My childhood adventure from Manchester to Spain 1969
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Even the local fast food burger place has an overhead barrier on the car park. Why for God’s sake? Is it to keep out those riffraff truck drivers? Hardly. Those riffraff truck drivers have got more sense.
When truck drivers are hungry they stop at places that sell real food cooked by people that actually know how to cook, and not a slice of gherkin in sight.
They stop at places where you are not still hungry after spending ten pounds on processed junk food, served by a bored adolescent with acne so bad even his own mother wont kiss him goodnight.
Truckers stop at places where they can get a decent mug of tea or coffee and not be offered a choice of: regular; medium or large and the ubiquitous “do you want fries with that?” Incidentally, it is not ‘regular’. It is small. S.M.A.L.L. So let’s stop kidding ourselves shall we? Since when did the catering community officially list the word ‘small’ as a dirty word?
Sorry, I lost the plot there for a minute. Just don’t get me started on ‘theme pubs’, all right?
Now where were we…oh yes. South of France, stopped inches away from a big steel warning notice that our car was too tall to pass beneath.
“Phew, that was a close call,” said dad.
“Yes, we just about got away with that one,” agreed mum. Just about, but not quite.
It all happened in a split second, but looking back I remember it in slow motion. The six of us leaning forward, peering up at the sign. The sudden jolt forward as the car behind hit us, not having any reason to expect us to stop so suddenly.
The steering wheel hit dad in the chest winding him. Mum managed to put her hands out in front of her just in time to avoid rearranging her facial features on the windscreen.
On the back seat, the four of us were packed in so tightly there was no chance of any impact injury. Despite that, with the unfailing response of children everywhere to an event they do not fully comprehend, we started screaming our little heads off.
“Wah, wah, wah, wah,” wailed the kids on the back seat.
“My babies, my poor babies,” cried mum.
“Shit, shit, shit,” complained dad, nursing his bruised chest.
The car had been shunted forward about two feet and was now firmly wedged on the overhead barrier. As always happens in such situations, the sleepy little rest area had immediately transformed itself into the car park queue for this year’s Rolling Stones annual farewell concert.
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