The Good Buck

I am in a bit of a dilemma with work. The job I have is steady, Mon-Fri on the same run. I know the route, I know the job, I can find the places and reverse safely into them. I’m not fantastic on that blind-side reverse still, but adequate. On Friday I was running out of driving hours, down to my last two minutes, so I surprised myself by slamming it on really well. Can’t guarantee I won’t make a total hash of it again on Monday, though. The thing is, I am doing it. However much I faff about, I’m getting it done.

On Friday they also sent me to another drop, the first time I’d had to pick up from there. The yard was quite small and had obstructions along the fence so it was a tight reverse without room to pull forward to straighten up first. I had two warehouse lads leaning out to watch me, and I did it first go. I’m not boasting, this is my job after all. But I have come a long way and am actually settling down and confidently doing things. I remember the nervous wreck I was at Stobbarts. I had no idea what was going on half of the time I was reversing.

My dilemma is this; do I stick with this job (steady, do-able, but short, inconvenient hours, not massive pay) or do I risk re-applying for that Igloo job? (To which I referred a few months back.)

It’s better hourly pay, a lot more hours, sealed trailers (you don’t have to do anything with them to unload them, just drive them and swap them at the depots) and the shift start times are what you want (4am-6am, I would choose.)

Everything about Igloo is better, except I don’t know where all their depots are. I have a map, satnav and google maps/ navigation on my ‘phone. Once I’ve found each one once I should be alright. What I’ve been doing is getting a print off of the instructions to each site and writing notes on them. Sorted for next time then.

It’s really a matter of when, not if I re-apply.

The thing that is holding me back is lack of confidence. I’m scared of assessments for a start, even though I sailed through my last one. Then there’s the fear of the unknown. What if it’s loads of tiny yards you have to blind-side into? What if I have another bump? You see, while I’m at this works I am getting better, and if I do have a bump can go and get a better job. If I have a bump at Igloo I’ve thrown away a steady job and buggered my chances with the good job.

The idea is in my head now though.

One thing I should say, being a driver is so much better than my previous jobs. Whenever I see the warehouse lads now I’m reminded. No chilling, always rushing with someone telling you what to do, and all the jobs involve grafting. A human as a graft machine. Not so with this lark. Have to wait three hours for a unit (truck)? Pop into the canteen and drink coffee. Here’s your drops for the day…see you tomorrow. It’s all chill. And because you are driving it passes the time. I’m working a lot longer shifts now, but it doesn’t seem like work. I remember when that driver I knew twenty years ago found out I’d passed my test. He shook my hand and said “Congratulations, mate. You’re going to fucking hate it!” I said at the time to one of my workmates “There speaks a man who’s never picked boxes in –28C.”

In other news, I’ve tried my final strategy before resorting to the doctors; rested my leg for weeks until it had stopped hurting then warmed up gently but thoroughly before going out for runs. I’ve managed three, ten mile runs and my leg is still working. Touch wood. I am really hopeful that this is it. Fixed. I have to put fifteen minutes into warming up and the same or more warming down, but my leg seems to be holding up. Who knew? Apart, obviously, from every coach, expert, sports advisor and people with common sense.

All my life it’s been a case of chucking my kit on and setting off at a run. It’s only this time around it’s not been in boots. Perhaps, given my age, it would have happened even if I hadn’t buggered my leg with those fancy trainers.

Anyway, the good news is; last Saturday I warmed up then set off for a trial run. My leg was holding up at two miles, so I pushed on. I thought about turning around and just doing a five mile run but soldiered on (out of stubbornness if not good sense) and managed the ten miles. It was a poor time, but that wasn’t the objective. I did it with a working leg.

I’ve been out for two other runs and apart from the usual gripes (blisters, knee throbbing, bones in foot grinding) I seem to be fine. I have been finding the distance a bit of challenge which was annoying me. Then I discussed it with Wendy today, and I probably haven’t done ten, ten mile runs all year. I did two about six weeks ago, then my leg buggered up, before that it was another six weeks and I’m not sure I did two that time.

Anyway, I’ve put on over a stone and done bugger all running this year due to injury, so ten miles is not too shameful. I want to shed a stone or so before our holiday so I can fit in my wetsuit for sea swims.

The other thing in my life at the moment is my soprano sax. Or rather, it isn’t in my life. I have a tracking jobby (which I have sussed out how to use) and it shows the map and times. It took one day to get from the factory in China to Customs and Excise in Coventry. Eleven days it’s been sat there. GRRRRRR! So no saxing whilst I’m sat, bored in my truck.

A Swedish trucker chum (@TruckerLez) has suggested a book for me, though. The Passage. So far it’s good. A bit like Stephen King’s The Stand, people have said. But with vampires. I took her recommendation after she told me about The Girl With The Dragon Tattoo. She had it (in the original Swedish) in audio book to listen to in her truck. She said the prose was that clunky she had to keep stopping it to scream. She was bob on with that.

Got to go, bedtime is upon us.

Later,

Buck.

Yes, even I have them. The last couple of days have been pretty good. I started off shaky on Friday. The blind side reverse has been eating away at my confidence so that even when I’ve finally got it into position I’ve been having to take a few shunts to get it squarely on the bay. It’s a knock-on effect, so I’d started flapping even at my other depots where I am comfortably competent.

Friday started badly, I lost position in the yard at Irlam and in my haste (and to be fair, due to a really shit truck. I know; a bad workman always blames his tools. This was shit though. Brakes that do nothing until you ram the pedal into the floor and a different automatic gearbox, which shifts down a gear when you put it into reverse, not straight into reverse gear.) I ended up bumping into another trucks wing mirror. Luckily it was mirror to mirror, and no harm was done but my confidence was shot. Again.

From that nadir it started picking up. Some arsehole in a rigid truck parked across my bay so I had to do some fancy reversing around him to get on the bay. I did it OK.  My first drop was the place that had loaded me with the infamous ‘wobbly’ pallet. This time was worse. I check every load me after that, and this time they’d loaded boxes that were two pallets long (on two pallets). The boxes were stacked high, but not that wide, so were balanced in the middle of the pallets, and because they’d had to put it in length ways (Oo-er, mrs!) were on their own at the back of the trailer. So; boxes balanced on pallets, with nothing around them to support them. Ideal. If they could have packed them in sweating dynamite on egg shells it would have been perfect.

