When I moved 'down south' as a youngster, the only really viable way to travel back North to see my mates was to hitch hike. You don't see many of these intrepid souls these days, but it left me with a few memorable experiences. Like been picked up by a textbook hairy arsed Glaswegian lorry driver. In his cab, without any load attached (I'm sure there's technical terms for these bits) he reckoned he was driving a sports car. Somewhere near Leeds, in a snowstorm, he slowed down and looked across at me:
HAGLD: "Dee ya like a driiink, geordie lad?"
H: "Please don't hurt me..."
The b*stard then pulled into a pub where, worryingly, although it wasn't called 'Cheers', everyone knew his name. He emptied my pockets (and his) and went on to down about 8 or 9 pints, each with a chaser, in less than an hour. Straight back in the cab, he drove like a maniac, scaring the sh*te out of every other road user, and booting me out (it's about midnight now) in the middle of absolutely bleedin' nowhere when I tried to calm him down. It was February, if I remember rightly. I sort of miss those days.
Anyway, what reminded me of hitching, was all this talk of Snipes and Hillmans. I was picked up once, heading south, in a barge of a car, I can't remember what it was, but I'm pretty sure it had Rootes roots, as it were. The driver made a point of telling me, repeatedly, between slugs of Vodka, that it had a Rolls Royce engine, and was an exclusive piece of kit. It soon became apparent that he'd nicked it and was on the run, he was driving like a man with Fiery Jack in his pants (and drinking like a man whose passenger had other things in his pants to worry about). I think this was the first time I'd been in a car whose fuel gauge moved visibly downward, seemingly drawn by a magnet to the 'Empty' script, and it may have been the same for him, as it wasn't long before he started making demands with menaces, there was clearly not enough fuel on board to get us back to his manor in Olde London Towne, and he didn't have anything to buy some with. I didn't much mind the demands, but the menaces were a bit grim, I think all I could muster was about 50p. In those days, you could still spend fifty pence at a pump, although it wasn't going to get that motor much further, so I was surprised to see him fill it up. Paying for the fuel was an option he decided he didn't fancy, so it was back into the car, and a very smartish exit onto the A1. I jumped out and legged it through a hedge when we got to a roundabout near the north circular. I could see things weren't going to improve.
H
