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"Here in my car", said 80s pop hero Gary Numan, "I feel safest of all". He obviously never shared the same stretch of road as me, then. Automotive tales of mirth and woe, please.

(, Thu 22 Apr 2010, 12:34)
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We were 14.
A touch long, but necessary to illustrate our Olympian stupidity...

Bill and I were staying overnight at Nick's farm, while Nick's ma and pa were off on a cruise. We decided we'd walk down to the small converted barn in the grounds of a large house in the village where Nick did gardening work (he had a key), so as to imbibe illicit liquids in privacy. Needless to say, we soon got bored as we didn't actually possess any illicit anything, so Nick decides it's off back up to the farm to phone his girlfriend Rebecca. They got keen to meet up, given teenage urges and a mutual absence of parental units. Rebecca didn't have any transport, and normally Nick would cycle the three or so miles to see her. We toyed with the idea of all cycling, but we didn't fancy it, especially not Bill. We alighted on the only reasonable solution we could, as unsupervised 14 year old boys in the middle of nowhere and surrounded by darkness: steal Nick's dad's Freight Rover tipper truck* and drive to Rebecca's house. Of course...

So off we bomb, down tiny narrow lanes with no moon, Nick driving, me in the middle and Bill on the nearside, designated to shout "CLOSE!!" whenever Nick's frankly elementary steering prowess threatened to land us all in a ditch or overturned by a verge small cliff -- his role was very necessary. After a hairy ride of much hilarity, we meet up with Rebecca; if she had doubts I didn't pick them up. I volunteered to ride in the tipper tray so Rebecca could have a seat while we drove back to the farm, which was hilarious fun, especially on a hump back bridge at 40. Rebecca hung around with us for about half an hour, until she had to go lest her parents come home and find she's gone. So back to her village we went, me in the back again and Bill at his nearside shotgun post. After dropping Rebecca off, we broke the speed limit on the way to nearby Framlingham and gunned around the Market Hill and the forecourt of our school (Thomas Mills if anyone knows it). We even drove up my road and crept around my house toying with the idea of surprising my mum (a good natured lady, but wtf!), but thought best not and hooned off around assorted lanes and villages before coming up with the genius fucking plan of going to Leiston. At chucking out time on a Friday night.

Gunning the motor up the hill of the high street, we were flagged down by a pair of coppers outside the Black Horse pub, but didn't stop -- because we genuinely though that a hand waving motion meant slow down, and that 'stop' was denoted by a static palm. How wrong we were. Heading up Station Road for home, having decided (too late) that we'd pushed our luck far enough, our world was soon flooded with blue lights as we were pulled over. I still remember how fucking scared I felt as Nick got out and the PC walked towards us, then questioned me and Bill as his Maglite shone in our faces. But, Nick had furnished us with a cover story before he stopped: that he was his older (licenced) brother Ed, and we stuck with it. Fuck knows how, but he got away with it, and the copper issued him a seven day wonder and off we drove. Cacking ourselves. Respective mums picked me and Bill up the next day. Later on Nick phoned to say Ed, after a lot of shouting and making it clear he now owned Nick indefinitely, had agreed to present himself at Leiston nick with his documents. Photocard licences were then a distant idea.

Fast forward a few days and I'm walking in the door from school, and my mum asks me if we'd taken Nick's dad's van the other night. I lied. "Don't lie!!" my mum shouts, losing it. Turned out that Nick's dad had taken Ed to task for something minor he'd failed to check on the farm, and Ed, who'd not yet visited the cop shop, decides (reasonably I think) to shop his little brother for the more serious crime. I believe Nick was dragged from his room and downstairs by his ear. A very friendly lady PC came round to my house to take a statement from me, but Bill and I were only cautioned. Nick got into ever so slightly more trouble, although it was all 'juvenile' shit that got redacted from his record when he turned 16. That said, I still suspect Nick's dad handed in his notice on his special constable gig earlier than he might have as a result. We never told anyone about the red diesel though...

All in all then, a good night's work really. We really showed half of Suffolk how to act like pure bred idiots. Length? About 35 miles I reckon...

*The linked pic is of a half truck Sherpa, but you get the idea...
(, Mon 26 Apr 2010, 0:54, Reply)

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