Confessions Of A White Van Man

Steven Kelly

My mum used to say that honesty is the best policy, and it's a credo I've tried to stick to in life. With one notable exception. This is my sorry tale.

A while ago, I obtained a temporary gig with a local bicycle company. The job was simple: load up a van at their warehouse, drive it through to their new premises and unload the bikes at the other end. Repeat four times a day and then go home. Easy. To assist me I got my brother taken on as my assistant, an excellent bit of nepotism by me if I do say so myself. The days flew by in a haze of banter until the day that was to prove our undoing.

The day had started well. We had played our usual game of trying to spot 'The Flower of Gorgie' without much success. I should explain this was simply driving through Dalry eyeing up the maidens and bestowing one with the coveted honorary title. Some may call this behaviour sexist but I like to think we were upholding the long and sacred traditions of generations of white van men the country over.

Another little tradition I had was that as driver, I chose the tunes. Now, we have similar musical predilections and both love a bit of Bowie. Except 'Young Americans'. Whilst I fully appreciate this nugget of plastic soul, my brother, for reasons he does not understand, cannot abide the song. To say he hates it is doing a disservice. He cannot stand it.

I was trying to educate him to the genius of the song by repeatedly playing it at full volume and singing along. I could see this was winding him up, which was kind of the point. I now see that this was folly on my part and I am convinced this set off the alarm bells of the karma police. They move pretty quickly these days.

If we could nail the last run quickly, we'd be on for a nice early finish and the pub. I turned into the narrow road, which at that time had a skip creating a blockage on my side of the road. Normally this wouldn't be a problem, but there was a church meeting coming out on the other side of the road. I tucked in half behind the skip and waited for the procession of cars to pass. I was still deep in conversation about the relative merits of white men singing soul music when I noticed out of the corner of my eye a churchgoer waving me onwards.

Without paying attention I gunned full speed ahead, admittedly forgetting the passenger side of the van was still behind the skip. With a sickening lurch the van reared sideways, throwing my brother off the seat. There was an awful moment of silence as we fully contemplated the disaster that had just unfolded. After inspecting the damage (not good: the side of the van was crumpled like a concertina, missing a wing mirror and the door was totalled), I had what can only be called an epiphany. To own up would be sure grounds for our marching papers, thus I convinced my brother that I had a positively Machiavellian solution.

If we could get into the yard and park so that the damage was blindside to the warehouse, all we had to do was to load up toot sweet and get out of there before anyone noticed. We could then return after everyone had gone home, drop the keys through the letterbox (as was our normal arrangement), and then blame Gorgie's less law minded denizens for vandalising the van overnight!

Phase one went smoothly. We had just about filled the van and were nearly ready to make our escape when the gaffer called us over. Could we take the old fridge over to the new place? Which was fine except that he insisted on lifting one end. Thinking on my feet, I led him the long way round the van to the tailgate, much to his bemusement. This accomplished, I now only had to pick up the papers from the office and we were off. Unfortunately I was in such a rush I jumped through the metal roller door and cracked my head open. I came to in the office with someone holding towels to my head, and the manager asking what had happened to the van. It seems he had gone out to tell my brother and noticed the side of the van hanging off.

Now it was my brother's turn for improvising a rapid extraction. Muttering to all and sundry that as my nearest and dearest he needed to get me to hospital, he grabbed me and led me off on unsteady legs, shouting that we would explain all later.

It was with aching head and heavy heart that I retreated to the pub that night. I soon received a phone call from a mate from work filling in the blanks. Apparently after we scarpered, the boss decided to review the CCTV camera from the warehouse next door. It clearly showed a battle damaged van limping into port. Shortly after this, a helpful gentleman returned the wing mirror which he had found in the skip. Following these lines of enquiry, he went to see and sure enough: white paint flecks all over the road! And, the icing on the already over frosted cake: the van was a write off. Apparently, because I hadn't showed anyone my driving licence when I started, it was doubtful whether the insurance would pay out.

I decided at this point that to return to face a full court martial would be futile, and respectfully asked my friend to pass on my condolences for the loss of the van. Returning to my pint in a fug of solemn reflection, my mother's words came back to me. On the plus side I had acquired a cracking pub story and a new nickname: Skippy.