Deckers, Punters & Dead Ants

DECKERS, PUNTERS & DEAD ANTS

Around The World In A Double Decker Bus

1979 – 1983

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J.D.CHADWICK

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PUBLISHED BY:

J.D.Chadwick

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Copyright © 2018

For Thomas

Just to prove Dad was not always a boring old fart!

CONTENTS

The TRAINING TRIP

OCT 1979

The Yard

Another Sucker Is Born

Platt?

A Ferry Crossing To Forget

Welcome To Your New Home

The Big Push

Trip Notes

Expect The Unexpected

The Scottish Bar

Tour Guide For The Night

Who Will You Be Travelling With?

A Bridge Too Far

Pom Bashing

Roadside Entertainment

Insects In The Castle

Bat Out Of Hell

Love The German Police

Mountain Romance

J.A.F.A.S

Mozzies, T-Shirts & Sambuca's

To Go Or Not To Go

Wonders Never Cease

Italian Charades

Bus Olympics

The Red Garter

Casino Royale

Paris – A Driver's Nightmare

Farewell Europe

Welcome Home

The Farm

PART TWO

North Africa, Here We Come

More Spanish adventures

Directors, Deckers & Crew

A Day At The Cricket

The Weird And The Wonderful

Scrumpy, Pasties & Tall Stories

The Royal Family Charter

Nepal Here We Come

The Paperwork

All Aboard The Last Bus To Perth

Killer Bugs In Bali

Third Time Lucky Or 3 of 9 Lives?

Burma – Seven Days Is Not Enough

Himalayan Bus Stop

Fiona, The Love Of My Life...

Bugs, Pills & The Trots

Indian Impoundment

Don't Pay The Ferry Man

Looking Professional (for once!)

Houseboats In The Mountains

Fireworks Over Pakistan

Middle Eastern Adventures

Turkish Bubbly

Don't Sit Down

Another Continent, Another Challenge

Epilogue

The TRAINING TRIP

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'We select the best and train them thoroughly to a high standard'

DRIVERS & COURIERS

The selection, training, and experience of the crew is the most important factor in ensuring the success of any trip. We select the best and train them thoroughly to a high standard to ensure that they give you a fun-filled and fulfilling tour.

MODE OF TRANSPORT - CONVERTED DOUBLE DECKERS

Top Deck's famous orange and white Double Deckers are a familiar sight throughout Europe. They are professionally fitted out with comfortable beds, a modern hygienic kitchen, adequate personal locker space and an unsurpassed sightseeing deck. Ovens, grillers, stainless steel sinks and catalytic wall heaters are but a few of the mod-cons on board.

Ample seating and a maximum of 20 passengers ensures plenty of room for everyone to relax, write home or play cards. A great way to pass the time whilst travelling.

EXTRACTS FROM 1979 TOP DECK TRAVEL BROCHURE

OCT 1979

64 Kenway Road, Earls Court London UK.

DAVE?

Chad. What the hell are you doing here?

Quickly scanning the room, in what appeared to be laid back travel agency, here in the heart of London, sat behind a desk was Dave, an Australian, one of a few I had met at Camp Blue Star, an American Summer camp for over-privileged Jewish kids in the North Carolina mountains where we'd all spent the summer working, or should I say, having fun whilst partaking in outdoor pursuits.

This is different, I thought, what the hell and without a moment's hesitation I blurted out, Just got back from camp now looking for a job.

In fact, the real reason I was there was to drop off a message for some other Australian friends, Di & Kel who I'd also met at camp. They had given me this as their mailing address whilst they were in the UK. Unbeknown to me, it was common practice for travelling Australians to use tour operator offices as their mailing address.

Sorry Chad, we don't employ Poms, only Aussies, and Kiwis. But, I'll go and ask the boss if he knows of any other companies looking for staff. By the way, what do you do other than white water rafting? asked Dave.

Mechanic, truck driving, travelled a lot in Europe, office work, anything really, saying the first things that came into my head that might get me a job in a tour operator's office. I had high ambitions!

