More hauliers tasked by DVSA to prove self-employed drivers used as subcontractors fall within the law. Every transport company I’ve worked for has employed casual labour. Whether it’s the unfamiliar guy stepping in to cover holidays, the farmer working weekends, the mechanic doing nightshifts, a fireman working their holidays, long-retired veterans doing extra shifts to cover spikes in work… the list of people that qualify as ‘casual labour’ is long.
As the big lumbering blue-chippers and their contract-based seventh-party-logistic operations flood every sector, it is the flexibility of smaller hauliers that allows them to be successful. A small-to-medium-sized-enterprise (SME) is quick to decide and act without asking too many questions; everyone gets paid and it’s onto the next challenge. Unfortunately it seems that this flexibility offers the small fry too much of an advantage that could potentially avoid tax commitments and run roughshod over employment rights. Not surprisingly the Road Haulage Association (RHA) is quick to show that it backs legality and legitimacy. It has already warned the industry that drivers being used as paid subcontractors can be, and in some cases are, classified as employees. News that Driver and Vehicle Standards Agency (DVSA) is stepping in to curtail the practise on behalf of Her Majesty’s Revenue and Customs (HMRC) is welcomed although only to a degree. You can’t help but feel the older kids have sent the wee ‘uns over to steal your dinner money knowing you can’t do anything about. Within the Operator’s License guidelines there is clear instruction regards subcontracting. HMRC makes it even clearer. ‘A genuinely self-employed person are in business for themselves, are responsible for the success or failure of their business and can make a loss or a profit; they can decide what work they do and when, where or how to do it and can hire someone else to do the work; they’re responsible for fixing any unsatisfactory work in their own time; their employer agrees a fixed price for their work - it doesn’t depend on how long the job takes to finish; they use their own money to buy business assets, cover running costs, and provide tools and equipment for their work; and they can work for more than one client.’ It is a long set of rules and most ‘self-employed’ drivers rarely fall within that remit. A test case by a plumber last year showed that companies can no longer hold all the cards without paying their dues; namely holiday, sick pay and overtime. A recent case highlighted by Commercial Motor regards Southampton-based Andy Transport. It was given 14 days to prove it is using self-employed drivers legally or face having its Operators Licence curtailed. The proviso delivered by West of England traffic commissioner (TC) Kevin Rooney came after an ‘audit found it was subcontracting work to self-employed drivers’ without making proper enquiries or knowing if it was legal to do so. Rooney essentially told Andy Transport to ‘prove it or lose it’. Drivers had set up their own companies and invoiced the haulier for work done. But who is liable for tax and national insurance contributions? If you set up as a limited company and register with HMRC for PAYE, NI contributions and value-added-tax (VAT) then the ‘subcontractor’ takes liability for all taxation and contributions. The problem is many casual drivers don’t bother then fail to declare taxable pay-as-you-earn money, and liability always works its way back up the food chain. There is also the question of context. If DVSA is doing the bidding for HMRC, just how much is her majesty’s government likely to claw back? In an industry that employs 300,000 drivers, conservative estimates put the ‘self-employed at approximately 20,000. It’s is likely most are not registered as a limited company so, if it’s a maximum of a 60 hour week at £10 (for the sake of argument) we are talking about £12million pounds earned. At a UK rate of 20% income tax we are talking about £2.4million. Granted it could affect other incomes acquired like child benefit, so there is a substantial knock-on effect. No hospital will close or politician expense claim be rebuffed because £2.4million (plus add-ons) of taxation has not been declared by the great unwashed. Yet, HMRC see it as the thin end of the wedge and told DVSA as much. It is DVSA’s job is to ensure hauliers operate on a level playing field making it difficult to argue against it chasing hauliers like Andy Transport albeit in a very heavy-handed way.
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Before social media became a trucker’s best surrogate-mate finding and maintaining a hobby on the road was difficult. Around five-thirty on a hot summers evening I wrestled the uncooperative Leyland Marathon through the gates and into the yard. The staff had departed en masse at five, and these were the days when nomadic wagon drivers were allowed to stop on site and act as unpaid security staff.
