automatic washing machine going into spin dry.

‘You want to join the party?’

In my present condition, I have never felt less like a knees-up but I decide that it would be a bad idea to refuse the lady’s invitation. ‘Yeah, lovely,’ I say. ‘I wouldn’t mind getting out of these things though.’

‘Of course. Boris, get the comrade a people’s suit.’

I am not sorry to see Boris taking his machine-gun for a walk and for a moment I consider making a bolt for it. Then it occurs to me that it probably has a bolt anyway. Plus a trigger and all the other bits. I will have to find another way of working myself into the Commie’s favour.

‘Do you know Nitya Pullova?’ I say. ‘She comes from Omsk.’

Comrade Pullova is the big knockered bird who has come to Slumbernog on an exchange visit and revolutionised production. So much so that the firm is actually making money and the horrible Rightberk brothers who share responsibility for spending all the profits with Sid have pushed off on a cruise. I throw that in just in case you like a bit of plot.

‘Omsk?’ says my companion, opening a cabin door with a wry smile – she uses her hand as well, of course. ‘That is two thousand miles from Leningrad. London is nearer to Leningrad than Omsk.’

‘Blimey,’ I say. ‘So it’s right over the other side of the country?’

The bird smiles again. ‘No, the beautiful city of Omsk is not even one third of the way across the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics.’

Amazing, isn’t it? Nearly drowned and a free geography lesson into the bargain. Nobody can say that I don’t lead a rich and varied life.

‘Not surprising you don’t know her then,’ I say, exhibiting once more the easy mastery of casual banter that has cemented my reputation as the Michael Parkinson of the West Clapham light ale and a packet of salt and vinegar crisps set.

There is a bit more light – of the electrical variety – in the sparsely furnished cabin and it gives me the opportunity to have a shufti at the bird. She looks a lot better when she has taken off her fur hat and allowed her blonde barnet to tumble round her shoulders. She has large grey eyes and a wide mouth that turns up temptingly at the corners. I would imagine that she is OK in the bristols department but it is a bit difficult to tell because of the blouse she is wearing. It has less shape than one of Mum’s steak and kidney puddings. She is looking at my clobber with interest.

‘You, serf,’ she says.

‘Not here,’ I say. ‘You need waves. You might be able to water ski but it wouldn’t be much fun if you fell in. I mean, look at me.’

‘I am looking at you.’ She points to the front of my ripped life jacket. ‘“REJECT”. That is how your capitalist society designates you.’

It has been occurring to me that the word ‘reject’ might well refer to something else – like what the manufacturer thinks ought to be done with a garment that quite clearly fails to come up to scratch. I wonder where Sid got it from? Probably off the back of a lorry. So much of what Sid lays his hands on falls off the back of lorries that the items usually carry tyre marks.

‘Take offski those sad rags.’ The lady is swift to note the hesitation on my part, prompted by hundreds of years of genteel breeding and the certain knowledge that my brush with cold hearted Father Thames has resulted in my hampton taking on the proportions of a dwarf brussel sprout – Hampton Wick as you might say. ‘Do not worry about exposing yourself to me. I have seen more naked men than you have had.’