After a footballer was given a non-custodial sentence for drink driving it raised questions at a truckstop in the north-west as light sentencing seems to favour the rich. Like all self-respecting lorry drivers who lunch, there are times when you have to listen to others deliver judgement and then defend their position on a particular subject like, oh, I don’t know, drink driving.
In this case it was all about leniency. The location was Lymm truckstop. As heat oozed from the urine-soaked tarmac, drivers with any sense of smell sought a cooler environment at The Fifth Wheel bar and grill for refreshing drink. A refreshing non-alcoholic drink that is, after all, we all have to drive in the morning. Sat on the stool flipping through a discarded Daily Mail, I listened to a group discuss religion, sex and the best pub in the north-east before moving onto Darron Gibson. Now, I am relying on you knowing a bit more about football than I do but he appears to be one of those highly-pampered individuals earning more in a week what we might struggle to recoup in a year driving a lorry. Anyway, ‘Gibbo’ (I am guessing that is his nickname based on footballer’s uncanny ability to create innovative nicknames out of thin air) had received a two-year community order after being caught three times over the legal limit when he smashed into parked cars over a considerable distance – miles that is not yards. Mitigating factors included admitting the charge of drink-driving and psychological issues. The gang opposite me thought this to be criminal. I cannot repeat the exact phrases used but rest assured, none were polite. If Gibbo’d been a scaffolder or a plumber or, heaven forfend, a lorry driver he’d have been jailed. No doubt. Especially as in 2015 he had also been convicted of drink driving and hit three cyclists who weren’t even on the road. Getting caught drink driving once might be unfortunate, twice appears to be careless. “No question,” said one, “he’d be banged up for two years, easy.” I don’t know enough about the situation to say whether Gibbo’s sentence is justified or not. What I do know is that a former colleague drove to work for a 4.00am start and was nabbed speeding through a village. Two road traffic police officers heading back to base for a cup of tea after a busy night on the local motorway network managing a collision, stopped him and smelt alcohol. He was widely considered to be unlucky by those he worked with. That said he was twice over the limit. His defence was that he struggled to sleep and used alcohol and occasionally sleeping tablets to help him drift into unconsciousness. Summing up the Judge said using alcohol to get to sleep was not a solution to his problem. He spent six months inside, lost his license for two years, had to retake his HGV license and would have to declare the offense and stay at Her Majesty’s No Star Hotel to any future employer. It was a bed of his own making. Unlike Gibbo my former colleague, alright, let’s call him Larry, didn’t nail any vehicles nor did he injury anyone, and it was his first offence. He drank consistently enough not to suffer from hangovers, his liver was barely functioning as much of the alcohol he consumed was not processed. He lived a chaotic life with his second-wife, her daughter and her three kids. All crammed into a three-bedroom semi-detached house. He was averaging four hours of sleep a night. Not nearly enough. He lost his job, his marriage fell apart, and he has lost his reputation as a reliable lorry driver, which he was. Unable to secure legal aid he ended up with a barrister barely worthy of the title, let alone a budding Rumpole of the Bailey vowing never to plead guilty. Larry confessed his sins and was dealt with dispassionately by the strong arm of the law while Gibbo was given the benefit of the doubt. That is how life goes, although listening to the lorry drivers opposite it was clear they felt money bought influence, persuasion and leniency. There was no such compassion afforded to Larry. No union to back him up, no colleague asked to reference his good character, and no support network to ensure he was given the best chance to deal with his situation once the dust settled. After being released he relied on himself to get things sort. Today Larry drives a tipper for a fly-tip-by-night operator who we’d all avoid. But Larry’s options are limited. Dare I say Gibbo’s might be too when he seeks future employment.
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The real issue damaging the road haulage industry is not the lack of lorry drivers, it’s the lack of decent employers. It’s a windswept Tuesday night in rural Britain. In a small village off the beaten track a dimly-lit public house is playing host to several middle-aged people preparing for a District League darts match.
