Hardcore & cider

As we swapped shifts Ron shouted over the clattering roar of the printing press “do you want some hardcore Joe” ( my name’s Rob, but they called me Joe) “no thanks” I said “our video’s on the blink, we need a new one“. “No, not porn, you pillock*, builders rubble” (*old printers term for esteemed colleague).
Ron’s boy had some hardcore to ‘dispense with’ but it HAD to be done the next day. We didn’t actually need any hardcore, but it was a bargain and hardcore is always handy! (but perhaps that’s just me) plus it was on some distant agenda to make a ‘hard walkway’ from our old garden into the new field, so I paid Ron and sealed the deal.
I got back off that night shift about 4 or 5 am on Saturday morning, and went to bed, only to be disturbed a few hours later by the aggressive hissing of air brakes. I heard Cindy and somebody talking in the lane outside, then the sharp hiss of releasing brakes and the lorry drove away, assuming it was somebody asking directions, I went back to try and get some sleep.
I had not had the chance to tell Cindy about the pending delivery, to be honest I forgot, so she was a bit taken aback by the question “were d’you want this dumped” from the driver of a Really Big Truck fully loaded with hardcore. She woke me, I tried to explain, “you’re a nightmare” herself said disappearing back down the stairs. I would have liked the change to have a sodding nightmare, shift work had destroyed my so called ‘body clock’, sleep was something I couldn’t even dream about!
The RBT was too big to turn around in our little lane so he had speed off to find a turning place. More than an hour later RBT returned with a less than calm driver. Son of Ron had tried to turn around in a junction with a grassy island. A local farmer had to drag him off with a tractor. The grassy knoll was left trenched and ready for main crop spuds.
On returning RBT hurriedly backed into our little lay-by, tipped his load and drove off. Leaving us to admire our new rockery which partially filled our section of the lay-by and spilt out into the lane. The next time(s) RBT came he reversed the quarter mile down our lane around the narrow blind corners, good driving but not conducive to other road users AKA neighbours, who as they reversed in convoy back past us and then had to wait for the RBT to shed its load glared at us, not brave enough to confront the driver of a RBT. Cindy asked “how much of this stuff have you actually agreed to buy? “some” was the best estimate I could offer ……..“nightmare!” said herself.
Over the course of that Saturday morning RBT came back four times. He filled our drive our lay-by our ever suffering neighbours lay-by and partially blocked the lane.
The only way available to us to ferry the hardcore ‘around the back’ was a wheel barrow. After several hours I was wilting, it was hot, I was tired, the loads were heavy, Cindy was ‘little’ and bless her could only offer minimal assistance. Some of the lumps were so big I had to sledge hammer them into lift-able chunks. We only had the one wheel barrow, which one mad collie dog accompanied back and forth on every trip barking insanely and trying to bite the tyre, which on some occasions could be deemed funny.
Tony, the farming neighbour pulled up in the lane, he looked at us, looked at the lump and looked at the wheel barrow, shook his head slowly and drove away.
A quarter of an hour later Tony returned at the helm of a smokey, noisy, and seen better days, little red dumper truck (with a damp flowery cushion to guard against piles). I can’t recall the exact conversation, but “I can’t watch you crazy f****er’s” was the gist of it.
I do not have an empathy with things mechanical. It’s mutual, I hate them, they hate me. But in this instance I was prepared to let bygones be bygones. That little red dumper took a bit of mastering, the steering needed two full turns of the steering wheel to take up the slack in both directions. The clutch was a bit ‘snatchy’, but the brakes were fine, once, but not in our time! Having watched me remove part of the external rendering from our kitchen wall, failed to stop in time and crashed into the lump and stall multiple times, Tony walked back up the lane, still shaking his head. Me and the dumper became mates! By tea time we had shifted the lump, swept the road, and collapsed with a mug of chilled cider.
Whilst slowly drifting off into a cider induced coma, I concluded that we didn’t actually need a new video …what we needed, was a dumper truck!

A beastie on the wood pile and a pee on the floor

Having recently discovered the merits of dumper ownership I set my sights at getting me a dumper. My first hurdle was to get Cindy ‘on side’ she needed to understand that our limited budget had to stretch to getting me, (I mean us) our very own dumper. My ace in hole was that Cindy wanted a stable block which would need a concrete slab so ALL that HEAVY concrete would have to be hand barrowed from the road to the site ……. First hurdle cleared.