Already parked up was Doug (we’ll call him Doug even though his name was Lennie). He’d be the first on the loading bay when the warehouse opened up at seven. I backed in beside Doug’s glistening Foden and took my place in the queue. Having already spent two hours marooned on the A1 waiting for a mechanic to coax life back into Leyland’s bread and butter, I lingered before switching off the engine. I had more than 13 hours ahead of me before I’d get unloaded. What to do, what to do? Located within walking distance of the warehouse was the Ship Inn public house, a one-screen cinema and several chip shops. You could be fed, watered and entertained and still have enough change from a fiver for a decent haircut in the morning. Now in his 50s Doug had been a part of that generation who went from boarding houses to sleeper cabs. In years past he’d have trouped down to the pub, stumbled across to the chippy and been up bright and breezy to handball 20 tonnes of God’s knows what into the warehouse. Stories of the good old days still circulated and Doug often featured, usually as the whipping boy. The problem with adolescent banter is that continuous wind-ups and name-calling eventually leads to labelling. Being easy going and trusting Doug was prone to being led on. Most of the ridicule from his mates I am sure was good natured. The story about him offering the landlord of the Ship Inn a pound to buy the allegedly debt-ridden boozer remains a classic, especially as the landlord was in on it too and took the money. Over the course of time teasing by his departing mates was replaced by derision from newly-arrived drivers he didn’t really know and who considered him an idiot because they didn’t know better. Banter often ended with Doug using his time-honoured retort, “no, you are!”, but once the conversation moved on he cut a solitary, frustrated figure unable to join in knowing he’d be easily shouted down again. Doug couldn’t shake his tag. Word spread that he couldn’t get another job because his reputation usually went before him. He became an outcast without being completely shunned. Like a village idiot he was laughed at not with. Gradually he removed himself from ad hoc driver gatherings preferring his own company. Anyways, I still had 13 hours to kill. I didn’t fancy the pub or the musical on at the cinema. I contemplated fishcake and chips. After finishing my paperwork, I ventured across to see Doug. He sat impassively looking at his steering wheel. In fact it took a second knock on the door to get his attention. Startled, he looked down. This guy is a clown, I remember thinking, did he not see me approaching or even drive into the yard? He wound down the window. “Alright?” I ventured, looking up. “Aye, you?” he replied, looking down. Now what? I considered explaining that I was going to the chippy and would he be interested in coming along too. Or I could tell him about the ongoing driveline problems, how I’d spent two hours listening to a mechanic invent Anglo-Saxon verbs to portray his frustrations and how I feared more of the same tomorrow. Might he fancy a pint? What was he doing that was so absorbing, trying to remember his own name or where he was? “What you reading?” I asked after what seemed an eternity. Sheepishly, he took off his glasses and looked at the book cover. Doug’s description of Animal Farm did George Orwell few favours. He mumbled something about animals taking over a farm and then running it like…a farm, at least that what had happened so far. “My daughter said I should read it,” he said tentatively. It is unlikely Stephen Fry would invite experienced trucker Leonard ‘Doug’ Douglas to an Ultimate Evening Meal along with Oscar Wilde, Nelson Mandela and Mother Theresa for prawn cocktails, turkey with trimmings and sherry trifles topped off with builder’s tea while debating meritocracy, egalitarianism and football. However, Doug was one step ahead of me. I hadn’t heard of the book. I’d read books at school because I had to, and had some Tiger comics stowed away somewhere at my mums house. We’d reached an impasse and I wondered what to say next. “Chips?” was all I could say. “Sorry lad, no,” he replied, and then his face broke into a broad grin, “you’ll have to go to the chippy for those.” With that, I sauntered off to the chippy. I ate fishcake and chips, washed it down with a cup of tea, and then wandered back to the inept Marathon. I still had more than 12 hours to kill before the warehouse opened up. Doug had drawn the curtains signalling ‘do not disturb’. In silence I took in the red crumbling brickwork on the warehouse opposite, and concluded that I needed a hobby. Ignoring weight limits rank high on the general public’s list of gripes with itinerant wagon drivers but who is to blame? Lorry drivers are constantly monitored by social media and camera phones so any mistake or violation can be ruthlessly exploited, as one found out this week.
