Trucking Magazine – August 2019

August 2019 TRUCKING 69

pop taste or the total lack

of quality.

I quickly got into the

routine. A good breakfast

and then nothing solid

until about half-two or

three, and a big pub lunch

before back to the yard and

throw the empties off.

On the third week as we

neared a pub close to the

airport, Dave surprised me.

It was a big pub and most

of the load was for them,

with bits and pieces for

small pubs out in Wales

afterwards. “You’ll love

this. The pub lets its rooms

out to aircrew. If we’re

lucky it will be full of

stewardesses. But if there’s

any hairy-arsed pilots

we’ve no chance.”

It was now about 9 am;

surely all the aircrew

would’ve left. I looked

quizzical. “You’ll see. If

there’s trolley dollies, we’ll

get looked after. You’ll fill

your boots.”

This sounded like the

plot for a porno film. Two

workmen are greeted by

rampant females in

uniform. Why wasn’t I

warned about this?

We pulled up at the drop.

With pubs, it usually is a

‘drop’ – and even worse, a

strenuous lift out for the

empties. We got it done

then walked up the cellar

steps to the empty dining

room. There were the

untouched remains of the

breakfast buffet in hot

serving dishes and a

steaming coffee pot.

“Brilliant. Looks like it

was mainly stewardesses.

Those pilots are like

gannets. The trolley

dollies eat nothing. Look at

all those sausages. Get

stuck in.”

We did get breakfasts at

two other pubs, but nothing

like the same belly-busting

amount – as long as no

pilots had stopped

overnight. One was in a

little village in Wales. The

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O

n my first day

as a drayman

for a small

brewery, the

first thing my

fellow driver and

instructor, Dave, said was

to put my box of butties

back in the car. I wouldn’t

need them. There was a

twofold reason for this, he

explained. Firstly, because

a large part of the job was

lifting and stillaging heavy

barrels, it was something

you couldn’t do with a full

stomach. A lot of the work

was done bent over, rolling

and spinning the beer into

position, so accepted

practice was to only drink

during the day.

By drink, this was either

a drayman’s pint (orange

cordial topped up with

soda water) in hot weather,

or big mugs of sweet tea.

Even though teams (two in

a cab, except over

Christmas when it was

increased to three to cope

with the extra bottles and

spirits) took it in turns to

drive, the unspoken rule

was only at the last pub did

you have a ‘drink’ drink.

You still had to drive home

in your car, and your brat

(apron) and uniform usually

stank of beer from the

dregs spilling from the

empties you pulled out.

The second reason was

we got fed at the last pub

on our round every day.

This was a semi-official

arrangement that was

never openly discussed. A

good landlord always

looked after the draymen.

He knew that if they were

the slightest bit clumsy and

knocked the barrel that was

on-line, it would disturb

the yeast sediment and

make the beer undrinkable

for a couple of days.

These were pubs serving

real beer. With keg beer and

lager, you could hit it with

Thor’s hammer and it

would not alter the fizzy-

This sounded like the plot for a porno.

Two workmen are greeted by rampant

females in uniform...

landlord made bacon

sandwiches, but insisted on

coating the bread with his

homemade chilli jam. This

varied in strength between

“that could be painful on

the way out” to “I won’t be

able to drive until my eyes

stop streaming”. Dave had

told him he was vegetarian,

so just had toast and

enjoyed my discomfort.

The other was at Shaky

Joe’s. Unfortunately, like

many landlords, he was his

own best customer and in

the morning he had the

shakes. He always insisted

on coming down the steps

into the cellar with a plate

of toast and two teas. And

every time it was a rerun of

Julie Walters in the “Two

soups” sketch. The toast

skidded off the plate and

the mugs were half empty.

We always thanked him,

as no doubt did the rats

that scuttled off into the

dark recesses with our

freshly buttered.

However, the worst eating

experience happened in

Chester. Our run started at

a pub in the city centre

which had to be done early

before access was parked

up. When we got there, the

yard was full of vans from

the bakery at the back.

The landlord came out.

He apologised. The bakery

had suffered a power

failure during the night and

was two hours behind in

loading up. Could we do

another pub first? The

bakers were his best

customers – the hot ovens

and flour dust made for a

healthy thirst, and he

wanted to help them. No

problem, as long as he

made sure we could get in

later by blocking parking

slots with empty barrels.

Two hours later we came

back unloaded, loaded the

empties and were ready to

go. Out of the bakery came

the foreman with a carrier

bag. “Thanks for your help

lads. Have these as a

reward,” he said.

The bag had 12 hot pork

pies. Nice. It was a fresh

winter’s morning and the

first went down a treat as

we drove along. And the

second, then the third. We’d

take the rest for the

brewery staff. Problem was,

there were only six pies left

and 20 staff. So one more

each, and then the rest

back home.

Another hour and there

was room for another pie.

We turned down the free

meal at the last pub. “On a

diet,” we said.

Eating the last pie wasn’t

the cleverest thing to do,

but it seemed churlish not

to. Neither of us were very

well that evening.■