I looked at it and despaired. I put two straps on the load to try and hold it in place but I wasn’t optimistic. I tried to drive as smoothly as possible. Not easy when your brakes routine is: stamp, nothing, nothing, stamp harder, nothing, HOLY SHIT! STAMP! *thrown forward*

To my surprise when I opened the back doors at Northampton the load was still upright! Go me! Then I tried that manoeuvre the guy had suggested, screw the truck around as though I was going back out of the yard, pull forward until the back of my trailer was pointing in the right general direction (and here’s the thing, I could still see it! When you can see it you can steer it.) then just reverse in as normal. Through your blind side mirror, obviously, but if you are lined up it’s straight forward.

I cracked it! I don’t know if there is enough room to screw it around when there are trailers with units on them, but when the yard is open like that it’s do-able.

That made me very happy.

Today, Saturday,  I’ve been doing other happy things.

I rang up to scrap the Micra (the emails having all disappeared into the ether) and the guy said £100. Once I’d made sure it was him giving me the £100 and not the other way around, I was happy. 

The clarinet sold for £81. *sighs* It cost £150, plus £28 for the mouthpiece upgrade plus the ‘learn as you play’ book. Grrr.

Still, the two combined have given me enough for a (truck portable) soprano sax. I ordered it today! Yay! 

Also today I’ve booked us a week in Cornwall in July. Not much, but it’s a break. If I don’t book it I’ll end up not taking a holiday this year. As I am a ‘self employed sub contractor’ I don’t get paid holidays. If I don’t work I don’t get paid. I am hoping to get taken on full time at some point. Until then I have to live as is.

I’ve taken our Lisa for a few drives as she’s after her car license. She’s really pretty good. She’s using my parents car when they bugger off to Bulgaria. This is less than perfect. She was hoping to get on their insurance, but as they are not in the country she won’t be able to swing that. The policy holder has to be the main driver. They can’t claim that from abroad, I can’t at a different address with a car in my name (not that I would, m’lud) so she’s screwed. She can legally add the parents as additional drivers to try to bring the premium down. I looked it up for her. As a brand new driver, even with the maximum (18 years) experience of the additional drivers the quote was grim. The problem is, it’s a 1.4 litre car. The best quote I could get was £1,281.88! Ouch. It went down to £800 or so with a year’s no claims bonus, but still ouch.

For comparison I tried the same quote on the Micra. First year, £518. Still steep, but in perspective not robbery. Luke (Wendy’s son, in his 30’s) tried to get a quote on the same car and the best he could get was £1,600! For a car  worth (it was) a couple of hundred quid.

Wendy is off up town tonight with a workmate. Going to see The Damned. A bunch of late middle aged geezers trying to rock the yoof rebellion scene. Luke is at the same gig in a professional capacity, he’s the town photographer for occasions. They are using his work on some banners they are putting up around town apparently. If anyone wants a photographer/ computer geek he is available, modest rates. (I’d better get commission for this!)

I have spent the night cleaning the bathroom. I think I got the better night. Apart from the stench of bleach which is now in my nose and knocking me ill. I was going to really push the boat and fill in my self assessment tax return but it doesn’t have to be in until the end of January it seems, so screw that.

Tomorrow we are thinking of going to see Avengers Assemble. The superhero gang thing. Not Purdy and Steed doing Ikea furniture. It’s one of Joss Whedon’s so we are more or less guaranteed to love it. Joss is the geezer who did Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Angel, Firefly, Serenity and Dollhouse. He rocks our world. “We are not worthy, we are not worthy.”

I’ve doused my t-shirt in patchouli oil to take away the stench of bleach. And I’m sucking a mint. Riveting stuff, eh?

Wendy’s just got back, she’s buzzing off the gig. Larf. Still, she had a good night and behaved herself so all is win. I am ordered to tell everyone The Damned were ace. She had a brilliant time.

Oh, and I didn’t get a speeding ticket. Or it’s a week late if they do try and hit me with one.

Later,

Buck.

First things first; go the tories. They announce a drought and it’s not stopped pissing it down ever since. As with their genius notion of kick-starting the economy by sacking everyone. I know it wasn’t the tories who announced the drought, but I’m blaming them. Tories announce a drought, build an ark. Wettest. Drought. EVER.

I’ve been chugging up and down the M6 in it every day. Total monsoon. The spray makes it hellish difficult to see. I commented the other day that after that day’s driving I was going to have to get the barnacles scraped off the keel on my truck.

The ‘plan’ of the heading refers to my new short-term master-plan. I’m on 11.30- 23.00-ish shifts at the minute, so saxophony is out of the question. The neighbours wouldn’t like an early morning rendition and I’m be blowing a tune every time I farted if I played it when Wendy was in bed. I did try to take the clarinet in to work with me, as lots of the job is just sitting around waiting. But I felt a bit embarrassed because I’m so bad at it. Then it struck me, a soprano saxophone! They are tiny little things (they look about 18 inches tall, the curved ones) but share the same keys as all sax’s.

I didn’t want to go lashing out on another instrument though. Gawd knows we have enough to spend our cash on. Then I struck upon it, sell the clarinet and buy the soprano! Genius! That way I could concentrate on one instrument, not trying to learn two lots of keys, fingerings, and bloody embouchure. It would pass the many, many, boring hours and it would be easily portable. Plus, as it is the same, but smaller, I should be able to play it sufficiently to avoid embarrassment.

I’ve acted upon it. I’ve listed the clarinet on ebay. And the satnav holder thing I bought (then had the original returned to me). Also, it has given me motivation to start actions to get the Micra scrapped.  As soon as someone calls back with a quote that will be gone. Then it’s soprano city, baby!

Last week we finally got rid of our old, moribund cooker. I’ve had the replacement cooker selected and bookmarked for about a year on my favourites. There is never going to be a time when we say, ‘ we’ve got this spare £500, what the hell can we spend it on?’ So necessity was the mother of investment. The old cooker had lost it’s joie de vivre, and most of the heat. Very inconsistent temperatures.