One of the perks of being a printer on the local paper is that you get a head start on the rest of the county when it comes to responding to the classified ads. With the ink still wet on the page and the sun barely above the horizon, I called the owner of a dumper advertise for sale, and arranged to see it.
We found the address deep in the country south of East Peckham. A cluster of varying sized natives approached, all white shirts, belts, braces and boots. The smallest shirts on chopper bikes ( remember those) and the oldest shirt in his slippers, sulking behind him a skinny lurcher cross, with a limp and an attitude.

Over the ear piercing barks of chained dogs, who were hurling themselves at us being halted in mid air and dragged back to earth by being literally being at the end of their tethers. We managed to established that we were not from the council, but had come in response to the advert for the dumper.

At slipper mans bidding one of the younger shirts disappeared. A few moments latter we could hear the quickening putt …… put…… putt….. putt…. putt… putt.. putt. putt. puttputtputtputt of a diesel engine awakening. Then around the corner steamed a dumper, a big dumper, a really very big dumper.
Having just recently made friends with farmer Tony’s little red dumper, I was expecting to see a beastie of a similar stature. Before us was a massive yellow dumper with a swimming pool for a bucket which was caked in dried concrete. It had four wheel drive, hydraulic steering and tipping, big tractor type tyres and throbbing engine which made the entire beastie shudder and gentle rock in harmony with the engine.

Over the cacophony of dogs, kids and exploding diesel, a shirt shouted that I should try it out. I knew he was right, but with my track record with stuff mechanical I knew the odds were in favour of me making a knob of myself. I would have preferring to be a knob on my own patch with nobody there to witness the event.

I got up on the drivers platform. It was like when you first got to ride your dads bike, you couldn’t sit on the seat and reach the peddles at the same time, when you did get on the saddle, all the controls were at the extremes of your reach and the ground seemed a disconcertingly long way down. A shirt gave me instructions as to the gear locations. I engaged a gear (first, I think) lifted the clutch. Yellow Beastie lunged forward throwing herself and me down the dusty track like one of those lizards running on hot sand, one front tyre did not touch the tarmac for twenty feet or more, and when it did, it was with such force that it nearly bounced me out of the seat. It was then I discovered that to stop the brakes literally had to be stood on and you had to apply additional leverage by bracing hard against the steering wheel. Which is when I also discovered the seat was not a fixed other than with a single bolt so it skewed sideways in an attempt at tipping me out the side. I managed to stop,turn around, and did a repeat ‘sand lizard’ performance. The shirts looked away, skinny dog took his attitude and limped away.

It was so powerful, so big, I loved it, I wanted it, I (we) brought it.
“ Foor anoveer score, heel dliveer it ome” said slippers . A young man, who should have been at school, then negotiated my Yellow Beastie neatly and smoothly up two ridiculous narrow planks on to the back a ridiculous small lorry. And with scant attention to roping Beastie down, we gave the shirt a lead back to Forsham Cottage.

Over the next few weeks we tentatively got to ’know’ Beastie. Manual dexterity with the starting handle was required to wake Beastie. You had the get the engine turning over at speed with the handle, then, whilst still turning the engine at speed, flick over a little lever on the top of the engine. Sometimes it started and sometimes it stopped the handle dead, which had the effect of ripping your hands off. Even though Cindy had to use both hands to swing the handle she actually got the hang of this. I went to get an X-ray.
Cindy did have trouble braking, she had neither the strength nor body mass to apply the pedal pressure required to stop, especially with bucket full of horse poo. The situation was aggravated when she had the bucket so full she could not see over the lump preferring to hang out the side. (like steering from the side car). Without faltering, Cindy, the dumper and dung run up onto, and then over our trailer, rolling back the mudguard like peeling the lid off a Sardine can.

One of the quirks of Beastie was the steering. Being pivoted in the middle when you turned, the front half ( the bucket) went around the corner while momentarily the driver (sitting on the back) is left still looking in the original direction, and being dragged around the corner as an after thought. This made the art of corning at a speed ‘interesting’.
This one time I came hacking down the field ( being cocky) and had to make a tight right turn followed quickly by a left around the wood pile.
The exact sequence of events is a bit vague. I do remember falling off the seat and going down the gap between the front and back wheels. I remember being a bit shaky but still able to stand and that Beastie had staled precariously up the wood pile.
Being covered in mud, rather than go in I knocked on the back door. “ I’ve just managed to run myself over with the dumper, ” I told Cindy as she opened the door. She looked aghast at the clay tyre tacks imprinted from my left hip and up over my right shoulder, she hesitated a moment before starting to laugh, with tears rolling down her face, “I think I’m going to pee myself” she said as she doubled up and collapsed on the kitchen floor.

I went back to get Beastie off the wood pile, leaving ‘ herself’ to mop the kitchen floor!