First ever after many years of lurking…

1: Many many moons ago, back in the day when Stoke City played at the Victoria ground, me and my now ex wife went to watch the (not so) mighty Preston North End play there. Unfortunately on arrival at said dump it transpired that I couldn’t find my wallet and she hadn’t brought her purse…fucksocks says I as we scrape together all the bits of loose change we could find and trundle off to the turnstiles. A very unsympathetic jobs worth then takes great delight in telling us we can’t get in because we are a pound short, twunt. As we step away one of Stokes finest boys in blue asks us if we are okay, to which I reply with our tale of woe, ‘here you go’ says he and fishes a quid out of his pocket, top bloke.

2: Back in the eighties my main form of transport was my thumb, met some great people and quite a few nutters, but anyway I digress. After one particularly long day hitching back from my mates who was at Oxford (not uni the poly) and having spent hours at the hell that is known as Knutsford services I finally get a lift of a wagon going up to Carlisle. At the time I was living near Blackpool in a place called Lytham so the offer of a lift to Preston left me about 12 miles short…..at 2a.m. The kindly driver did a detour up the M55 and dropped me at the Kirkham junction which only left me a brisk six mile walk home. So of I trot on my merry little way, sticking my thumb out when I hear a car coming not that there was much at that time of night. Then plod comes along in his nice warm van and give me the third degree for quarter of an hour, going through my bag, where have been, where are you going etc etc. Tight buggers wouldn’t give me a lift though so off I trundled in the lightly falling rain. Saw them four more times that night in the hour and a half it took me to walk home, the last time of which was when I got to my front door and they drove past giving me a cheery wave.

3: Again back in the eighties, this time in a police station for reasons that escape me, snag was, was the teenth that I had hastily shoved down my Y fronts whilst in the back of the 1.3 Escort. Fortunately I managed to shove it down the back of a radiator before being searched, and as it was summer the heating wasn’t on but I always did wonder if it gave of a tell tale aroma when winter kicked in.


Apologies for length but haven’t had any complaints before…
(Nigel101, Tue 10 May 2011, 1:15, 1 reply)

Ah, the joys of hitching.
My signs always seemed to have invisible writing which said, "Will rent arse for 50 mile lift". So I stopped.
Is your friend Jeffrey Archer?
(sarcastic fringehead feet of clay, buns of steel, head of lettuce, Tue 10 May 2011, 10:57, closed)