The new one is groovy. Two electric ovens. Fan assisted. Gas rings. Self cleaning. Well, I say self cleaning, part of buying a tory cooker is that they send a working class serf around weekly to clean it out. If not I’m sending it back. 

The first night we got it I went and got us a Chinese so we wouldn’t dirty it.

Concerning that speeding ticket, I have done a bit of research, and the law is; if you have been caught by the coppers for a motoring offence and not given a ticket on the spot, they have to give you notice of intention to prosecute within two weeks. It’s not quite that clear cut. They have to give the registered keeper the notice. (I am.) And they have to have posted it with a reasonable expectation that under normal circumstances it would reach you within fourteen days. Basically, I’m not counting my chickens for another 3 days (you know coppers, post it tomorrow and say the calendar was in the wrong) but it is 14 days today since I saw that police speed camera van.

Whilst I was looking this up, I came across a little bit of good news. Relatively speaking. Twenty odd years ago I got done on my Harley. I went to court and as Gomez Adams put it “They say a man who represents himself in a court of law has a fool for a client. Well, as God is my witness, I am that fool!” I did, and was.

They said blah blah blah motorbike registration GEM, I said “No, JEM.”  The geezer said “The court accepts this information” then went on to ban me. For twenty odd years it has been eating away at me, that if I’d have had a lawyer he could have said “Ha! Wrong bike! In your face, you bastard!” To the judge and we could have shown our arses and walked out free men.

Turns out, not. Mistakes like that, when all the other evidence identifies you and your bike, are overlooked. So I couldn’t have beaten the rap. I can let it go now.

Work is regular, and whilst the shifts are not optimal, at least I get the weekends off. The Colonel Sanders to my chicken of happiness is that bloody blind-side reverse. I thought I had it sussed, then on Friday I totally lost it. I couldn’t see my back end and was driving back and forth aimlessly, getting into a flap. Another driver had to guide me in. Bugger! Afterwards I thought about what I should have done, and indeed what I have been doing, and I should be OK for Monday.  I lost it though. I hate feeling like that.

Onward. I will crack it.

I was thinking about it the other day, as recently as when I started this job I used to dread reversing on to bays. You have about two inches to play with. If you are out by more than that you have to do it again. I remember wriggling back and forth, and the shunter took over and put it on for me. Embarrassing. Now I prefer to put it on a bay, you know exactly what you are aiming at and the distances to either side are fixed. I just line it up, pull forward to open my trailer doors and back on. If it’s not that bloody blind side reverse it’s getting to be first time most times.

I had an incident the other day, I thought I would be sacked. I drove to the site, got it lined up, pulled forward (so you are about ten feet from the bay) opened my back doors, everything was fine with the load, started to reverse the final few feet and a warehouse lad shouted “STOP!”  I stood on the brakes. When I got out, there was half a pallet of my load on the floor. He said “It looked wobbly.” Thanks for that, lad. It’s not wobbling now, it’s lay in pieces on the floor.

At first I thought that was my fault for not having it strapped up, but then I realized you take the straps off to back it on to the bay. There was nothing else I could have done. If it was anyone’s fault it was either the pickers for not stacking and wrapping it properly, or in my opinion, the arse warehouse lad for shouting stop. The load had made it all the way there without spilling. Until he shouted. Cock.

Even though it wasn’t really my fault, I thought that two minor accidents in two weeks would be enough for them to get rid of me. Agency and all. They just said “Don’t worry about it.” Cool.

The lesson I’ve learned from that is; if someone shouts “Stop!” Get out, stick them under the wheels, then wheel-spin.

I’ve just checked, I now have six people watching the clarinet. No bids yet though.

Offski,

Later,

Buck.

You know how in my last  but one blog, of but a few days ago, I was waxing triumphant of my mastery in my chosen trade? To whit, I felt I’d cracked the driving gig?

Wednesday I was doing my the same run I’ve been on for the last couple of weeks. My last drop being in Northampton. It’s a nice big yard, but the bay you have to reverse on is the to the far left of the yard. This means, when they leave trailers parked in front of it, you have to reverse in blind side. It’s exactly the same principle, except you can’t lean out of your cab window and see where you are going. You have to do it all in your offside mirror. The problem with that, of course, it that it leaves you without any depth perception. You are reduced from binocular vision to a flat, reflected field. When your arse end is over forty foot away this is less than ideal.

So I was blind siding into this bay, the last one in the yard, trying not to run too far and park it over the pavement running next to my bay. I went tight around a parked unit and trailer (it would have been too easy if they hadn’t parked that there as well. Grrr.) I bottled it, thinking I’d gone too tight, so pulled forward again. As I did so I clipped the parked unit’s wing mirror with my trailer.

Bollocks.

I didn’t break it, or even scuff it, but I turned the mirror around on it’s post. This loosened it so it had to be fixed. The yard manager saw it and made me fill in an accident form. I think he was pulling a fast one, to be honest. One of the lads took the back off the mirror and fixed it while I was there. Then the repair guy came out, had a long talk with the manager and buggered off. I think it was a conversation on the lines of ‘lets bill the agency guy’s lot for a none existent repair and split the cash’.

Probably not, but I was miffed.

I went into work on Thursday (my lot had gone home by the time of the accident so I didn’t get to tell them on Wednesday) and the boss was so concerned about me being a potentially dangerous driver he said I’d have to do a driving assessment on Friday. Meanwhile, here’s the keys, do the same run again today.

Go figure, as the colonials would have it.

This is why I am an agency driver; because I flap terribly on assessments. If I can carry on driving without ever having to take one I am not going to put myself through it. As soon as he said that I was gutted. I started planning what jobs I could apply for next.

I had to go in early yesterday (Friday) to take the assessment. I was flapping a bit. The assessor said ‘Here’s some keys, go and get the unit that’s easiest to get out.’

Neither of them were. They were wedged in tight. I had to move other trucks just to get the bloody unit out in the first place. By the time I’d negotiated that without crashing I was settled. Nothing on the road was going to be as bloody awful as the yard. I had a bitch to the guy about how bad the yard was, saying “Assessment my arse! If you get out of the yard alive that should be a pass.” He agreed.

