Can’t get to grips with driver’s hours? Incapable of reversing? Struggling in the fuel economy league? Wife threatening divorce? This week, Her Royal Highness Anne, Princess Royal, second child and only daughter of Queen Elizabeth II and Prince Philip, Duke of Edinburgh, and currently 12th in line to the throne, answers your questions. Dear Your Royal Highness, even though ropes are no longer considered a suitable restraint for loads on the back of a flatbed lorry rope is considered suitable when tying down a top sheet. Ma’am, having just joined the industry, could you please tell me how to do a dolly?
Tom, Richmond, North Yorkshire One has spent much of one’s time transporting thoroughbreds between stables, Gymkhanas and dressage events. The only time one required a ‘knot’ of this type is to keep dry feed attached to one’s roof. There was that time the knot was necessary to stop one’s older brother from terrorising one’s deer with daddy’s double-barrel 12 bore so one tied him to the front of a Land Rover and threatened to careen into a wall. These days, one’s truck has stowage built into the body that keeps one’s hay and oats dry. Jolly good! So Tomithy, start by making two rabbit ears. Wrap the lead rope of the second rabbit ear around the base of the first rabbit ear creating a noose that binds both rabbit ears. Let’s call the rabbit Geoffrey. Twist Geoffrey’s second ear once and then feed the remainder of the rope through the loop to create a third ear. Haw-haw, three ears. Geoffrey would look strange! Hook that third ear over the peg on the body of the vehicle. Pull the rope tight then tie it off. To increase tension in the rope one can, if one leaves enough space, add a second dolly. Dear Your Royal Highness, despite my transport manager screaming at me until he is blue in the face I do not understand how to split a regular daily rest, please help me, Ma’am? Garry, Luton, Lutonshire Usually one does not overnight but one does occasionally have downtime especially if a hackneyed dressage event drags on somewhat. Oh, one year at Olympia there was a frightful hoo-ha! The competition timetable was ridiculously optimistic. One’s team arrived at 10am under police escort and one’s team prepared one’s nag, let’s call him Jeffrey, to carry out a series of precise controlled movements in response to minimal signals from oneself WITHIN THE HOUR. One discovered everything was delayed and one was unable to get into saddle until 15.00 hours. Well… one was disappointed to say the least. As one was the designated driver the others drank roast coffee granules soaked in Pimm’s. So, one took to her bed for three uninterrupted hours, the minimum amount required if one chooses to split a regular daily rest period into two periods. Now, the second regular daily rest period must be at least nine hours of uninterrupted rest, giving a total minimum rest of 12 hours. Dear Your Royal Highness, when you were born you were third in line to the throne but now you are 12th, is one so disappointed beyond words, great aunty Anne, Ma’am? William, Windsor, Windsorcestershire Oh, William, if one only knew how lucky one is. One can suntan without being photographed by those awful pedantry bores from the paparazzi, one can innuendo and one is not weighed down by expectation. One hopes to be relegated more often…
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Choice is something to be exercised before it runs out but how much of a choice you have depends more on fate than judgement. "My name is Big Dave and I drive a lorry,” announced Big Dave.
Big Dave wiped a tear from his eye and sat down. There was no empathy. There was no support. Big Dave smiled. He received a scowl from his wife, silence from me and the current Mrs Secret Trucker suggested that now would be good time for the ground to open up. The others in the well-appointed room were not recovering lorry drivers who had already outed themselves as ‘chauffeur poids lourd’. These were diners unfortunate enough to book a table at the same time Big Dave wanted to celebrate his birthday with a fine dining experience. He’d already eaten just in case the steak arrived imitating sinew topped with a twig. The four of us had trouped into the acclaimed brasserie suitable attired only to be surrounded by the affluent and well-connected. Conversation slowly dried up as it became clear noise travelled. Instead we eavesdropped. On the nearest table was another group, two men and two women. Younger, cleaner, well groomed, well-spoken and well inebriated. With their tongues loosened they discussed fellow boarders from their childhood. No mention of the public school but it was somewhere rural. My guess is Hogwarts. First up for discussion was Louis. The tone was not endearing. He’d clearly suffered at the hands of older boarders. Sleeves and trouser legs were regularly liberated by scissor-wielding ‘monitors’. Big Dave liked this. “We did the same at my school,” he whispered. Louis, much to the four’s chagrin, forged a career as a barrister, had married a ‘Bea’ and was living in Kensington. “There’s hope for us all,” said one, and then nods all-round as another suggested Louis was ‘the foulest person to ever wear a Bluer’ (I don’t know what a ‘Bluer’ is but it got several mentions). Two lads named Harry and James had left the city after Harry inherited some cash to start a hedge fund ably assisted by James. This happened ‘some time ago’. Big Dave acknowledged this with a rueful nod. “Very wise investment,” he muttered. “Neil Collinson spent his redundancy on Stella…” He made me wait for the punchline. “…and that’s not his missus…” Our wives went to powder their noses. James had helped Harry’s sister (I missed her name but she had a history of drug abuse) to get work running the media arm of the new-start hedge fund business – this had caused some friction between Harry and James. Harry had bought up a recruitment business (not considered particularly auspicious) from Doggo (or possibly Dago). Lipton (possibly a first