I came to London, looking to make my fortune despatching and like many a fool before have ended up worse off than when I arrived. A cautionary tale follows...
I had made a few telephone calls to DR firms in London from my home in York. I was aware that I would need a middleweight in reasonable running condition. And a plausible line in chat to persuade the controller that I knew my way around London and was an old hand at despatching.
My first problem was that at 18 the only thing I was an old hand at was finding excuses for not doing any work in school. A fine art that had precipitated my flight to the capital. I had excelled so well in that aspect that the only job I could think I might just possibly land was as a DR.
I persuaded my parents that loaning me £500 was the best possible use for their money. At the very least it would get me out of their hair for a couple of months. At best, they could proudly stroke my Ferrari once I'd made my way in the world. They decided that anything was better than watching me moulder, collecting the dole every two weeks.
I hitched down without incident. Arriving late at night I made my way, like thousands before me, to Soho. An amusing time was had fending off various perverts and avoiding being mugged to death. Somewhat ragged, the next day, I approached the first of my DR company contacts. I assured him I had lived in the city for yonks and would have a nice CX500 ready to roll the following morning.
He was so impressed by my spiel that he put me on trainee rates for the first month, to see how I worked out. I rushed off to view the Honda, having previously arranged this by phone from York. Buying from MCN classifieds can always be dubious and I was just about to find out why. This 1979 specimen looked fine to my enthusiastic eyes. I wasn't actually allowed to test ride the beast, but a brief run on the pillion impressed me no end. After a CG125 just about anything is impressive. He wanted £375 but gladly accepted £300 when I pulled the pile of fifties out of my back pocket.
I can remember the tight feeling as I let out the clutch. The adrenalin running wild and the big grin I managed to pull off. I can also remember the way the bike crunched to a halt. It needed seven thousand revs to find the power to pull off. Below that the engine just died. Bred on the mild CG, this meant that I had a terrible time trying to master the plastic maggot.
Not having slept for a night didn’t help one bit. With job and bike in hand I headed for Paddington where cheap lodgings were rumoured to exist. Ended up in this doss house, ten to a room, a tenner a night. Couldn’t sleep much, kept thinking I ought not to be thrown in with what looked like a bunch of tramps.
I was out of there first light, eager as hell to make a good impression by turning up on the boss’s doorstep before him. Two hours later the CX finally gave up the fight and struggled into life. I was absolutely exhausted from trying to bump the bitch and I hadn’t even started the day's work.
Thrown into the carnage of the rush hour it only took ten minutes for the first crash. Not serious, I took the paint off the side of this cab. The driver went berserk calling me all the foul names under the sun. Demanded I give him £200. Instead I made up an insurance company and home address. He came within an inch of beating the shit out of me.
I couldn’t make much sense of the Honda in the chaotic traffic. Massive clutch abuse was needed to keep the revs up, the engine clattering terribly as the revs were poured on to stop it stalling. It didn’t seem any faster than my old CG125 which I had foolishly sold when I'd passed the test.
I turned up at work an hour late, shaking like I had caught malaria. The boss spent the next 30 minutes berating me. The way he went on I think it gave him an hard-on! He would be carefully monitoring my work from now on, any backsliding would mean instant dismissal. After twenty minutes I was given a pick-up and delivery, a mobile radio thrown at me, and told to get on with it. I thought that it was a pretty thorough training scheme they had going there!
The DR company was in the City, the pick-up in Kensington and the drop in Covent Garden. Nothing to it, I thought, after a glance at the A-Z. The Honda refused to start. After watching me for about 15 minutes trying to bump her, some DR’s gave a hand and she finally rattled into life. I told myself not to turn the engine off whatever happens. I made good time to Kensington but could not find the office.
There can be few people less friendly than Londoners when politely asked a question. After running around in circles for about twenty minutes I was becoming frantic. I finally grabbed a midget traffic warden by the throat and banged him up against a wall. Even then he was reluctant to give out any info. He finally admitted where the company was located. I came back out to find six parking tickets on the Honda. No problem, the previous owner could deal with them, I hadn’t registered the bike in my name.
The drop off went smoothly, I found the place first try. Proud of my achievement, when I got back to the office, about 90 minutes after first being handed the job everyone was agog with wonder. The boss took me into his office and closed the door. He quietly explained that I had set a record time for a delivery of that distance. Then screamed crazily that I was fired and I should get out of the office that instant before he beat me to death for daring to lie to him.
This time no-one helped me push the Honda. I ended up walking it to a bit of a hill and throwing myself on the machine as it rolled rapidly downwards. Youth recovers quickly from such setbacks and within the hour I was trying to convince another potential employer that | was an experienced DR with a perfect middleweight to hand. The new boss was even more reluctant to give me a job but put me on trainee rates. He didn’t shout, just tried to kill me with cancer from the huge cigars he smoked - I have no objection to anyone smoking, I just wish they would inhale all the fumes!