The first team, Donald’s Ducks, are away this week so it’s the turn of the second team, Those Flamin’ Arrows, to play host to the Crown Inn Volunteers. From this match more than £300 will be taken from drinks. A welcome income for a pub that considers a pickled egg in a packet of crisps an acceptable bar snack. A regular at the Railway Hotel, Geoff steps to the oche and prepares to throw. Stood as a southpaw his darts pepper the upper part of the dartboard. “Twenty-six,” announces the scorer. A rueful tut emanates from Geoff as he collects his arrows then makes way for his first opponent of the evening, Janice, vice-captain of the Volunteers. A couple of years ago Geoff would have spent a windswept Tuesday night in a layby off the A1. For more than 30 years he spent the majority of week nights roadside rather than a truckstop. When he started tramping his first employer didn’t pay for such luxuries. Once he gave us the potted history of a layby on the A6 he’d used on and off for 20 years; how the hedgerow had changed, what was farmed in the field next to it, the rise of discarded piss-filled plastic bottles, who ran the burger vans... Old habits die hard. In three decades he drove for four different companies, the last being a blue-chip company often held up in the trade and national press for comment and as a benchmark for other aspiring hauliers. Late one Wednesday after a terrible day inching around Britain’s creaking road network he missed a collection time at a drinks company in Derbyshire. It meant reorganising the rota, a lad barely out of nappies working in the transport office explained to Geoff using industrial language. Then 15 minutes later the transport manager phoned to do the same thing, asking where he’d been all day. Geoff couldn’t believe it. On his return he handed in his notice, worked out the following week and walked away. He’d put up with torrid working conditions, meagre pay and society treating him indifferently. Being treated so poorly by his own employers, the very same people he’d defend when other drivers voiced their frustration, was a step too far (see Like Father Dislike Son). Geoff turned down offers from driver agencies and got a job at a primary school as a caretaker moving chairs and tables around. His veins are filled with diesel, as are those of at least a dozen people I know who no longer drive trucks and do other things. Like Geoff, they’d have usually spent their nights parked up off the A1 on a windswept Tuesday night. At the beginning of 2018 the Freight Transport Association suggested there were 52,000 lorry driver vacancies. It fuelled headlines from the national press bemoaning the skills shortage and how it might be made up. Today hauliers rely on talent from overseas but Brexit will make that difficult in the future. Attention has switched to the youth of today to forego ambitions of brief stardom to drive some wagon five days a week and efforts to retrain the long-term unemployed. Speak to Geoff and he’ll argue that the driver shortage is a red herring, something transport companies and mouth-piece organisations can cite to pinpoint the plight of employers who don’t understand why experienced people no longer want to work for peanuts, spend a week in squalor and be thankful for it. The real issue is a lack of good employers. Potbellied bosses roll up in high-performance Chelsea tractors, micro-manage the transport operation and bemoan any excesses that damage the bottom line. These same people want more for less citing ‘old school’ values to justify their actions. Decent wages and working conditions, protection from fatigue and stress, and treated with respect. Is that too much to ask? Speak to lorry drivers and it appears that it is. Geoff’s darts career isn’t going to trouble Phil Taylor’s record trophy haul or earn him enough to retire early. Janice beat him two-nil, checking out with a tidy double 19. He bought her a drink, the unspoken ‘loser buys’ rule after a match, and settled down to cheer on his teammates. For the record, Geoff won his second match two-one. The public house provides Geoff with a social life he’d never had before when driving five-days a week. He misses driving trucks but not working for those that own them. A solitary visit to Truckfest in the 1990s was all I needed to know; you should not mix work with pleasure. Let me be clear. This, an account of my only visit to Truckfest, is not a cheap shot to belittle those who do go to truck shows. For someone of us diesel runs thicker in our veins. There is a genuine interest and I admire that. If I didn’t spend all week cooped up in the world’s smallest two-bedroom flat then I would consider a visit to Truckfest to pass the time during a Bank Holiday, as I live and breathe road haulage. However, I do, so I won’t. My solitary Truckfest at Peterborough was down to the fact Big Dave and Fat Mike were already going. “It’ll be a laugh…” was the sales pitch. Our benevolent boss stumped up some money for food and drink. All we had to do was polish the truck within a fag paper of the primer. Truckfest was hectic, organised chaos if you will. Trucks mixed freely with testosterone. The sun made an appearance as we parked up in formation next to some ERFs from Axminster Carpets. Their drivers worked diligently with an array of wipes, cloths and cleaning products so you could shave using the reflection from the red wheel rims. A cloudless sky brought out the tattoos. People roamed aimlessly with beers enjoying the sense of temporary freedom like convicts on day release. They pointed at things they thought was funny, traded banter and yarns about solving mechanical problems using bungy cords and spoons or explaining ‘common sense’ to management. Several sources of loud music provided a backdrop. In the morning we found debris in front of our trucks. Before breakfast the Axminster Carpets’ Truck Cleaners were adding another layer of polish to the bodywork with an array of wipes, cloths and cleaning products. We watched a few lads wander past