Dave disappears behind a curtain hanging across a doorway. Not your typical swinging seventies trendy corporate office. To be honest, not much of anything except a few desks, staff on phones, travel posters, basic brochures and a matrix of alphabetical postal pigeon holes against one wall...which reminds me, I mustn't forget the real reason I came in here.

Suddenly a loud booming voice from the room next door filled the entire shop.

You've got a fucking mechanic out there, get him in here quick.

This sounds encouraging, I thought, so much for not employing Englishmen. Dave reappears sweeping the curtain aside as if in some cheap theatrical production.

Screw wants to see you, come this way, he said with a coy smile on his face.

'Screw?' I look questioningly at Dave, who merely raises his eyebrows as if to say, don't ask.

Behind what I was now beginning to think of as the 'magic curtain' stood a shortish (5'10") broad shouldered vibrant guy. His not so new wooden desk was covered in office papers and empty beer bottles. He was a few years older than me wearing shorts, a rugger shirt, had a mop of straight blond hair and an unkempt beard. He looked like he had just come off the rugby pitch.

G'day. Chad, is it? Take a seat and let's have a chat. Dave tells me you're a mechanic.

First rule of job hunting in the 70's was to say yes to everything and then bullshit your way out of any awkward situation later.

Yes. I've got my City & Guilds papers, (hoping this Aussie had no idea what they were). The truth being I had only passed my 2nd year motor vehicle mechanical exams but could fix motorbikes with my eyes closed. I had been unable to complete my apprenticeship due to a spine injury (I found it too difficult to bend over an engine bay for any length of time) so I changed over to studying to be an auto electrician. It didn't seem the time to elaborate. 'Screw' was showing signs of interest and a job could be up for grabs. Little did I know that his idea and my idea of a mechanic were worlds apart.

You've driven trucks and know your way around Europe? said Screw

Yeah, I've seen quite a bit of Europe and driven delivery trucks all over England, - the white lies were getting bigger. I wondered if he could see my nose growing? The sum of my truck driving experience was a transit van delivery run for a commercial laundry followed by furniture deliveries. Travel in Europe was an Inter-Rail holiday with a few mates in search of foreign breweries and easy women. Plus, some hitchhiking through France, Germany Switzerland, Italy & Greece on a failed attempt to hitch to Australia. I had never driven on the right if that was what he was asking. Except possibly late one Saturday night when trying to get home from a party!

Screw was obviously in a hurry and wasn't listening to a word I said, so I kept quiet and just nodded. I was apparently ticking all the boxes which was fine by me. I needed work and this was fast becoming the quickest interview I had ever had. What the job entailed I had no idea, nor cared.

Do you have a pommy HGV (Heavy Goods Vehicle) licence by any chance?

Sorry. No, just a British car licence.

No good, the Frogs, and I-tie police know what they look like. Got any other licences?

I opened my wallet to see if I could miraculously produce a suitable licence, knowing full well there was nothing in there apart from a few USD, and not many of those as I was technically broke. Screw was looking over his desk at my meagre wallet contents, What's that? he said pointing to a folded official-looking document.

That's just a fake North Carolina drivers licence I bought under the counter so I could hire a car in the states.

Perfect, says Screw jotting down notes as we spoke. Don't look so worried, Rex has been driving buses for us for years using his Kiwi fishing licence. The European police wouldn't have a clue what an overseas licence looks like and most of them don't read English.

I speak French if that helps.

Don't be bloody stupid! No Aussie can speak French. We play dumb, it's safer.

This was becoming more bizarre by the minute and I was really warming to these Aussies. How the hell can you legally drive a bus around Europe on a fishing licence? Don't they know that the local police are super strict about bus drivers having HGV licences and the penalties for driving without one are serious?

We don't normally employ Poms, too many hassles with employment laws, insurance, and taxes. We pay our staff in cash but only once you are outside of England. Is that going to be a problem?