Anyway, long and short of it is, I passed! Go me! Wasn’t expecting that. Then I had to carry on a do a full day’s work after that. I just wanted to go to sleep. You know how it is, when you are all stressed out then suddenly are relieved. Long day.

The agency texted me saying I’m back in all next week, so it’s business as usual. This run is longer hours as well. And better (still not great) hours. From 11.30am until finish, usually about 11.00pm. It gives you most of the night in bed, but no free time, and oddly still quite tired. Possibly because of the caffeine all day, and trying to get a natural sleep after it. We’ve been off the Nytol for a week now. Still not great sleeps, but better.

I’ve decided to keep my hair at it’s current length. Apropos to nothing. Shorter is crap, longer it makes me look half bald, strangely.

Here is my current ‘do’.

I was going for ‘I ain’t no square with my corkscrew hair’ (Marc Bolan) but a chick chum on Twitter said I look like a young Shirley Temple. *sigh*

What else? Well, I’m continuing to bloat out. My leg is still knackered so no running. I am turning into a stereotypical trucker lardarse. I’m going to try to get to the doctors on Monday morning before work. It’s either that or go for American citizenship.

That compound bow I was going on about, on ebay? The one I bid on then realized it was collection only, from Essex? I won it. *shakes fist at arbitrary yet vindictive universe*

I’ve had a fun few days with the seller. He was going to report me to ebay, and all sorts of messy things would have ensued. I offered to pay his ebay fees so he could relist it without losing out. He said if I hadn’t paid for it by end of play Thursday he was going to offer it to the next highest bidder and report me. I said I’d pay the difference between my bid and the next highest so he wouldn’t lose out. (It was £39, I bid £45) He said OK, then replied, “I’ve sold it for £15, the difference is £26. (In retrospect my full maximum bid mustn’t have got used, so it sold for £41, a difference of £2). I immediately thought he was taking the piss. He would have sold it for lots more than that and was trying to fleece me. I said I wasn’t paying that, I’d pay the £6 difference between my bid and the previous highest bidder and that was it. He said “That seems fair.”

Cheeky bastard. I wasn’t having any of that. If he’d have took that to ebay they would have had a record of exactly how much he had sold it for.

Anyway, the rabbits remain safer. They would have been fairly safe anyway, I fear. The cows are displaying bovine indifference to their lucky escape, mind.

I’m about 3 months from a clean license (my speeding ticket drops off then) and I may have been stung this morning. Goddamn speed camera van parked over the brook of a hill on Cromwell Ave. I was doing (an indicated) 36 mph (allegedly) when I saw it. I stood on the brakes, obviously. They say speedos are set to read 10% faster, but that still leaves me at 33 mph for a few seconds. Damn and blast their eyes. Obviously the coppers coffers must be running low. Bunch of bastards. Yet if I was to petrol bomb the van and hack them to death with a machete as the tumbled out in flames, legally, I would be in the wrong. Call that justice? Police state.

I downloaded the fix for my Tomtom trucknav. Seems to be working again.  It’s no better than the navigation software Google provide free on my Android ‘phone, though. All that hoo-har over evilgoogle. They should just change their motto to “Come to the darkside, our kit is better.” Honesty in advertising, it’s the future.

Well, that’s been my week.

Stressful.

It makes sitting around doing bugger all a lot more fun though. And at least I have weekends off at this place. Could be worse. I could be in the sewer. Or even on the end of a skewer. As the bard said.

Right, I’m off to frantically do bugger all. I’ve split the infinitive again, the atom is only a matter of time. Then watch out, cop vans.

Later,

Buck.

We are having fun with the turkey, again. Whilst I was on nights I got some Nytol one-a-night sleeping tablets. The chemists said they were only for short term use, blah, blah, blah. Obviously I ignored them. If you are popping caffeine pills and energy drinks all night, you need something to get you to sleep in the day.

Then, when Wendy was having a bad patch of not being able to get to sleep I offered her one. We have been doing them every night for a month or two. I ignored the chemist as I thought they were just saying that one would develop a tolerance. I was getting by on one a night.

Anyway, this wasn’t a problem. Until the chemists started recognizing me and saying I needed to see the doctor as these weren’t for regular use. I widened my net of chemists. Still not thinking this was a problem, just a pain in the arse. Then the actual chemist (not someone who works in a chemists) at Boots served me one time and said “these are for short term use only, no more than a week, as they are addictive.”

Oh. Bleeding brilliant. I’m avoiding anything remotely fun as I have (self diagnosed but pretty obvious) an addictive personality. Super fecking duper.

We put it off for a few weeks, going to silly lengths to get our fix, but we’ve now quit. I was still only on one a night, so I had a light and disturbed sleep. Best time to do it, while we are off for the weekend. It’s never a good time to be knackered and have fitful sleep though. Just got to tough it out. *sigh*

The test will come when I’m faced with the work dilemma; take caffeine to stay awake/ not die, or wind down so I can sleep when I get in.

All fun and games.

In other news I’m back on ebay. Already I’m bidding on stuff then realizing I don’t need or really want the stuff I’ve bid on. Last night I saw some compound bows (the fancy high tech Rambo bows with the pulleys on the end of the bow arms so you can get a massive draw force and fire arrows further) and decided I needed one. I’ve not long since finished The Hunger Games trilogy so had a Rambo/ Katniss idea going on. Hunting game and Chavs. Prepared for the fall of civilisation, etc.

Today I bid on one. It was cheap, by it’s own measure, but would have still set me back £90. Immediately I’d bid I thought it through. £90 we can’t spare, for a weapon it is illegal to hunt with, trying to hit small, fast prey. I could probably bag a cow, they are large and slow, but that would not be without issues involving farmers and shotguns. WHAT WAS I THINKING?

Luckily I got outbid. Not before Wendy had shared her complete lack of support for my new found vision of Buck the hunter/ gatherer.

In future I’ll wait until I actually need something before window(s) shopping. Unless it’s something sensible like motorbikes, of course.

Look at this; a modern Triumph in the style of a 60’s Cafe Racer (where they took a production bike, dropped the handlebars to lay across the tank, put a seat hump where the passenger would sit, put rear foot controls on it, and generally made themselves as small as possible to get the bike as racy as they could.)