Make a mistake once, you’re forgiven, make it 40 times a day, you’re vilified and it merely rubberstamps any lingering doubts in the mind of anyone that truckers don’t give a monkeys. They are transient. Here today gone tomorrow devil may care. Yes, I’ve mixed metaphors and listed several obvious clichés. I am, I hope you notice, hammering home my point. The list of offenses that Joe Public can take offence to is endless; littering, tailgating, driving, parking, flashing, delivering, loading, weeing, talking, walking, breathing, smoking, eating… Once, backed onto a loading bay reachable only via the supermarkets car park, Mr and Mrs Elderly parked their Volvo estate across the front of my ERF and toddled off to do a bit of shopping. Despite several announcements over the public address system in the supermarket it took them more than an hour to return. Beyond angry, when I asked why it took them so long to return they ignored me, so when I asked again. This time Mr Elderly turned, slowly raised his walking stick, and said: “That’s for holding me up…on the A5!” This particular steering wheel attendant works for Buffaload Logistics and took his Scania and double-deck trailer over a 7.5tonne weight limit on Swarkestone Bridge in Derby. Grinning like a child celebrating his ninth birthday in the company of foster parents he was caught on camera by a passing motorist who sent the images to the Derby Telegraph. Clare Beaumont, national operations director for Buffaload Logistics and Facilities, told the local newspaper that the driver “will be dealt with accordingly". Flogging, stockade, dragged through the village by horses, dressed as a fox and set free in Herefordshire, written warning? The simpering simpleton may be considered unlucky in being singled out but problem is that by getting caught going over the 800-year-old grade-one-listed bridge is that the PR damage is done. In the company of friends moaning about the state of Britain’s roads any one of the dozens of motorists that were there at that moment will occasionally recall their story of how a goofy, law-breaking lorry driver who appeared in the paper cost them 15 minutes (exaggerated or otherwise) because he sought a shortcut. While the feckless Road Haulage Association pursues its National Lorry Week to parley the message that “we know that the haulage industry if the life-blood of the country, and we want to make sure the rest of the country knows it too!” it takes one lorry driver making a shortcut to render that work surplus to requirements. The damage is done. The blame doesn’t just rest with the operator or the driver, it also rests with Derbyshire County Council (DCC) for letting it happen. Happy to spend money on flashing lights telling motorists of the weight limit on Swarkestone Bridge, DCC told the newspaper that some 40 vehicles break the restriction every day. A sticking blaster to cover gangrene? Like any council charged with ensuring its network of roads remain problem free, it goes down the budgie route (cheep-cheep) even though it raised its Council Tax by 3.99% for 2017/18 (according to its own leaflet. Happy to let you know it spends £23million looking after 3,500 miles of road and pavements to prevent potholes, it recently reported that it is to spend another £6million on, er, repairing its roads (source Matlock Mercury). Perhaps DCC might want to put a few quid aside for a video surveillance system on Swarkestone Bridge, at 40 a day it could pay off handsomely and clear a few narrowing arteries within its 3,500-mile network of asphalt. Would a camera system taking registration numbers and face of the driver then sending fines through the post to miscreants been too expensive to deploy? Probably not. But while Derbyshire’s road traffic police are too busy chasing BMWs up and down the M1 to have time to police a weight restriction, the emphasis lies with another ineffective body in the shape of DCC. Secret Trucker asks whether putting dangerous drivers in prison for life will make people think twice before picking up the mobile phone when driving. On the 31st January 1983 wearing a seatbelt in a vehicle became law. Warning about the dangers of not using a seat belt began in 1971 with ‘clunk-click every trip’ and ended in 2003 with the ‘Julie knew her killer’ public information film about the importance of wearing a seatbelt in the rear of a car, which was passed into law in 1991. Today only an idiot would drive without wearing a seatbelt.