Cash! No tax! This was too good to be true, my kind of work. I was liking the sound of this more & more by the minute.

Not a problem, but what are the wages and what actually is the job you are offering me?

Bus Driver. But first, you'll go on a training trip around Europe with a skilled driver to teach you the ropes. If you pass that then you get your own bus to drive on our various European Tours. Once you've been around for a while you might get lucky and get to do a Spain, Portugal, Morocco or a Russia-Scandi trip, even an Overland but that's years down the track. Drivers not only drive but have to fix the buses if they break down, hence why we need mechanics. Screw said without looking up.

It was all sounding too good to be true, that was until he told me how much the wages were - a meagre 40 pounds a week.

How the hell do you live on 40 quid? That wouldn't even pay my bar bill let alone food! I said in amazement.

Screw was obviously used to this reaction and could see the shock on my face and, without missing a beat, said

Don't worry about it the boys will show you how to make some extra dosh once on the road. All your meals are supplied.

Lousy wages or not I had no money and had no idea what I was going to do next now that I was back in England. I needed a job and the thought of a free trip around Europe was music to the ears of a 23-year-old travel junkie!

OK, I'm in. This was surreal I'd only just got off the plane from the States two hours ago and here I was being offered a job travelling around Europe. This was all too good to be true. Little did I know what was around the corner...?

Good on yer Chad, welcome to the crew, said Screw as he shook my hand give Dave your details and then get down to the yard straight away. 

Straight away? I was hoping to go home first, its only 2 hours away, I can grab my tools and say hi to Mum. Haven't been back for 6 months, she's looking forward to seeing me.

No time for that, the trip goes out tomorrow morning. Use the office phone to call her, said Screw. With a wave of his hand, I was dismissed and he was already focusing on something else that appeared more important.

Fuck! Mum's going to kill me.

I was so excited I dramatically threw open the curtain and did a bunny hop out into the office. Ta-dah.

Dave didn't get it.

Dave told me how to get to the workshop in Shepherd Bush where I would meet my driver & courier (whatever the hell that was) who would be teaching me the ropes for the next 6 weeks. They will be getting the bus ready for tomorrow's departure, give them a hand making up the beds and stocking the kitchen. But first introduce yourself to Five Eights.

Five Eights?

Yeah, he's the workshop manager. Can't miss him, red hair, beard, big tinted glasses, bit of a short arse but a top bloke.

It was now apparent that I was the only one who thought it an odd name for a manager. Let alone disrespectful. I was used to addressing my bosses as 'sir', not Screw and Five Eights! What the hell, I needed the work and if that is what they wanted to be called who was I to question it.

Even though I was in the middle of London I was definitely not in England. I seemed to have been transported to Australia and without a criminal record! Boy, was I the odd one out. Although brought up in an English working-class family; amongst these larrikins from down-under I must have sounded a right tosser with a right posh accent. I made a pledge to myself to not talk too much to avoid having the piss taken out of me.

I was too chicken to phone mum, instead, I wrote a quick note and asked Dave to post it for me. I grabbed my trusty backpack, thanked Dave and headed off to the nearest tube station and into the crazy world of Top Deck Travel.

The Yard

WHAT I WAS expecting was nothing like what I walked into. Firstly, there were only a couple of buses in the workshop. One bus was Cream & Orange as Dave had shown me in a brochure, the other Dark Green.

It looked like a scene from a Hollywood movie about a bunch of crooks that had stolen a Double Decker bus and were cutting it down for parts in a secret back street location in the notorious East End of London. The bus still had the destination and route number on display above the driver's cab, which I recognised.

Secondly, there was an army of young men and women crawling all over the bus, inside & out, resembling a colony of ants servicing their queen who was deep inside. So much for - 'just a driver and courier getting the bus ready.' Everyone was so busy they didn't even notice a foreigner in their mists. I grabbed the attention of a guy hauling wood into the bus.

"Where do I find Five Eights?'