I did several local jobs, having left the Honda running on tickover. It seemed unlikely to me that anyone would want to steal it. Each time I came back the controller looked at his watch with a grimace. I must admit I was a bit amazed at how quickly some of the other DRs did their jobs.
I was invited back the next day but told to speed things up. Speed Things Up? I was thrashing the Honda to death just to break the bloody speed limit. I was riding with a death wish, as it was, because the front brake only worked intermittently. I had had several close scrapes already and only saved myself from serious injury by scattering a bunch of startled peds off a crossing - I had to go that way as the alternative was hitting the back of a taxi. After my previous experience, something too terrible to contemplate.
The other DRs had been real bastards. | was trying to find somewhere to stay and they just didn’t want to know. They were experienced old hands who couldn't get enough jobs themselves; the last thing they wanted was some youth willing to work for next to nothing cutting in on their already scant earnings.
That night was spent wandering around Soho again. I ended up in this underground bar with strippers and drinks a tenner a time. I talked with this attractive girl for about fifteen minutes and according to them I had to pay a hundred quid for the pleasure. I emptied my pockets (but not my underpants) - £36.85. They grabbed the money and the bouncer slapped me about a bit. I didn’t resist, he was big enough to give Frank Bruno pause for thought. He threw me a good five yards into the gutter.
I found a deserted back alley where I managed to fall asleep for a few hours. I was woken up by a filthy tramp trying to undo my jeans. I don’t know if he was after my money or body. I threw him off and ran for the main thoroughfare. The Honda started up after an hour this time which meant I actually turned up for work early - I had allowed three hours.
I left the bike ticking over as usual, listening to its rattles and rumbles. Watching the water temperature slowly climb into the red, I thought I might as well check on the level. By the time I'd worked out there was hardly any water in the radiator, the needle had reached the farthest point in the red sector. There was only one source of water available, so I emptied my bladder. Pissing on the rotten Honda seemed somehow appropriate.
It took another hour to persuade into reluctant life. The boss appeared as I was pushing the stinking CX up the road, took one look at it and hurried off shaking his head in disgust. When I went into work, only ten minutes late, the controller handed me an envelope, telling me that the appearance of both myself and the bike were not suitable to represent his DR firm. The envelope contained six quid which represented what I'd earned the previous day. I'd spent more than that on petrol as the CX was doing about 30mpg!
I spent the rest of the morning trying to find another job. I ended up with the worst shark in town. He took a hundred notes off me as a radio deposit, made me sign a twelve page contract of such tiny type that I couldn’t begin to hope to read it, not that he gave me a spare copy to peruse.
I did one job on the CX before it seized solid in the middle of crazed cagers. One bumped into the back and pushed me into the car in front. I sat there as the bike was slowly crushed. By the time the driver realised what he was doing the CX was banana shaped. It didn't matter, the engine was probably dead beyond repair. | grabbed the radio and did a runner. With no insurance, tax or MOT I would have been locked away on the spot after all the damage the CX had done to the two cars.
Back at the DR company I told the boss what had happened. He pointed to a paragraph in the contract which stated than any misrepresentation on the part of the DR, such as the state of my bike, would result in the forfeit of the deposit. He sat there with a smug smile on his fat face. I still had the radio in my hand so I slammed it down on his desk hard enough to splinter it into a couple of hundred bits. I screamed "Fuck you” at him and rushed out before he had time to recover his composure.
I counted my money. Forty four quid. In just a few days I had blown my father’s hard earned dosh and had nothing, save for a growth of beard and a few bruises, to show for it. Walking back towards Soho for a last look at the tawdry hell hole, I was molested by half a dozen tramps and propositioned by two ancient, huge Negro ladies. I kept protesting that I had no money. They looked at me as if I was a complete and utter failure. I tended to agree with them.
I had the choice of becoming a Piccadilly bum boy or going home to face the wrath of my parents. It was an easy choice, but much more difficult to hitch a ride. I ended going up via Bristol as that was where the only car that stopped was going! The parents were relieved to see me but speechless when I revealed how quickly I had got rid of the money it had taken them months of hard work to save.
The lessons that I learnt from this terrible experience? Don’t go looking for glory in London unless you’re loaded in the first place or willing to sell your body. If despatching is the only thing you can do, find a decent machine before you go and ride it down there. Don't lie too much unless you can back it up, if found out the boss goes into a fury and sacks you on the spot. And don‘t hand over any money as deposits to DR companies. I got the impression that even seasoned riders were having trouble covering their costs. So what hope us novices?
Darren Allan