name) was also in the city. No one had much to say about Lipton. George’s rugby career, which he spent mainly being injured and shagging anything that moved, was over. He now worked in corporate entertainment. He had some major clients, apparently, but was drinking heavily to cope with pain from a knee that now operated without cartilage. Being a good chap Harry was going to buy that business and place George in charge, giving him a decent shot in the arm. They all liked George. I genuinely felt that most at the table had already slept with him, and if not, would eagerly do so in the future. Even Big Dave seemed to like George, and wished to emulate his drinking habits at a nearby pub where drink would be cheaper. We all agreed. Big Dave summoned the cheque. What was not lost on us was that this well-connected group enjoyed an extensive freedom of choice and exercised it frequently. As sure as a boarder at Hogwarts will use their connections in life to profit, exploit and continue the hegemony they have enjoyed, so those that I had grown up with will live hand to mouth and moan if anyone seeks to change it. Big Dave lives, quite literally, hand to mouth. I grew up in the shadow of transport and industry but today the biggest employer in my area is a supermarket. My progress was bogged down by a poor education, stagnant employment and a growing need for credit to make up the shortfall in wages to live like others seemed to live. It’s only now when I look back - and confirmed by my fellow diners - that I understand, or at least try to understand, that I lacked the guile and wit to escape. With Big Dave’s ‘burden’ now out in the open and the cheque paid, we trouped out. The evening recovered slightly in the pub down the road. Mind you, £23.50 for two pints and two glasses of wine soon took the edge off that. Even I know ignorance of the law is no defence, yet considering just how much is at stake in this day and age, a lorry driver putting their license at risk is on a hiding to nothing. Stood next to a battered eight-wheeler is a heavily tattooed man wearing steelies, shorts and a vest that might once have been described as ‘hi-vis’. He’s preparing a rollie and waiting for someone to return his driving license. He and I have both been pulled onto a hardstanding site next to a motorway junction by the Police. As experienced as I am in the various ways of having your collar felt, I am sure that unless I had done something wrong – and nothing sprang to mind – this was a random act by the Police and is most likely part of a wider clampdown on trucks in general. Had I been pulled in by a Driver and Vehicle Standards Agency (DVSA) vehicle I’d be more concerned. Might my boss be on amber or red regards their Operator Compliance Risk Score (OCRS)? I could fall foul through no actual fault of my own. The hardstanding belongs to the Highways England. Already parked up is an array of tippers and moving floor trailers, plus a few vans. I notice several government agencies performing checks. Officer Dibble takes my driver’s license and it’s duly checked against some sort of database that lists ‘persons of interest’. Another man in a hi-vis jacket is instructed by Officer Dibble to lay out weigh pads to check my gross vehicle weight and individual axle weights. Two DVSA personnel emerge from a van and proceed to use a hammer to check the wheel studs, I turn on the engine and do a light check, and then a torch is shone into the darkest reaches of the chassis. I am asked to remove my Drivers Card and present my Driver CPC card for inspection. The less friendly of the two shoos me out of the cab and starts to download information from the digital tachograph. Now all I have to do is wait. After spending a few minutes swearing heavily into a mobile phone the heavily tattooed man is given back his license by the police before the other agencies swoop like Vultures on a carcase. He’s clocked up several misdemeanours; overweight on the back axle, an illegal tyre and two worn brake linings to top it off. Cornered, he pleads ignorance. He looks over the shoulder of the DVSA officer to me for support but doesn’t find any. As I get back in the cab I hear ‘you’re an accident waiting to happen’ from a DVSA officer. As tensions rise the heavily tattooed man is chaperoned by a police officer as each agency take their turn to point out the punitive punishments. The word ‘prohibition’ is mentioned. I don’t envy enforcement agencies having to deal with people who have such a wilful disregard for the rules that apply to us all. Many might seem excessive but they are set up to create a level playing field and safe environment for us all to work in. You only have to look to the recent incident in Bath with the tippers – four dead including a four-year-old girl and two jailed – to see where flouting the law will get you. I get the thumbs up; more importantly my boss has played by the rules and his truck is given the all clear. My delay now is down to heavily tattooed man. He’s not having it. He points, rolls another fag, looks to the heavens, and ignores what information he is told. My attention is then drawn to a van that wobbles in behind a Police car. Even the heavily tattooed man is starting to feel better about his own predicament when he sees the van. It stops, eventually. The brakes squeal one last time as they battle to bring the weighty beast to a standstill. Both ends of the leaf suspension are closer to the floor than the middle. The tyres seem glad of the rest. If it is not overweight I’ll eat my hard hat on a bed of boiled nails. In the cab are two chancers smiling like children on a bus entering a theme park. With new on-the-spot fines announced by DVSA for tachograph offences and not taking the required rest we few remaining truck drivers cannot be left in any doubt. Your license is your livelihood – look after it. |
AuthorAging proletariat with face, teeth and body to prove it. Archives
August 2021
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