sipping warm cans of beer. Fat Mike looked at his watch. It wasn’t yet eight. Meanwhile the Axminster Carpets’ Truck Cleaners were working underneath their trucks in formation to get a sparkle from the propshafts with an array of wipes, cloths and cleaning products. On Sunday the sun continued to cook everything it touched. People with freshly acquired red skin inched past with push chairs, dogs, and drinks. The heat forced several to stop and rehydrate with cider before moving another 50 yards. Someone took a picture of Big Dave’s truck. In the afternoon we did a lap of the show nursing our own beers. On a stand with several Swedish trucks a very drunk bloke explained that all their trucks were shite. When we got back to our patch the Axminster Carpets’ Truck Cleaners were now using ladders to get a gleam from the bodywork with an array of wipes, cloths and cleaning products. At some point I woke up to discover that I was still at the show. Early evening brought relief from the heat. A fight broke out in front of us. Most of the Axminster Carpets’ Truck Cleaners were now in their cabs polishing dashboards with an array of wipes, cloths and cleaning products. Some lads minding trucks opposite decided they’d kept their power dry long enough and fired up a portable music centre. Def Leppard now drowned out all other music, conversation and rational thought. Some of the Axminster Carpets’ Truck Cleaners were back underneath buffing up front axles with an array of wipes, cloths and cleaning products. Big Dave came back from the toilets shaking his head. Fat Mike wandered over to the toilet block and he also came back looking mildly horrified. Worried, I went over too. I still cannot bring myself to say what I saw. We never talk about it. To our surprise Axminster Carpets’ Truck Cleaners were drinking beer and polishing the cans between sips. After midnight several lads came over to the Def Leppard Appreciation Society to discuss music, its cultural influence and how loud it should be played when others were trying to get some sleep. We watched through the curtains. Words turned to pointing, then pushing was replaced by arm swinging. Alcohol mixed with sunburn proved disorientating enough to stop any real damage being dished out. Someone fell on the music centre ending Def Leppard’s assault on the ears. I don’t recall much of Bank Holiday Monday apart from the fact it rained. This dampened spirits enough to stop any more tomfoolery. Even the Axminster Carpets’ Truck Cleaners put away their array of wipes, cloths and cleaning products. By Monday night I was parked up in Avonmouth. Essential Transport News that singles out cabbage from the cabotage BREAKING NEWS: Transport Association deletes Tinder account LEAD STORY Man buys truck A haulier specialising in collecting and delivering freight has bought a lorry to collect and deliver freight. Dai Laiter, the boss of the eponymously named haulage company, said the decision to buy a lorry to collect and deliver freight for is vital for the company. ‘Buying a lorry to collect and deliver freight is vital for the company,’ he said, ‘because we’ll be able to use the lorry to collect and deliver freight.’ Man buys truck A haulier specialising in collecting and delivering freight has bought a lorry to collect and deliver freight. Willy de Liver, the boss of the eponymously named haulage company, said the decision to buy a lorry to collect and deliver freight for is vital for the company. ‘Buying a lorry to collect and deliver freight is vital for the company,’ he said, ‘because we’ll be able to use the lorry to collect and deliver freight.’
Twitter: Truck Cartel Hots Up Hauliers looking to gain something for nothing have expressed their frustration at having to wait to be handsomely rewarded for doing nothing. The Road Haulage Association’s class action against all the truck manufacturers over price fixing is beginning to drag out. In a fiery display of impatience held on Twitter several posted complaints about the delayed cartel pay-day without receiving a retweet or a like and just a handful of impressions. NEWS IN BRIEF
SPECIAL TRANSPORT FEATURE REPORT Minimum Delivery Rates Criticised By Rob Berry Couriers have complained to the Road Transport Ombudsman that Amazon’s decision to impose a mandatory delivery fee for non-Amazon online vendors is killing the small parcel delivery industry. Speaking exclusively to Today's Cargo Newsflash, Matt (not his real name, which is Matthew) drove an unmarked van for years. Now he must find alternative employment. ‘I operated quite happily without insurance, road tax (although its officially classed as an excise duty) or MoT collecting parcels and delivering some of them to homes and businesses,’ he explained. But all that has changed. Amazon’s own goods can be delivered free-of-charge while non-Amazon customers using the online retailers’ website must pay a mandatory flat-rate charge of £2.80 for delivery. It’s forcing these books and bric-a-brac sellers to go to the black market. ‘If Amazon do it for nothing, why should others have to pay?’ he asked. ‘There are people willing to work for nothing but Amazon is hell bent on forcing them out of the industry with these very steep rates no one wants to pay. That is tremendously difficult to compete with,’ he added. Today's Cargo Newsflash asked Amazon to comment on these claims but we were placed in a phone queue for several minutes before the line went dead. When lorry drivers dump their rubbish on the ground rather than walk five yards to a bin or urinate alfresco when toilets are provided it makes the argument for providing five-star facilities even more difficult. The last 20 miles were touch and go. Things ebbed and flowed feverishly. There was a lot riding on it. Would I make it before the solids hit the fan? I am not watching helplessly as my nine-hour driving time spills into an invaluable 10, or going over my 13-hour daily shift by minutes and wasting a 15. Oh, no, it’s far more important than that. I need the toilet.