He's flat out like a lizard drinking, no time for visitors.

Screw sent me, I'm the trainee driver for a trip going out tomorrow where do I find the bus and crew?

You're looking at it. Hang here I'll find Five Eights, – Five Eights, where the fuck are you? You got a visitor and he's a bleedin pom, he yelled above the workshop noise.

What do you mean you're looking at it. Isn't it supposed to be Orange, just back from a trip and only needing a turn-around service? I stammered.

That was until a couple of days ago, the last driver drove it under a bridge that was lower than he was. Took the roof off, bus was fucked. We had to get another one quick. We're now fitting it out as we speak, so get stuck in. You can check out the engine to start with.

According to the diagrams in the brochure, this bus was supposed to have a kitchen & seating downstairs, bunks, cupboards and a few seats upstairs, be painted in 'Top Deck Travel' livery and have the back door sealed off so it could be locked up and presumably keep the weather out. Instead, all I was looking at was a stock standard Hants & Wilts bus with an open rear entry platform complete with pole to grab hold of as you got on and off. And talk about an omen – it was from the same region in England I was. It even had a Bournemouth number plate – my hometown!

Five Eights still hadn't materialised so I went to check over the engine. I lifted the bonnet and looked inside. Without thinking, I involuntarily blurted out in a loud voice Fuck. It's a diesel.

Suddenly there was a deathly silence in what was a very noisy building. Everyone had stopped work simultaneously and were all staring at me in disbelief. I felt like the proverbial deer caught in the headlights.

A voice from upstairs boomed out Of course it's a fucking diesel, you stupid pom. What the fuck has Screw sent us this time?

I then realised that my new job had just finished as fast as it had begun. It looked like mum was going to see me after all.

The noise resumed as fast as it had stopped. The worker ants were back crawling all over the bus and I was left standing there red-faced feeling a complete Wally. But the good news was no one had come over and fired me or rubbed it in. In fact, no one was showing any interest in me whatsoever. There was a palpable feeling of urgency about the yard, heads down bum up and no time for idle chit-chat.

Taking this as a good omen I decided the best way to hang onto my so-called job was to get to work like everyone else.

The bus obviously had not been here long. It was as old as the hills and presumably, no one had time to look over the engine. Diesel or not I knew how to change oil, check fluid levels and inspect any parts that moved. So, I started looking around the cavernous hall they called the yard, which was, in fact, a cold and windy lock up workshop directly beneath the M41 motorway.

It had a mezzanine floor, above which were some broken glass skylights that hadn't been cleaned in decades. Every now and then the noise level would increase a few decibels as a truck drove directly above our heads. In the middle of the workshop was half an up-ended 44-gallon drum. It had a huge fire raging inside it. Grime and muck covered the floors and walls.

I found an old pair of discarded overalls which I donned, then went looking for a vessel to drain the oil into. There was junk everywhere, I thought of my fastidious teacher at mechanical college who would have been having kittens if he had seen the state of this garage. Of all things, I found a baby's bath with remnants of oil in the bottom. My mind boggled how it got here. Next job was to wriggle underneath and find a sump plug.

Are you the stupid Pom Screw sent us?I came out from under the bus to find a short chap with bushy red hair and beard, dressed in a pair of grease-stained overalls and a big grin on his face. He looked friendly and exhausted. Hard to imagine many years later we would spend time together on my honeymoon.

Not stupid! I'm a petrol mechanic, never worked on a diesel before. Screw didn't ask me and to be honest, I don't think he cared he just liked hearing the word 'mechanic'. Which I guess is why I'm here, I said indignantly.

I'm Five Eights. What's your name?

Jonathan, but I'm usually known as Chad. Only my mother calls me Jonathan.

That'll do, it's different, it'll fit in around here.

I had no idea what he was talking about but smiled and went with the flow, couldn't afford any more blunders. As it happens, Chad was an unusual name in England. I'd only met one other 'Chad' and that was in the States which I think was a hangover from an old Elvis movie. Then