By contrast, there has been no public information film about using your mobile phone while driving. The nearest is a 2002 called ‘pay attention or pay the price’. It focused on a teenager too busy texting his girlfriend and not paying attention to traffic when he crosses the road. Instead of educating the British public of the perils of driving and using a mobile phone, Government plans to bring any death caused by dangerous or careless driving involving use of a mobile phone in line with manslaughter, which carries a life sentence. It is welcomed. Since the 1980s, the use of a mobile phone while driving has gone unchecked except for one enforceable piece of legislation passed on December 1, 2003 banning the practice. Only news stories reporting deaths caused by drivers using mobile phones and campaigns led by the charity Brake and the Department for Transport’s Think have tried to highlight the problem. Now two recent incidents have brought the matter into sharp focus. Tracey Houghton, her two sons Ethan and Josh, and stepdaughter Aimee Goldsmith were killed when lorry driver Tomasz Kroker ploughed into their stationary car. Footage showed him using his mobile phone prior to the collision scrolling through his music. Kroker was jailed for 10 years. On 1 December 2015, another lorry driver Keith Mees used his mobile phone to access Facebook prior to driving into the back of a car containing Marian Olteanu and Ion Calin, killing them instantly. He was jailed for six years. It is easier to tell you that we are all guilty of using the mobile phone while driving, than deny any wrongdoing. My experience of the mobile phone goes back to the late 1980s. After spending several years ‘driving’, by that I mean trying to coax a part laden flatbed trailer dragged by a Leyland Buffalo with a 210hp and eight-speed Fuller gearbox from A-to-B. If I wasn’t changing gear, reading the road ahead or trying to establish exactly what was on the other side of the fogged up windows I was usually trying to work out how much driving time I had left. My first truck with a radio came when I started to double-man to Europe on groupage. The Scania R114 also came with a mobile phone – a Motorola 4500X – provided by the owner so we could be ‘reached’. My co-driver took command of the ship. While talking on the phone-brick he was able to forsake his surroundings, take his foot off the accelerator and drift across the lanes of the motorway. As his co-driver, and chief map-reader, I rarely got permission to use the new contraption. Besides, part of me didn’t want to, it felt...unnatural. His pièce de résistance was a two-parter. First he would fish his baccy tin out of his jacket pocket and roll a cigarette while driving with elbows wedged into the steering wheel. He’d follow this up with his standard gag (I fell for it twice) where he closed his left eye, leaned slightly to one side and drifted the truck onto the hard shoulder. When I yelled for God to save me, he’d turn his head with his right eye open and ask if anything was wrong. Yes, the winter nights in the layby’s and truckstops across northern Europe flew by. Since then the level of distraction has only increased. A mobile phone will contain apps, internet connections, maps, pictures and a camera – to name a few. It can even control devices in your own home even though you are parked up in a layby 200 miles away. Today penalties start from three points and £100 fine to a maximum of 14 years. It seems remarkable that it’s only now Government feels compelled to act. I know a public information film isn’t going to solve the problem but that no effort has been made since the 1980s to educate a generation of drivers is just as irresponsible. Motorists experiencing ‘road rage’ need to stay calm and let the camera do the work. Not a day goes by when some sort of road rage incident occurs. My most recent was a BMW driver who undertook my heavy goods vehicle on a roundabout then cut across to get off at the same exit. The driver made it 100 yards before grinding to halt at traffic lights. Clearly expecting me to roll the window down and delivery a loud expletive or three he got his insults in first. “Merchant banker” and “Jeremy Hunt”, he yelled from the safety of his bucket seat. Most likely something similar will happen today and again tomorrow. ‘Road rage’ was first coined in the late 1980s by journalists working for a Californian television station to sum up several shootings on its highways. Today the term is universal and included in the Oxford Dictionary, defined as a ‘sudden violent anger provoked in a motorist by the actions of another driver’. In my case I took the outside lane to make for the third exit on a roundabout, as clearly indicated by the road markings, the signposts and my sat-nav. It turns out this harmless manoeuvre was worthy of vein-popping anger. During my time as a truck driver I’ve had a woman threatened to kill me if I didn’t move out of the way, one tattooed hero waving a hammer out of a van window at me and one lad so angry that he promised to conduct a dirty-protest in my house once he’d found it as punishment for easing out in front of his car in a queue. That said I’m no angel, I’ve been known to utter casual threats from the comfort of my seat, and once even wound the window down to wave my arm about like a lunatic. The line is drawn at actually getting out. That’s because of what happened during Britain’s most notorious road rage incident in 1996, when Kenneth Noye murdered Stephen Cameron on an M25 slip road in Kent. It sent shivers down my spine and made me realise that once things escalate anything is