Here is the Kawasaki Bonneville clone:

Here is the Triumph Thruxton Cafe Racer;

WANT! SO. BAD.

Gotta get off,

Later,

Buck.

I remember, many months ago, the first time someone hailed me with “Drive!” Which is short for ‘driver’, obviously, and how one addresses a lorry driver.

I was at once pleased and terrified. I wanted to be that trucker, but felt I in no way earned the title. I had the licenses, and was doing the job, just about, but didn’t know what I was doing. There are so many things to pick up; little things like working the air suspension (so you can lower the cab to pull out from under a trailer and raising it when you reverse under one so you engage properly) and working the different onboard computers to check the oil level and such. Then there was the big things; knowing where your back end was when you were cornering in the dark and reversing.

It’s only the last few weeks I’ve actually started to feel I can handle whatever is thrown at me. I’ve been doing easy trunking jobs with a few challenging bits per shift. The same company had me back after that Friday off, but on a different run. The first day my all-singing, all-dancing, £357 trucknav went tits up. I had been on the same run for weeks so hadn’t used it. That day I dropped my smartphone down the bog. It was still drying out and not working when I went to work. They gave me a new run, so I put the address in my Tomtom trucknav, which promptly died. I couldn’t get the navigation software on my ‘phone to work for ages and was going up and down the same road for about an hour looking for a road that was off the next motorway turn off.

The Tomtom had got a leap-year ‘millennial bug’, ie, it hadn’t accounted for the leap day so couldn’t connect with all the satellites that had. It transpired that in messing with my ‘phone (before the screen had dried out and was working again) I’d turned off the data connection jobby, so it couldn’t connect to the network to guide me.

When I eventually sussed that out it got me to the postcode but was guiding me into a housing estate. I resisted. Did about three laps of the one way system in Stoke on Trent, which let me tell you was designed for donkeys, not even horse and carriage. Getting an artic around there was a challenge in itself. I could see the building I was after, I did a complete lap of it without seeing a way in. In the end I tried the housing estate. I got funnelled down a little street, slaloming past parked cars, until I got to a corner with a van on one side and a car on the other, and no way for me to fit through.

I was stuck.

I tried knocking on the houses to get the vehicles moved, no answer. I was going to have to slalom, in reverse, right out of the estate. A lesser man would have blubbed and run off. They tackled me at the end of the street and dragged me back.

Not really. I had no choice but to back out. As luck would have it a copper on the beat turned up. I didn’t think they existed this side of the second world war. He went behind me. He wasn’t much help, but it’s reassuring knowing he’s stopping blind arseholes from driving up behind you. I still had them impatiently following me as I backed up.  You take the keys and do a better job, asshat. Grrr.

I rang work and told them I’d got lost, and stuck, and was well late. It was really easy to get to, I’d taken a right at an island and driven into Stoke, if I’d have gone left (into a road marked as a cul-de-sac) I’d have been there. Then I was so late I missed my next drop.

All in all, a horrendous day. I thought they would have finished me up there and then. I didn’t get a text saying ‘don’t come in’ so I went back the next day and got everything right.

I haven’t wanted to jinx it, but I actually think I’ve got the hang of it.

As recently as when I started this job I was struggling to back on to the loading bays. I could get it backed up, just an inch or two out, then was shunting backwards and forwards aimlessly trying to correct it. Now I just reverse back, pull forward to open the back doors, then back it on. Job done. Reversing between trailers I used to panic, now I line it up as best as possible, if there is too much of a bend on I get out and judge it then continue. It’s not the confident approach where you know where the back end is, but it gets the job done safely. You don’t get brownie points for style, you do get sacked for crashing.

So all is well with work. I am actually becoming a lorry driver, the agency seem to be getting me regular, all week, work. This is a vast improvement. You know what days you are working and at what time. Not having to leave your ‘phone on when you’re sleeping in case they ring you up with a job for an hour hence. 

The shifts are less than great, but then I pull up to some warehouse and I see the lads picking. Running around with someone on your back the whole shift, and I think that was me a year or so ago and realize that mine’s a pretty damn good job after all.

Lest we forget:

Picking boxes in minus 28C. And having them threaten to sack you because you are not hitting a pick rate. It doesn’t get much shitter than that.

My leg has buggered up again. I did one ten mile run, fine. Went out for another, 1.7 miles in, twang. Calf gone again. I’m going to have to see the doctor.

Anywho, MotoGP is coming on,

Later,

Buck.

I was called a few weeks ago at 1600, and asked if I could cover a shift starting at 1700. I dropped everything and got there. I was desperate for work, one shift is better than none.

Since then I’ve been in every available night (they only work from Monday to Friday). I’ve already done three weeks, and they’ve asked me to go back in again Monday to Thursday next week as well. ( I told them I can’t work Friday as it’s my mam and dad’s retirement ‘do’ before they bugger off to darkest Wales and thence to Bulgaria.)

If they then ask me back the next week I think I may have landed this job.

It has a few negatives; it isn’t very long shifts (hence not massive wages), it’s an awkward shift 1700- 0130 to 0230, so you can’t do anything at night and all day is just waiting to go to work.

The positives are considerable though; it’s the same job every night (pick up a unit and trailer in Irlam, run up to Aspatria –right at the top of the Lake District-, do a trailer swap and come back), weekends off, and it’s easy driving. I have a bit of a job on manoeuvring in the Irlam yard, but it’s not too serious and the Aspatria yard can be pretty damn awkward, but there is no-one else there and I have all the time in the world. I can take as long as I like to get it right without pressure or rushing into a mistake. (For ‘mistake’ read ‘crash’.) So I’m gaining lots of good experience in some quite tough situations, without freaking out or being forced into errors. Ideal in that respect. And, the job will continue to need doing. If they have me back after having Friday off (I’ve given them over a week’s notice, if they get funny over that, sod ‘em!) I can’t see why they won’t keep me.

