19 Aug 08
Now we come to the ultimate test. Forget families and wave goodbye to wedding guests - they were easy. Now, the Volkswagen Caravelle must survive a stag weekend. In Bush Tucker Trail speak, it's time to break out the snake and spider cocktail.
I'm driving two blokes from London to Bath, where I'll pick up two more, and then onto the Lake District for weekend of shoddy nightclubs, clay pigeon shooting and off-road karting. And no vegetables.
The expected arguments over which DVD to watch on the drop-down player never materialised with just two remote headphones. Still though, the film was apt: Withnail and I. Blokes escape London to drive north to the Lake District. I played a bit of Jimi Hendrix through the iPod but in a Caravelle and not a Mk2 Jaguar with a missing headlight, it didn't seem right.
Bloody awful traffic up there. I mean laugh-out-loud, bang-your-head-on-the-steering-wheel awful. 'Queues after next junction' became a mantra. Had there been a drinking game based on digital signs displaying the word Queue, we'd be staring down the barrel of a burst liver before we'd even arrived.
The Caravelle's height obviously helped me to read the traffic ahead and avoid shunting, but it was almost too helpful. On two occasions I was diligently pre-planning a few cars ahead when the un-watched car directly in front decided to brake out of sequence and I nearly smacked into the back of it.
Meanwhile, the four passengers stretched out in the two captain's chairs behind and the bench behind that. They slept, watched movies or read the paper. I was driving a sitting room. Thanks guys. When we did finally pick up some speed, I could have done with more solidity from the steering wheel. Lots of corrections needed to keep everything in line.
