It must be brilliant being a lorry driver. I’d love it. The freedom of the road, no unhappy clients, no stress, no meetings. No prostitutes refusing to pay me their cut when I call around to slap them about every week. Just kidding. I’m not really a pimp. Not full time…
You also get a lovely little cab to snooze in when you get tired or the ‘spy’ tells you to stop. That’s an idea that should get incorporated into everyone’s jobs. I should be able to make a little nest under my desk (because pimps need desks too), and retreat into it when I feel the onset of mid-morning middle-aged tiredness. Have a nice little nap, then get up and go home....
Imagine waking up every morning, knowing that by dusk you could be snoozing in a lay-by in the shadow of the Angel of the North. All ready to deliver your load to Gateshead Pharmaceuticals (I made them up!) at dawn.
And the open road, gloriously powering down mile after tedious mile of green and pleasant land gnawing away at your senses, like a long dental appointment. Flashing your stupid lighting rig at other serial killing truckers as they pass you on another dreary rainy stretch of British dual carriageway.
And the food. All those industrial fried breakfasts. Whiling away hours in transport café’s, dreaming of luxurious salads and humus and organic macrobiotic tofu, and pretending to enjoy reading The Sun.
And the traffic jams. Sitting for day after day in the godawful delays of the M25 and the M6, getting out to talk to other truckers for hours on end and swapping truck driving tips. Like how to pull alongside another truck, whilst on a two lane, and stay neck and neck for about fifty miles so no middle aged Fiat drivers can get past.
And that great big trailer, full of anvils just waiting to overtake you, or better, brain you if you happen to be a little enthusiastic with the brakes.
God, what a life, I’d hate it.