There is an unnerving bay in the yard at Irlam, that even the shunters (people who do nothing but reverse trailers around the yard and put them on bays and such all day, every day) don’t like using. You have to reverse into it with a bend on your blind side, which runs next to a wall. In other words, you are leaning out of your window looking down the drivers side of the trailer whilst backing it in. The other side, which you can’t see, is next to a wall. Obviously, if you overcook it a little on that side harsh words will be exchanged and job offers withdrawn.

The thing is, I don’t mind it. There are lines painted on floor to show where the trailer should end up when parked. I just stick tight to the drivers side one, which means you shouldn’t hit the wall. It’s the stupid tight gaps they leave between random trailers that scare me. There are no lines to follow, as soon as you put the bend on you are going to lose sight of one side or the other. What I’m doing at Aspatria is wriggling the trailer up to the gap then trying to get it straight before I back in. Not a luxury you are afforded in many places, but theirs is a big yard.

So although the money isn’t Tory and the hours aren’t ideal, I would happily stick with this one. I’ve noticed I’m a shit-load better at lots of things already.

There are some fun times to be had driving through Cumbria as well. Even though it’s the same route every night, there are still some… interesting moments. There is one corner particularly, in the middle of Carlisle that is focusing. A right hand turn at some lights, you have to swing it really wide to get around the island in the middle of the road, then quick as you can drag it right over into the oncoming lane to stop your trailer from pranging the trees that lean out from the pavement. (Or seem to. It’s bloody tight, either way.) That never ceases to be fun. As when the road disappears as it’s twisting on the brook of a hill. Or your cab gets pushed on by the weight of the trailer when you try to brake before a corner in the rain.

When I say that’s fun, by the way, I mean it. I’m grinning like a fool in those situations.

It’s the reversing into blind situations that I hate.

So, that’s work. I’ve gone from freaking out and worrying I wasn’t getting any work to being settled into a regular job. For now.

I’ve not really been training. Due to tiredness and laziness. I’ve had to get a grip though. I’ve gone from ten stone four of muscle, last year, to eleven and half stone of quivering blubber now. Today I took my leg for a test run (literally). It’s been three weeks or so since my last gym run, so I thought my calf should have healed. I set off for a ten mile run. I set off way too fast (about 7 minutes for my first mile, as opposed to ‘good’ 7.5 when I was fit, or a ‘steady’ 8 minutes for endurance running) so nearly killed myself. I tried to slow the second mile down to catch my breath, but my lungs were on fire and my mental toughness was totally absent. I turned around at just over 2 miles and stopped to get my breath!

It was a humiliating wake up call. By the time I’d ‘run’ back (with two more stops!) I thought I was going to throw up.

Shocking.

Wendy is dying with the lurgy and was so ill she had to ‘phone in sick on Thursday and Friday, and I’ve been feeling chesty and a bit weak. I’m hoping that was a factor. I fear it’s just Winter training in the gym. And being a fat old duffer.

The only bright side was my calf was fine for the run. It’s feeling a bit funny now, but hopefully it will be OK again tomorrow. 

That was a serious injury. It’s taken months to heal. If indeed it now has.

The Ka is still impressing me. I think the little bugger would roll before you could get it to slide. Don’t think I haven’t tried. I want to know how far I can push it, so I have a line not to cross. So far my nerve is failing before it’s grip. Sterling job, Mr Ford.

My other current obsession (sax, clarinet and Russian) have taken a hammering as well. I need to sort out a training plan.

Apropos to nothing, if I’m doing 40mph down a single lane in my truck it’s not without a reason. In fact my reasons are fourfold. Firstly, it’s the law. Yeah, I know. But, secondly I get paid by the hour. So to go faster is to take a pay cut whilst running the risk of threatening my job with points on my license. Thirdly, should I prang it, for whatever reason, the first thing they will do is look at my digital tachograph, whereupon will be written indelibly ‘went into a ditch at 50mph’ on a 40mph road. So sacked. And lastly, I’ll give you shit loads of room to overtake on the empty straight bits, if you refrain it’s your own stupid fault.

In other news, I have found a genre clothing look that is stylish. An offshoot of Goth, Steampunk. It’s like a Victorian era imagining of sci-fi. Very cool. here are some sunglasses:

I’ll buy them if someone wants to buy me an inexpensive coat to go with them, say, this one:

Only £1,285. Snip at the price.

Anyway, I’ve been looking forward to this sleep all week,

later,

Buck.

I need to enter some races or something. I had four nights work last week and I’m supposed to have another five next week. This left me with this weekend to get everything done. I’ve done nothing.

The work thing is good, mind. Not the best money as it’s quite short shifts, starting at 1700 finish around 0200 hrs. Once you’ve taken off the 45 minute break that’s not a lot of hours. For a lorry driver. At Stobarts you were lucky to finish before 13 hours. However, it’s was the same run (to Aspitaria, in Cumbria) each time. Same company as before. Just run an empty trailer up there, drop it, pick up a full trailer and run back to Irlam (outskirts of Manchester.) Once I’d got over the trauma of the first night (blindly following the satnav off the motorway two junctions before the written notes, and consequently having to drive a 13 metre trailer-ed truck right across the Lake District on B roads!) I was OK. That first run was terrifying though. Pitch black B roads, twisty and hilly as buggery, so your headlights are not showing you where the road is going, no passing spaces, over a single track, right angled bridge… I was shaking by the time I got there.

Anyway, my point was; I should have seized the weekend off and made hay. Tons of cycling, sort the garden, more cycling, get to the gym and cancel my membership now it’s warm enough to train outside…

Done jack.

I went for one ride last week. Just a quick 28 miles, twice up Frodsham hill. I was thinking that that was somewhere I could really pick up the pace this year, maybe knock an hour off my time by putting some effort into it and not cruising. To this end I went out with my heart rate monitor on. For Winter training they recommend you keep your Beats Per Minute (BPM) at 60-75% of your maximum. As you move closer to the race you can up it to the peak band of 75-90% of maximum. (max for my age is 160 bpm.)

As I say, I thought I could pick the pace up this year, so I thought I’d try and keep it at about 140 bpm.

I set off up the gentle but insistent incline of Walton Drag and my bpm was in the 150’s. Oh. Going up Frodsham hill I peaked at 176 bpm. The only time I was not tempting a heart attack was when I was free-wheeling downhill, hanging off the brakes.