My nausea has progressed to stomach cramps and a few bowel movements that threaten to touch cloth. The toilet at the next truckstop is now my sole interest in life. Realms of fantasy suggest a clean convenience sculptured from marble with an ebony seat and the smell of lavender, while orchestral music soothes my aching body as it dispels the unwanted remains of Corden Blue. Now my mind concentrates on my intended destination and under the circumstances I'll settle for anything. My body fights for control of various passage ways. Time ticks slowly. My entry into the truckstop is crude. I bounce over potholes and kick up dust. The nearest space will do. I drive the truck in face first and stop millimetres from the fence before turning off the engine and hitting the buttons with clenched fists to break. The paperwork can wait, I’ve other paperwork to attend to. With what can only be described as a hop, skip and a limp I make my way to the toilet block. Its mid-afternoon and relatively quiet. Even so people mill around the sinks stripped to the waist washing and/or shaving or brushing what’s left of their teeth. My arrival is ignored. I take the first available cubical. As an aging proletariat I’ve seen my fair share of hovels (I’ve been to France) and open sewers passed off as ‘Public Toilets’ (and Spain) but I’m not quite prepared for this. A dirty protest best describes the scene. I gag and quickly back out to try the next available one. Air escapes. This one’s cleaner but that’s only because it lacks a toilet seat. My bowel reminds me that I need to do something soon or it’ll do it for me. The third cubical is warm. Water is still running from the cistern even though the flush has ended. The pan looks like a negative of a landscape. I cannot wait. Despair is replaced by unadulterated joy. A just-in-time delivery that DHL would struggle to match. As I regain my senses a few subtle discrepancies emerge from the fog like stationary traffic. The seat is wetter than the floor. There is no toilet roll dispenser. Or lock on the door. The sidewall has a hole in it. Graffiti doesn’t quite do the writing and pictures on the walls justice, ‘classified section’ would be a better term. I feel sick. I’ve been to this ‘reputable’ truckstop before. Every time I go past the site is busy. Parking is the best part of £20 with a meal voucher thrown in. It’s cheaper than the Motorway Service Areas and probably safer. It is also systematic of the standards lorry drivers put up with. Poorly maintained facilities entrenched in dirt impervious to any disinfectant applied. Inadequate showers on timers or tokens that sprays cold water. Sinks you’d dare others to wash socks in. And all with an open-door policy. But what is the alternative? Laybys are slowly disappearing. Local councils remove them citing safety and litter. Trucks now park in even more inappropriate places. It wouldn’t be so bad if drivers just used laybys in the same way dogs mark out their territory. Instead it’s a haven for rubbish and human waste in plastic bags. You’d be hard pushed to disagree with any council clamping down on that. Often lorry drivers bring it on themselves. Even here with facilities less than 50 yards from the parking area some don’t even bother – perhaps they know what to expect. They urinate against tyres, dump rubbish out the window and spit into the wind then walk over to pay for parking and spend their meal vouchers. I think it’s a question of cooperation and re-education. Potty training for the masses if you will. It requires decent facilities so drivers have some degree of confidence that a trip to the bog will not endanger their health. There needs to be more facilities across the UK. No longer can councils merely ignore the issue, they need to be part of the solution and provide decent roadside facilities – they might even profit from such ventures. Doing nothing is not an option. My ‘indigestion’ passed but a fitful night among the fridge units highlighted another little detail I’d overlooked on arrival. In the morning I headed south substantially lighter both financially and physically. |
AuthorAging proletariat with face, teeth and body to prove it. Archives
August 2021
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