possible. The only real statistics on road rage that I could find was conducted by pollsters Gallup back in 2003. Nine in 10 UK drivers said they had been road rage victims at least once, 20% said they’d experienced it more than 10 times with more than 70% admitting to committing the offence themselves. At the time Britain was the leading country in the world for road rage, with 80.4% of UK drivers being victims of it. Three in in five said they felt ‘fine’ about it, adding that victims ‘deserved it’; with just 14% showing any remorse suggesting their bad mood had affected their actions. Road rage is likely to happen in the afternoon and evening and is more likely to occur in a town. Gesticulating is commonplace, one in seven cases said the aggressor got out of the car and physically or verbally abused them. White van man was mentioned a lot. My advice is fit a camera. The truck I drive is fitted with four, its company policy. A camera negates many spurious insurance claims with has the added bonus of filming any numpty losing their rag, every wee against a tyre, bouncing off a curb or reversing onto a loading bay. If someone makes a mistake I might utter ‘YouTube’ but that’s it. So it’s no surprise that anyone who leaps from their vehicle to ‘have a go’ ends up in the Daily Mail or, heaven forbid, on its website. In December 2014 it achieved 199.4 million unique monthly visitors. Thankfully not all of them will have watched a driver for Clitheroe-based T&J Haulage leap from his wagon to confront a van driver on the M6 Toll road in February 2016. Relative footage is used in court, for cheap news stories and becomes part of a road safety Driver CPC module seen by other driver forever. So, if you make a mistake, and yes, professional drivers do make the odd mistake, apologise, show contrition; if a driver does something stupid that causes you to take action, draw a deep breath and count to 10 with an expletive between each number; or if another driver takes the law into their own hands, lock the doors, wind the windows up and let the camera do the work. Video footage will provide better evidence in court than you ever will. It is better to get home in one piece than risk the alternative. Should hauliers join the compensation culture if their business is financially hit by the actions of others on Britain’s roads? Tuesday morning. Traffic is moving smoothly up the M6 from Birmingham. Ken Bruce, God bless him, is setting about Popmaster. It has started to rain. After passing J15 the overhead Matrix sign starts to flash, first to indicate 50mph speed limit, then to explain that ‘queuing traffic’ exists past the next junction. My heart sinks. I contemplate a 15 minute break at Keele services for a wee and a coffee.
Traffic has slowed to a snail’s pace. For reasons I choose not to remember I don’t go in. It takes 45 minutes to reach J16 and another 30 minutes to make J17. Everything starts rolling again until J18. By the time Lymm Services home into view more than three hours have past. I need a wee so badly... The 14.00 booking time at Trafford Park to tip has been reached and breached. I call it in and explain that if I am forced to park up on site there is a danger I’ll run out of working time. The tip is rescheduled for Wednesday morning at 7.45am. Thursday morning. Traffic is moving smoothly up the M1 from Luton. Chris Evans, God bless him, is discussing whether quality toilet paper is more versatile than budget. It has started to rain. At Milton Keynes traffic is stationary. Matrix offers an array of misinformation from speed limits to the precise location as to where the queue is (it starts after the next junction) even though I am sat in one. Despite switching lanes a few times there is little progress. An Eddie Stobart driver grins as he undertakes me at 9mph (give or take). Two hours are lost. I pull the curtains back on the trailer in Brighouse at 4pm to tip but dilly-dallying with the paperwork compounds the situation and I won’t make Doncaster, the site closes at 5pm, so I overnight on a trading estate off the A1(M) and collect at 7am. First things first. It’s not every week I lose six hours driving time due to road traffic collisions (RTCs). Usually time is lost on site via ‘Period of Availability (POA). So adding both TRCs and POAs together I’ve lost and waited more than 12 hours. Most days there is some sport of congestion, whether it’s the morning or afternoon rush hour, or a slow-moving load or simply too much traffic. Generally routes are planned with wiggle room. But that week in particular two loads were lost. From Tuesday morning things snowballed. By Friday my wagon has missed out on two loads, which is about £750. I cannot tell you what caused either RTC or whether there were any casualties, and if there were I send my condolences. Usually these situations result in Driver and Vehicle Standards Agency (DVSA) officers coning off lanes or closing down the motorway, emergency services, post RTC investigation, followed by the clean-up. Somewhere down the line insurance companies haggle over whether Geoff, hurtling along in heavy but fast moving traffic and sat up the arse of a BMW in the third lane, was too blame for failing to stop when the red lights come on. Within seconds his BMW is joined bumper-to-bumper with the other BMW spreading debris across three lanes. Traffic stops. Emergency services arrive. One lane is reopened, rubberneckers crawl by, vital driving hours are lost. Hauliers are delayed through no fault of their own, so why can’t hauliers also claim for loss of earnings as well? How might this be done? What about this; police