Boys will be boys

I'm not proud of this story so I won't tell you.

Oh all very well then. As you insist.

1998, I was driving home from work in King's Lynn, Norfolk one evening and as I approached the summit of Knights Hill (yes, there are hills in Norfolk!) the low fuel warning lamp appeared. I had a very early start planned for the morning with a drive up to Glasgow so decided to fill up before aiming for home.

The road to Hillington filling station about five miles east is almost straight and was not much of a detour from my home in Grimston.

As I left the roundabout at Knights Hill a pip squeak motor cycle appeared in my rear view mirror. You know the sort. A mock-up of a Motocross bike but only around 125cc and with a yob in the saddle; chin on headlamp, elbows at ear level, trying to reduce drag.

He was dangerously close behind, perhaps less than a metre. I accelerated quickly up to about seventy and he all but disappeared from my mirror, in the manner of an insect.

Law of Sod kicks in and I came up behind a line of trucks. Also tailgating each other and thus affording little opportunity to overtake. Sure enough Pip Squeak recovered his position a metre behind my back bumper.

Finally the opportunity came to overtake and I reached the petrol filling station just before it was due to close for the night.

I was busily pumping fifteen gallons into the Jag's tank when Pip Squeak arrives at the next pump and shoots a pint in. We both marched together toward the cash desk inside.

Like a scene from the Ton Up Café on London's North Circular in the late 50's a group of floozies were decorating the confectionery stand. Obvious admirers of Pip Squeak judging by all the drooling and lewd comments. Pip Squeak pipes up and says "Nought to sixty ain't up to much in that old Jag of yours is it?!"

"Yes. You're quite right. Hundred to hundred and sixty ain't bad though. What's yours like?"

He didn't say much at all after that.

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