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.
7 comments:
My dear old dad, RIP, was a lorry driver for the best part of 35 years. He was a quite an intelligent man but just hated working indoors, and loved being his own boss and not having anyone to tell him what to do. He was at home every night - no rear banquettes for dad - and loved his job. Loved his job until about 5 years before he retired that is, the advent of mobile phones and increased congestion made him increasingly miserable and he couldn't wait to retire. And Dad loved going to work.
In fact when he retired he got a part-time job as .........a funeral director's assistant. Which he loved doing too, we think that if he'd found that job in his formative years he'd have made a go of it and done all the eexams and stuff.
I once heard of someone who went off and got a good University degree to please his parents, before following his dreams and becoming a lorry driver. I wonder if he reads the Sun in a roadcaff.
I like the idea of a spy telling you to stop working. You should patent that idea - I think it would sell well - although perhaps not amongst bosses!
I would actually quite like it, if you could cut out the 'Modern Life is Rubbish' elements. I can't say the Funeral Director job would hold much appeal though....
I used to get the train to school and I'd wish I was driving the train every single day... No hassle, quiet cab, nice view, thermos of housemaid's tea and a cheese and onion sandwich on pappy white bread... That's the life
Not a bad life as long as you don't eat spaghetti out of a pan while steering your lorry with your knees down the A55!
I wouldn't bother with a pan, I'd eat it straight out of the tin S.
Only yesterday on the way back up France in the Fiat which nearly killed me on holiday, I watched a naughty French lorry driver make a Special New Friend in a service station near Rouen. I think the rear banquette was in for some serious action, despite the fact that she had a huge banner of loo roll stuck to her shoe and was wearing a tshirt which said 'Sexy Rock 'n' Roll'. The romance of the open road...
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