and he put it in the machine, then said I was £40 short. This was a first but I was tired because I’d been doing two trips a day formonths now and I was lucky to get fifteen hours sleep a week. So I put this down to tiredness, apologised and gave him the difference.
But on the next trip the same thing happened. ‘You are £60 short this time,’ he said. I gave him the extra but I wasn’t amused. I knew I hadn’t made two mistakes on the trot and I was certain he was having me over. If there were two things I never got wrong, it was what I had to pay out and what I got in. But I just suffered again, although I know I should have counted the money by hand in front of him. So I took that one on the chin but I made up my mind he wouldn’t do me again.
Two of my mates counted the money with me before I left for the next trip. One at a time we each did it. And it was there, every penny. When I got to France, I gave this bloke the money and he put it in the machine and, lo and behold, it was £40 short. I already knew what I was going to do. My sword was sheathed inside my bomber jacket in the middle of my back. I reached round for the handle over my shoulder and pulled it out. You should have seen his face. I didn’t say anything. I just chopped him across his shoulder and he fell to the floor, screaming like a pig. I didn’t want to kill him but I did want to hurt him and show him what happens to lying thieves. He’d thought that because I was a woman he could have me over. The idiot. Out of everyone using the place, all the men, I was the worst and most dangerous person to have over.And he had just found that out the hard way. There were about eight men behind me waiting to be served but they just bowed their heads. Not one of them said a word to me.
My beer had been loaded so I grabbed the money, jumped in my van, where Tracey was already sitting, hid my sword and put my foot down because now I needed to get out of France. I had known what I was going to do to him but it wasn’t until I’d done it that I realised what an idiot I’d been. I mean, I was in France and I had just stabbed a Frenchman, and now I had to get back to England sharpish. Yet I didn’t regret what I’d done for a moment. I was old school and I didn’t call the police – not that I was in a position to. I dealt with it myself. That was my way. You fucked with me, I would be your judge, jury and executioner. As it was, I made it home without any problem from the police. I reckoned the guy I stabbed was about as interested in calling them as I was. And I like to think I was the last person he played that dirty trick on.
There were about 50 vans in line for the journey back over the Channel but, while mine was old, it was special. The last owner had been a police officer so, accidentally on purpose, I left his name on the paperwork. I thought it might make me untouchable. What copper is going to pull another copper? As we waited to get home, the van in front of me started rolling backwards and hit us. I was with a good mate and said, ‘Look at this idiot. He’s going to hit us.’ Itseemed very funny – I mean, hysterical – by the time it hit us because I was high on puff. The man got out of his van. I was nearly crying with laughter when I said, ‘You hit us but don’t worry, there’s no damage.’ I couldn’t even get out of the van I was laughing so much. But he was looking a bit puzzled.
Then he said, ‘No, love. Vans don’t roll up hill. You’ve hit me.’ That finished us off. We just couldn’t stop laughing. It was the puff. We were out of it and it was only luck that we didn’t get pulled over. The bloke just walked away shaking his head and, fortunately, laughing to himself. There was no harm done. We laughed for weeks afterwards over that.
Another time, we were on the train, fully loaded, during the day and we went to the toilet. When we got back to the van, there were about 20 men up against the van pushing it.
But on the next trip the same thing happened. ‘You are £60 short this time,’ he said. I gave him the extra but I wasn’t amused. I knew I hadn’t made two mistakes on the trot and I was certain he was having me over. If there were two things I never got wrong, it was what I had to pay out and what I got in. But I just suffered again, although I know I should have counted the money by hand in front of him. So I took that one on the chin but I made up my mind he wouldn’t do me again.
Two of my mates counted the money with me before I left for the next trip. One at a time we each did it. And it was there, every penny. When I got to France, I gave this bloke the money and he put it in the machine and, lo and behold, it was £40 short. I already knew what I was going to do. My sword was sheathed inside my bomber jacket in the middle of my back. I reached round for the handle over my shoulder and pulled it out. You should have seen his face. I didn’t say anything. I just chopped him across his shoulder and he fell to the floor, screaming like a pig. I didn’t want to kill him but I did want to hurt him and show him what happens to lying thieves. He’d thought that because I was a woman he could have me over. The idiot. Out of everyone using the place, all the men, I was the worst and most dangerous person to have over.And he had just found that out the hard way. There were about eight men behind me waiting to be served but they just bowed their heads. Not one of them said a word to me.
My beer had been loaded so I grabbed the money, jumped in my van, where Tracey was already sitting, hid my sword and put my foot down because now I needed to get out of France. I had known what I was going to do to him but it wasn’t until I’d done it that I realised what an idiot I’d been. I mean, I was in France and I had just stabbed a Frenchman, and now I had to get back to England sharpish. Yet I didn’t regret what I’d done for a moment. I was old school and I didn’t call the police – not that I was in a position to. I dealt with it myself. That was my way. You fucked with me, I would be your judge, jury and executioner. As it was, I made it home without any problem from the police. I reckoned the guy I stabbed was about as interested in calling them as I was. And I like to think I was the last person he played that dirty trick on.
There were about 50 vans in line for the journey back over the Channel but, while mine was old, it was special. The last owner had been a police officer so, accidentally on purpose, I left his name on the paperwork. I thought it might make me untouchable. What copper is going to pull another copper? As we waited to get home, the van in front of me started rolling backwards and hit us. I was with a good mate and said, ‘Look at this idiot. He’s going to hit us.’ Itseemed very funny – I mean, hysterical – by the time it hit us because I was high on puff. The man got out of his van. I was nearly crying with laughter when I said, ‘You hit us but don’t worry, there’s no damage.’ I couldn’t even get out of the van I was laughing so much. But he was looking a bit puzzled.
Then he said, ‘No, love. Vans don’t roll up hill. You’ve hit me.’ That finished us off. We just couldn’t stop laughing. It was the puff. We were out of it and it was only luck that we didn’t get pulled over. The bloke just walked away shaking his head and, fortunately, laughing to himself. There was no harm done. We laughed for weeks afterwards over that.
Another time, we were on the train, fully loaded, during the day and we went to the toilet. When we got back to the van, there were about 20 men up against the van pushing it.
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