A Wicked Sense of Humour

He was cruising contentedly in the middle lane of the M1, when the oil warning light suddenly, and threateningly, began winking at him. His instinctive reaction was to get himself into the slow lane where he could gain a few precious seconds thinking time; but what then? Pull onto the hard shoulder and stop, or risk continuing to the next exit and get off the motorway altogether. With a Land Rover containing himself, four other adults, three children and mountains of their luggage, there was only one safe option; junction nine or bust. He bust!

Limping hopefully up the slip road of the A5 exit, the six-cylinder diesel engine seized up, the oil warning light glared at him gleefully and the nightmare began. Well, in truth; for the passengers in the Land Rover the nightmare had begun days earlier when the two families had boarded their plane in Sydney. They'd given it their best shot, but as their new lives in Australia had worn on, the novelty had worn off. They were returning to Huddersfield and a family friend had sent him down to Heathrow in this capacious Land Rover Safari for collection and safe delivery back to God's Country. God clearly had a wicked sense of humour.

The eternally long flight had been a nightmare and the kids had misbehaved for Yorkshire in every corner of the jumbo. As an encore, they had thrown hundred decibel wobblies and then projectile vomited, like archer fish knocking insects off branches. Now, in their jet lagged states, they were peering dejectedly at a bone dry Land Rover dip stick just outside Dunstable, wondering whether purgatory had emergency exit doors. In response to such unclean thought, the heavens opened and chased them back inside.

After a few spectacular tantrums, much gnashing of teeth, a house meeting and several phone calls, two taxis pulled alongside the sorry roadside spectacle. Dejected adults, fractious children and luggage of every shape, size and denomination, was dunked, rammed and levered into every available space. As they sped off in the direction of Kings Cross, they looked like refugees on the nine o'clock news, fleeing an advancing army.

The brotherhood of Land Rover owners responded magnificently, when a passing disciple offered to tow the stricken Safari to the nearest service area. He wasn't sure who the patron saint of Land Rovers was, but he thanked him anyway as he searched out change for the phone at Newport Pagnell. He had volunteered his driving services as a favour to his coach operator friend, but now he found himself explaining that he hadn't seized it up on purpose and would they please send help as soon as possible. They did, and when they turned up at ten o'clock that evening he was fast asleep and doused in condensation on the back seat. It was cold and dark and raining and they had come to tow him home with a forty foot long touring coach. They said it was all they had available. Was that chuckling he heard from above?

The stricken Safari was to be connected to the rear of the coach by a steel cable which they were confident was more than strong enough, and long enough, for the task. Unfortunately, once it had stretched from the dark underbelly of the coach to the towing eye on the Land Rover, all confidence in its suitability evaporated.

As they sped out of the service area, his anxiety reached epic proportions as he clung desperately to the steering wheel. Just ten feet in front of him was the back end of a coach travelling up the M1 at sixty miles per hour. With a seized engine, he had no power steering, no servo brake assistance and no windscreen wipers. What little power was left in the battery would have to be used sparingly, as they were still a hundred and fifty miles from home. The umbilical cord joining them had to be kept taught as there was little reaction time should the coach brake suddenly.  It was a task which quickly turned him into a zombie, staring through the spray lashed windscreen at a frighteningly close pair of tail lights. He fell into a Zen-like state as mile after mile he focussed on the two simple issues; keeping the tension on the umbilical cord and staying alive.

When the inevitable happened, it happened very quickly. The towing cable snapped, the Land Rover ground to a graceful halt and the coach disappeared into the distance. His spray-lashed ten-foot world now broadened out into a strange melee of flashing lights and orange movement. Men in high vis' work wear seemed to be rushing towards him with strange expressions on their faces. As the first sentinel approached he wound down his window and was verbally accosted with the words 'You can't stop here mate! What the hell are you doing?'

By now he realised that he had ground to a halt in the company of traffic cones, heavy machinery and irate operatives. It was midnight and traffic was light, but he was clearly in a very dangerous and vulnerable position. As men sprinted in every direction waving torches, he wondered just how wicked a sense of humour could be. Towed by a coach was a weird enough explanation, but towed by a non-existent coach was surely a step too far. Thankfully, God relented. Just as he began to explain his predicament to a disbelieving audience, the tail lights....the ones he had come to know so intimately, reappeared on the horizon. They collectively stared in disbelief as the coach slowly emerged through the gloom, reversing back along the hard shoulder towards them. 'Bloody Norah!' gasped a high vis' jacket. 'Now I've seen everything.'

Well, not quite everything. What was still to come was two men casually emerging from the coach and recoupling the Land Rover as if they did this sort of thing every day. In no time at all the coach and drivers, followed far too closely by the Land Rover and zombie, were speeding ever more wearily northwards. The rain had stopped and daylight was breaking as they turned into the coach depot. It was four o'clock in the morning and twenty-four hours since he had set off on his voluntary mission the previous day.

He stumbled out of the Safari and joined his two comrades in the mess room. Strong tea was brewed and passed around as the three were joined by early arrivals for the morning contract work. As the audience grew, ever more elaborate tellings of the saga bounced around the room and soon the atmosphere became a heady mixture of cigarette smoke and infectious humour. As he walked across the yard towards his car he could hear raucous laughter as it drifted out into the morning air and up into the heavens. He looked up and smiled.