So the heart rate monitor was a bit of a waste of money. It tells me I’m about to die when I run and now the same when I’m riding. I thought I could use it as a clinical motivator; ‘only at 60% max bpm, shake the lead out lard-arse’.

Instead it just tells me I need to take up knitting.

Bugger.

On the bright side I have made some elementary discoveries about cycling; It seems that all cycling shorts are not equal. The cheapo pair I bought for £15 last year, with the glorified foam insert are, it transpires, a cheapo pair. The dear ones have multiple layer chamois inserts. These wick sweat away and cushion the undercarriage so you are not in intense misery the whole time. Who knew? Also, because you are not an idiot and have invested in a decent chamois insert pair of shorts you don’t wear undies as they chafe painfully and hold the sweat. And you apply a chamois cream, ie vaseline.

The word is, if you do these things you can ride all day without being in pain.

I did not know this. I was in such unutterable pain and discomfort I used to look forward to the stupid long runs afterwards just to get me off the saddle. Balls.

Anywho, I tried the greased up, no undies tactic with my cheapo shorts and after two hours wasn’t even wincing. With proper shorts I think it may be possible to get away with just the pain of the pedalling. That would be like all my birthdays and xmas’ in one.

If it is the case, and I endured all that misery last year through training and the race not knowing there was an option… *sobs*

Well, I’ve ordered some decent-ish shorts, now I just need to enter some races to motivate me to train.

Oops, Wendy’s going to sleep, have to stop typing.

Later,

Buck.

As you know, I love Twitter. You get to follow just the people who interest and entertain you. Facebook is a shite site for people you’ve actually met, in my opinion. Just because I once did a course with you doesn’t mean I want to hear you bang on about little Johnny’s bowel movements. Screw little Johnny, and screw you. You were a boring offensive fuckwit then and nothing’s changed. Unless your Facebook status update currently reads ‘Goodbye cruel world’ I have no interest.

Well, that was an unexpected diversion. I only started out to say that I love Twitter. Moving swiftly on; (which I think is a split infinitive, sorry) the joy of Twitter is you can follow really clever and witty people. This makes for fun conversations. However, occasionally you stray over to the dark side.

The Sunday they launched the Sun On Sunday (SOS), was one such time. I won’t have anything to do with Murdoch or his evil empire. He embodies the corruption at the heart of politics to me. Vetting successive prime ministers (at his evil lair) before putting his media empire behind them. It was your Sun wot won it. Feck right off!

Lying and distorting every news story to his own Machiavellian ends. More annoyingly, people believing the disgusting lies they are spoon fed. The EU demanding straight bananas was a Sun story that sank into the collective subconscious before the issued a tiny little apology saying ‘oops, that was totally groundless lies.’ Does anyone remember the apology? I don’t. I read about it elsewhere. Big lie, spun and spun, tiny, un-noticed retraction.

Again with the digression. I was just saying I don’t like Murdoch, therefore would never buy his vile products. Papers, Sky, none of it. So when a freelance journalist I follow said he was getting some stick for buying the SOS I replied; ‘For shame.’

That was it.’For shame.’  then I went out to start on my allotment.

I came back and he’d replied ‘Seriously? Get to fuck’.

Ho ho. Challenge accepted.

Me ‘I think I touched a nerve there. Sun readers, huh?’

Him ‘I buy one copy to write about it and suddenly I’m a ‘Sun reader’? It touched a nerve because it’s culture war bollocks!’

There then followed about five hours of lively debate. By the end of which the lad was frothing at the mouth and apoplectic with rage. His followers got in on the act, a friend of mine jumped in and ripped him to shreds, he and his lot attacked her.

I ended up summarising my position by saying ‘Apparently buying the Sun, like kiddie porn, is OK if it’s only for “research”’.’ And ‘He’s gone off to punch some kittens in the face, but don’t worry it’s for research so it’s OK’.

By which I was showing by analogy that if something is too objectionable to own, calling it research doesn’t make owning it any less so. Given the limit of 140 characters per tweet, some ideas have to be brutally condensed.

That was possibly an analogy too far. But I enjoyed it. He did not. He blocked me (so I couldn’t tweet him, and he couldn’t see my tweets) then wrote the following. I laughed.

And Jesus came to just The Guardian readers: the Sun on Sunday and my enduring evil

I purchased a copy of the Sun on Sunday yesterday. I directly contributed to Rupert Murdoch’s army of evil robot assassins. From a tube in his volcano hideout, my €1 dropped into a vast treasure chest where he swims like Scrooge McDuck, cackling to himself while grimly masturbating over pictures of exploded Polly Toynbee heads. I am just another goon in his squad of solid grade-A bastards. I fund his emotional terrorism. I am Bin Laden in bad pyjamas.

Yes, horrified liberal readers of the blogosphere, clutch your lattes close to your chest and join me here in the shitsphere from within which I apologise for Murdoch over and over again, chanting his name like a mantra found within the Necronomicon. I am the Murdoch apologist. Stare at my grizzled visage with the fascination of a truck driver confused at how Keeley, 21 from Wandsworth is able to talk so knowledgeably about the balance of international trade. Soon Keeley will be in Ed Miliband’s shadow cabinet, explaining to him why Blockbusters and Blackbusters are quite different things.

I have written for The Sunday Times on a few occasions. I even wrote some things for the Money pages of The Times for a brief period when I toiled in the tedium mines at Pensions World magazine. To a certain sort of rabid, batshit mental, google-eyed Twitter trawler that makes me worse than Idi Amin playing football with the severed heads of puppies while throwing free child pornography to an audience of sweating nonces.

You think my analogies are over-the-top? One guy on Twitter yesterday actually compared me buying the Sun on Sunday to analyse what it was up to with kicking kittens or purchasing child p0rn for research. The point at which someone brings up child p0rn to make their points is the point at which they are blocked with such force that I hope I am able to physically throw them back from the keyboard.

Ed Miliband ensured that Labour peer Maurice Glasman withdrew his column from The Sun on Sunday. Why not? Who cares if Labour’s message has an outpost in the most popular newspaper in Britain? We’ll just hope that those millions just have a sudden attack of conscience and suddenly all subscribe to The Independent and buy themselves a Labour Party membership.

