Free Common as Muck!: The Autobiography of Roy 'Chubby' Brown by Roy Chubby Brown Page B

wrecked ambulance that was missing two doors. It was totally unroadworthy, but it didn’t matter as long as the ambulance didn’t leave Kellogg’s property. One Thursday, about a month into the job, the lads asked me to drive them into Redcar. It was the Easter holiday weekend and they had double wages in their pockets. They were a rough lot, many of them Scottish, Welsh or Irish labourers who were looking forward to four days off work, but first they wanted a bellyful of beer to carry them through the long, hot afternoon. It was five miles from the site to the Clarendon, one of the roughest claggy mats in Redcar. I dropped off the lads. ‘Roy, will you pick us up?’ they shouted.
    ‘Sure. I’ll pick you up,’ I said, not thinking for a moment about the consequences of driving on public roads without a licence or insurance. Three hours later, I returned. Turning the last corner before the Clarendon, I heard some voices yelling and some dogs barking. Then I saw where it was coming from. About a dozen of the lads I’d dropped off were involved in a massive street fight. The police were using dogs to try to control it, but they were getting nowhere. I pulled up. ‘Get in the ambulance, you fucking arseholes!’ I shouted. ‘Just get in the ambulance.’
    But the lads were too drunk to do anything but fight. A copper came over. ‘What do you want?’ he said.
    ‘Er … I’ve come for the lads who work at …’ I said.
    ‘You’re the driver of this vehicle?’ the copper said.
    ‘Yeah.’
    ‘You’ve got bald tyres,’ the copper said. ‘There’s no lights. And the doors are missing. What’s it doing in the town?’
    ‘Well, the lads asked me to come and get them as a favour.’
    ‘A favour ?’

    ‘I’ve come from the Kellogg’s site.’
    ‘Is that why this van hasn’t got a tax disc?’
    ‘It’s a site van,’ I said. I still hadn’t realised that I was in deep trouble.
    ‘Where’s your licence?’ the copper said.
    ‘I haven’t got one,’ I said.
    ‘What are you doing, driving with no licence?’
    ‘I just came to pick them up,’ I said. I couldn’t see any wrong in it. It seemed perfectly natural for me to do the lads a good turn by collecting them from the pub.
    The policeman took me to Redcar police station. Downstairs the lads who’d been fighting were locked in the cells. Upstairs I was being questioned by the duty sergeant. ‘Who started the fight?’ he said.
    ‘I haven’t a clue. I’m just the driver.’
    ‘Driver?’ the sergeant said. I could see I’d have to go through the questions all over again. ‘Of that vehicle? The one with bald tyres, a door hanging off and no tax?’
    ‘Well, it’s a site vehicle.’
    ‘So what’s it doing on the road in Redcar?’
    ‘The lads asked me to pick them up.’
    ‘And you just did it?’
    The sergeant left the room. It was clear that the police didn’t quite know what to do about me. I could see they were scratching their heads. The sergeant returned. ‘You might as well go but don’t touch that vehicle,’ he said. ‘Leave it where it is – you’ll be hearing from us.’
    I went back to the site and told one of the gaffers what had happened. ‘Oh, fucking hell,’ he said. ‘No.’
    On the Tuesday morning after the Easter weekend I reported at work, expecting to pick the lads up and ferry them around the site as usual. The gadgie called me into his office. ‘There’s your cards and there’s your P45,’ he said. ‘You’re finished.’

    I was fired. For doing my workmates a favour. I still couldn’t comprehend what I’d done wrong.
    ‘You’ve got two weeks’ wages to come,’ the gadgie said. ‘That will be in the post for you, unless you want to come back to collect it.’
    I returned the next day for my money. While I was waiting for it, I got talking to a lad who said he was in the merchant navy. He’d been all over the world. ‘Why don’t you apply?’ he said.
    ‘Aye, I will,’ I said.
    I made my