file the RTC using date, time, location, and give it a specific number, say RTC1234, and file it on an insurance database. Passing lorry drivers note date, time and location of the RTC. The traffic office takes into account the loss of earnings and applies to be compensated accordingly based on a typical week. Insurance companies tap into RTC1234 and note that there are additional claims on RTC1234 from 27 hauliers who have missed out on work because Geoff was driving too close to the car in front. Amalgamated Shifters of Goods plc, better known as Amshgo, is down £318 (plus VAT) at the end of the working week. Amshgo files planned delivery and collection sheets backed up with confirmation from its customer, and the trucks movement captured by its on board camera is verified and stamped by Road Haulage Association, who in their wisdom actually back an idea that benefits hauliers, and phone calls by the lorry driver informing the office of the predicament. The insurance company award Amshgo the princely sum of £318 plus costs associated with filing a claim. If a country is going to endorse the blame-claim culture why should hard working businesses miss out? All too often the motorway exit makes for hasty decision making, but given the chance would you bring an errant driver to task when an opportunity presents itself? By late afternoon the impromptu barbeque began to wind down. The sun was on the verge of disappearing behind the houses opposite. Soon the garden would be plunged into shade, dropping the temperature significantly. An unfortunate side-effect to barbeques held in April...
Most of the food had been either eaten or neglected. An Alsatian hoovered up discarded sausages. The music sounded louder. Drink flowed. Responsible parents with toddlers and pre-teens took flight. Feckless parents formed a hurried circle in the last of the sunlight clutching drinks content to let their little darlings roam wild through the house and garden. With alcohol lowering inhibitions Alison set about a story where she was very nearly killed by a ‘juggernaut’. Going into great detail she explained just how close the back end of her car was to the front of the truck and how the unseen ‘f****** t***’ blew the horn. This made her panic and she almost swerved off the road before she did swerve off the road and onto the slip road, successfully leaving the traffic remaining on the motorway and her car intact. She had enough about her to give the lorry driver a few hand signals before heading on her merry way home. In the umpteen years she’d driven the 50 mile roundtrip she has never deviated from the same route; car park, trading estate, town centre, ring road, motorway, A-road, B-road, cul-de-sac, driveway. “Sometimes it’s f****** impossible to even get to the slip road,” she said citing the number of rolling barriers (lorries) between her car and the exit. Several agreed with nods and words. That light-headed feel of drinking on an afternoon can lead to mild embarrassment. A few choice comments about a sacred cow or two, causal flirting, falling over, weeing in a hedge, breaking a glass, farting, spilling drink over people you don’t really know... As her tale of woe neared its end I could feel myself boiling up. It took no effort to read between the lines. Sat in the middle lane of the motorway passing slower traffic in the first lane until a gap appears allowing a successful exit onto the slip road. This time she passed a truck, swung across, slowed as to not drive up the back of the vehicle in front, and then swung off onto the slip road. Her need to get home creates a daily gauntlet that she has to tackle to and from work. It cannot be good for her health. Closing my eyes and listening to the conversation move on with more laughter and merriment, I imagined being in the shoes of the truck driver. Flat out at 55mph, clock ticking, traffic flashing by, a hatchback creeping up and indicating to squeeze into a gap not much bigger than the car, nothing you can do to stop it, dapping the brakes to adjust her speed, forcing the truck driver to respond accordingly, exasperated enough to hurl insults and use the horn, frustrated at the lack of care and attention of fellow motorists... I was ready to take issue with her, her frivolous attitude, her ignorance, and her unbending view that she was the victim. She, or me as I’d had a couple and might just have overstepped the boundary, was saved by Mrs Secret Trucker who gently placed her hand on my arm, and disarmed with the knowing smile. The person in question is the sister of my wife’s best friend. She crops up from time to time and is friendly, and blissfully unaware of the potential carnage she could create. At every slip road I approach there is a good chance a car will carve me up to get across to the slip road. I’ve had more close saves than Wallace or Gromit. As a professional truck driver is it my duty to tell her that her actions were reckless? As if reading my mind, Mrs Secret Trucker suggested we round up the children and head home. Incident avoided. Twice. If you’re toying with the idea of switching from a driver to becoming an owner-driver you’ll need patience, an ability to recognise tripe when you hear it and an understanding of the word ‘regret’. Before Christmas a friend passed away. He’d struggled with health issues for a while and after being diagnosed with cancer it was pneumonia that dealt the final blow. ‘Buster’ (his real name was Clive) made that jump from driver to boss but it had been a long time since he’d checked tachograph discs with a magnifying glass and hung them on a nail hammered into chipboard.