The phone hacking, the police corruption, the sheer unpleasantness of some of News International’s journalism is without question but the problem is a vast tranche of the population enjoy what The Sun produces and Leveson isn’t stopping that.

The Archbishop of York, John Sentamu, stuck to his guns and his column appeared in the first edition of The Sun on Sunday (though not in Ireland where I was also spared the churning idiocy of Toby Young).

Numerous Christian groups and non-Christians alike lined up to criticise Sentamu. Because Jesus spoke only to those he agreed with politically. Is it not written that Jesus came only to The Guardian readers and damned Sun readers to the eternal pit? It isn’t? Well, this bible I bought from Alan Rusbridger is rubbish.

In the comments section I put ‘It sound like he has a valid point. Kitten puncher.’

Anyway, we’ve kissed and made up now. It was a fun couple of days though.

Buck.

It’s been a milestone couple of weeks. As I said last time we were getting a tad worried about my lack of work and, in retrospect, I was freaking out over driving in general. The mighty Micra had kiffed it and really we had no money to replace it. I’d seen a Ford Ka for £790 with 12 months MOT, which I was quite excited about.

The next day I went to view it and immediately became wary. The guy who was selling it to me was the boss of a hand car wash place. This was my first alarm, as I know of people who know people who set up a just such an operation to launder the profits of their drug dealing. Then the guy started giving me patter. That put my back up a bit, it’s like saying to someone “I’m going to talk shit at you now, but you’re so stupid you won’t understand anyway.” “We have loads of people just waiting to buy this…, I’m not here to sell this, I just valet them… tell you what why don’t I knock £50 off the price…”

Yet still I liked the look of the car, it sounded a good engine. There was a disconcerting 2 inch circle missing out of the paint in the door frame. It had obviously rusted a few millimetres away, then been repainted. He reassured me that it was a touch up job, but by then he’d already convinced me he was a bullshitter.

Still, it was the best one I’d seen. I was going to get it. 12 months MOT, at least I’d get a year out of it, and I needed a car for work. Then he said he couldn’t take my card as his machine was down. He tried to ring all of his mates to use theirs. The more desperate he got the more unsure I became. Finally he said I should draw it as cash, on a credit card, and he’s knock the 2% cash fee off the price!

I rang the card people, they said it would be £22 handling fee, if the cash machine would dispense it, then something like 27% interest.

I said I’d try him again when he got his card machine fixed.

I got home and tried the interweb again, this time I widened my search to 60 miles. There was another Ford Ka, 12  months ticket, £550! It was way the other side of Manchester, past Leeds, I think. Anyway, I tried to get someone to give me a lift out to it and my dad came to my rescue. Dropped everything and ran me straight over. And lent me some cash as apparently I’m only allowed to draw £250 per day from hole-in-the-wall machines.  Cheers dad. I’m going to be screwed when they bugger off to Bulgaria.

We tootled over there, it was a straight talking private seller, bloody spiffy little car, bish, bash, bosh, job’s a good ‘un.

I’m well pleased with it. It’s quite a basic model, hand wind the windows! Remember that? I think I’m getting a repetitive stress injury. But it’s a corker of a car. Only looks the size of the Micra but it seem a lot roomier inside. X reg, so 2000, but bills back to 2007, with a complete new (£500) exhaust system 14 months ago.

The only real downside is it has a tendency to want to crash. A couple of times I’ve put it in to a wet corner too tight waiting to ride the slide wide, and it has just steered in. AHHHH! That’s not how my world works. Apparently Ford don’t hold with the sideways driving technique I’ve picked up as standard for the Micra. Bloody disconcerting. They should have some sort of warning sticker on the dashboard. “Does not slide sideways on every vaguely damp corner!” I mean, who knew?

That was a happy happenchance. I so nearly bought a worse car, for more money, and at the expense of my dignity (buying in spite of the patter). Happy days.

Work have come through as well. I got the two days they had said plus two more. All at the same place. All but one of the jobs to the same site in Bracknell. Perfect job for me. Pick up, run down to level with London, reverse in to the same situation, come back.

The reverse was a bit of challenge. Usually you try to steer out so you are as straight to the bay you want to back onto as possible. In their yard they leave trucks parked across the way so you can’t set up the reverse. You have to drive past the bay you want to back into, with trucks parked either side of your slot, then do a 90 degree reverse. Bloody tricky.

This has been a good job for me though. 1130 until about 2230 means no need of caffeine tablets so no horrible panic attack feelings. Lots of attempts at the same reverse, so good practise. and tons of motorway driving to just chill out and relax into the job.  I have cracked the technique for the 90 degree reverse. On one of the days I got it perfectly on the bay on my first attempt. Go me! This has all had a positive effect on me. Not having the pills giving me panic attack feelings, not ballsing it up and having proper panic attack feelings and just getting confidence. It was all negative re-enforcement, fake panic feeding real panic and forcing mistakes. This last week or two it’s been building competence and  feeding confidence.

I can honestly say I’ve actually enjoyed my job over the last week or so.

It’s only a few weeks ago I was a nervous wreck hating my job and cursing the money I’d wasted on getting the licenses.

The Ka is super, I feel I’m finally settling into my job, there seems to be work coming in now, so money worries postponed, and Wendy is feeling fine. All is bloody peachy. Huzzah!

If I have to find a downside it’s just that the hours I’ve been working haven’t left me time to do much of anything else. I went to the gym today, being as I’ve got the weekend off, and did some saxing, but it’s the first time for either since last weekend, I think. Maybe Tuesday. I was off then. The neighbours probably wouldn’t appreciate a sax session past 11 pm or before 10 am. And that tune I was so confidently blasting out? Turns out it is four times faster than I thought. Can not finger that fast! (Ooer, mrs!) My delusion of adequacy was based on me not comprehending what was being asked of me. No change there, then!

Well, I’ll update this post with some pics of the Ka tomorrow (Sunday), until then I’ll leave you with a picture someone took of a pet. The caption was “I don’t think he likes the vets.”

Later,

Buck.

PS, Behold the Ka!