One of the main reasons people would use the
Lugga Bus service is because of the parking problems around airports. And the parking problems affected us
too. Directly outside the main terminal
was a circular parking area for airport transfer companies as long as they paid
an annual fee. When I drove Arthur’s bus
I was able to park here, now that I was driving the investors bus I had no
access to this area. I promise you that
there was nowhere within a two mile radius of Manchester airport where you could
park, for free that is. Plenty of spaces,
if you wanted to pay through the nose, and an army of traffic wardens, who were
only doing their job. I managed to find
a garage within the airport perimeter where I could park as long as I was a
customer, so coffee it was then.
Actually it wasn’t bad because I finally got
some peace and quiet and could park up, buy my coffee and work away on a
manuscript for an hour or two. I can’t
say that the garage was very busy, apart from the hire cars I noticed
continually coming in and out. First of
all they would zoom in, park next to the bins, where things from the vehicle were
dumped, then over to the pumps for some fuel and then off. Every car followed the same pattern and this intrigued
me, so the next time that I pulled in to the garage I stopped by the rubbish
bins and went and had a look. I was
pretending that I was emptying something from my van in case the attendant was
watching me. I couldn’t believe that the
bin was three quarters full of road maps and car mats.
Like a lot of men I loved maps so took one out
and had a look. There was nothing wrong
with it, I mean it didn’t even seem to have been used and the rubber car mats
were in a similar perfect state. I hate
seeing waste so began to empty the bin into my van. I know that I can be strange at the best of
times so four rubber mats would be enough for me, but it seemed daft that
almost one dozen mats had been thrown in the bin when there was nothing wrong
with them. I stowed the maps and mats
under my seats in the van and parked up watching each hire car as they came in
and without fail, the mats and maps were slung from each car whether it would
appear they needed to or not. Some
companies must be making one hell of a profit if they can afford to be so wasteful
in other areas.
It was like being back in the air force where I
collected old uniforms from the station dump and put them through the clothing
stores system again. Now I would offer
other drivers some nice new rubber mats and a couple of maps for their vehicles
and accept a coffee and sandwich as payment.
It must have been the good ol boy in me, never wasting an
opportunity. You may think me strange,
collecting rubber mats and road maps from waste bins, but if I tell you
something else I collected you will probably think me complete crazy and ready
for the men in white coats. My two
favourite mornings to go out driving were Saturday and Sunday morning, just as
dawn was breaking. There was nothing aesthetic
in my motives; I looked forward to discovering the mayhem that the drunk
drivers from the previous evening had created for me.
I collected the aluminium posts that held up
the road signs that the drunk drivers seemed determined to eradicate from the face
of the earth. I didn’t carry any tools
with me so could only collect single posts that had become unattached from the
road name. Sometimes there might be a
lump of concrete on the end of the post which I could normally remove with a firm
smash against the ground. Normally, and because
of the crash, these posts would often have a bend in them so when I got them
home I would cut the post, giving me the longest possible straight piece, but I
would always cut at an angle, so that the remaining post would look like an
organ pipe. Then I would clean the pipe
and spray paint it some vivid metallic colour.
I think I was the only person in Skelmersdale with a set of wind chimes
that would wake the dead. They certainly
annoyed my neighbours.
I remember one morning driving to a village
called Formby where three of us were picking up a large group of people, somewhere
around eighteen passengers. Due to some set
back we had to change who was picking different parties up and I now ended up
with a full bus load which wasn’t in my plan as I had a six foot aluminium post
rolling about in the back of the van and still with a huge ball of concrete
stuck to the base. I can’t remember why
I hadn’t removed the concrete but it was a problem as the post wasn’t exactly going
to go unnoticed. I pulled up in front of
this quite plush house, with a very neat drive and garden, and as the people
began to come out I asked them to drop their cases by the side of the van where
I would collect them and place them in the vehicle. They were very pleased with this level of
service which I only employed as I didn’t want them to see the mess, on their
drive behind the van, where I had managed to remove the concrete off my latest
wind chime acquisition.
As we reversed away I asked for some assistance
to make sure there was no oncoming traffic which meant that no one noticed the
rubble all over their drive. The post I
had slid down the side of the seats and it stayed well out of sight until I got
it home and into my shed. Like most men
I needed my shed, or my man cave, where I could retreat from life and the wife
and children. My first ever shed had
been in Belfast where I would sit on my own and listen to the rain, just me and
the spiders, so relaxing I should market it and charge people money. Driving all over Lancashire, especially at
ungodly hours, allowed me to take note of various things that might have been
dumped or unguarded, so I managed to collect enough wooden pallets to build a
nice large garden shed with. I did cheat
as one, well two, of the walls were part of my garden fence but I covered the
inside of the fence with rubber car mats as a form of weather protection.
I envied writers like Roald Dahl who had sheds
where they could retreat and write all day long. I suppose the closest I came to that would
have been the Lugga Bus as it was quite pleasant sitting there with the rain
pelting the roof of the van while you read or edited some work. I could never write in the van but I could
research and make notes. The speed of
the snail mail between the UK and America was still driving me mad and with my
constant outpouring of ideas the outflow and inflow most certainly did not
match. Our first problem with American
clients was trying to find out who to talk to.
Publicists, agents, managers, sometimes I don’t even think they knew who
I should talk to. Everyone in America,
even the postmen, seemed to want their ten per cent cut. I had found a new reality show that I felt
might have legs, as long as the ‘stars’ were willing to participate in the project.
The programme was called American Chopper and
featured the Teutul family, well; three male members of the Teutul family. A father and two sons, the father, an
interesting ex drug addicted motorcycle builder, seemed to be the main stay of
the show. The eldest son Paul was the
creative force behind most of the motorcycle designs and the third son Mikey
was mainly I think for comic effect. So
I felt that I could use all three Teutul men in a story but have Mikey pretend
to be the writer and also have him promote the books or books. Jeffrey wasn’t convinced and if you remember
that he thought The Gladiators were too down market for me you can probably
imagine what he thought, or didn’t think, about the Teutul family. I gave it a go anyway and waited to see what
they would say.
I wonder how many people passed, or drove in to,
the garage near terminal two at Manchester Airport and saw me sitting in my van
thinking, look at that poor fellow having to wait for his passengers, when in
fact I was creating stories for some of the most popular up and coming reality
shows in America. I didn’t tell many of
the passengers that I was a writer as I don’t think they would have been able
to comprehend the situation. To them I
was the driver, the foreigner, who ferried them to and from the airport and I
was very happy for the relationship to remain at such a level. I didn’t have to explain myself to anyone, as
far as they were concerned I was doing a job and if I did it well enough I might
get a tip at the end of the journey.
My best tip ever would have been the twenty
five English pounds sterling I was given by the lovely bunch of Scousers from Aintree. However the tip, or one of the tips, I shall
never forget was from an elderly woman in Aughton, a village outside or on the
outskirts of Ormskirk, where everyone liked to think they were really
posh. The lady asked if I would help get
her case to the front door which I did with a skip and a smile. At the door she rummaged in her purse for her
front door key and as she opened the door she asked, ”Driver do you mind if I give you a tip?” “Of course not,” I said, wondering, as she
was so posh, if it would be fifty pence or one pound, but I was wrong,
again. For she turned to me, in all
seriousness, and said. “I think you
should lose some weight.”
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