He spent the latter part of his working life doing menial jobs and volunteering. Plenty of friends and former colleagues attended his funeral. During the vicar’s sermon one word popped up more than any other; regret. Regret: verb; feel sad, repentant, or disappointed over (something that one has done or failed to do). Afterwards many retired to the Working Men’s Club to catch up with long-lost friends, remember the dear departed and devour the cheese sandwiches. It was true, Buster had no regrets. He wasn’t a despondent character, or quick to offend and then apologise. He was measured. After leaving the newly introduced comprehensive school Buster joined the Army while a lad known to all as Barry (that’s because his name is Barry), trooped down to the local factory and joined the production line, just like his father and brother. Buster got a taste for life; he saw the world; Wiltshire, Canada, Cyprus and Northern Ireland twice before leaving the Army clutching his HGV license and qualified mechanic certificate to become a Merchant seaman. After two years at sea where he saw different parts of the world; Israel several times, Helsinki, Oban and Lagos, he joined a local tipper company. Barry’s glass was half empty. After revelling in the glory of being the first at school to have a proper girlfriend he became a father at 17, married at 18, world-weary at 19, divorced at 48. He left the production line to become a hod-carrier, a milkman, dig trenches for irrigation on golf courses and, finally, sign on. He spent 18 months on the dole before taking his HGV test and starting out with a nationwide parcel firm before getting a job with a local tipper company. Back in the day when driving trucks was fun Buster and Barry, like all self-respecting middle-aged balding lorry drivers, spent their time at a smoke-filled dilapidated red-brick roadside café that churned out fried breakfasts to itinerants of all trades. The café embraced the hungry, indifferent and ruthless in equal measure. Drinking tea and smoking Embassy No6s they talked turkey. After a while Buster started to talk about starting up on his own. He knew a man who knew a man who had a truck he was willing to sell for the right money. He fancied it and used Barry as a sounding board for the reasons why he shouldn’t. Barry took home a wage and spent his evenings sat in front of the fire watching one of three television channels. Barry asked: “Why would you want the hassle? Where would you get the work from?” Buster didn’t have the answers but they would go their separate ways as friends. Buster acquired an eight-year-old Leyland Beaver six-wheeler and worked himself to the bone. He got the fleet up to three before the Winter of Discontent (1978-79) brought everything to an end. His trucks stood idle for months. Several customers disappeared. He was owed cash. Facing a £250 demand from Inland Revenue that he was unable to pay, Buster was declared bankrupt in 1982, his transport empire at an end. It had a profound effect on him. After years of living to work he spent the rest of his life working to live. Jobs came and went, he remained cheerful and involved. His new priority was family followed by bowls, rugby, cricket, and holidays on the Scottish islands. Work was rarely mentioned. Barry travelled more than 50 miles to attend the funeral of a former colleague he’d not seen in 40 years. He poured his heart out recalling the past. A retired postman his only wish in life was to have been more willing to give something a go. “Regret,” he said, “I only wish I’d done half the things Buster had done.” There is still time. |
AuthorAging proletariat with face, teeth and body to prove it. Archives
August 2021
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