There’s me, Tommy, Squid and Bob.
No. Hang on, it was me, Squidgy, Rob and Toma. Toma was some kraut we picked up at Kassel on the motorway. All he had on was a pair of leather trousers and a shit load of tatts that covered his body. The fucker would show them off, and each one had their own story to tell.
I was on me fifth can of Stella. I swear the Stella tastes like shite once you’re on the wrong side of the Channel.
Toma gets out a tattoo. For fuck’s sake, “And this is my pride and joy, no?” He held his arm up like it was a catch. It’s somebody’s name.
“And vos ist your pride and joy, Herr fuckin’ Flick?” Squidgy the Marsh Monster asks Toma in his best German accent. He holds up Toma’s skinny arm and peers at the tattoo. “What the fuck does it say?”
Squidgy has his eye on another Stella. Got to watch that cunt. He’s queuing them up and breaks a fresh one open prior to finishing the one clenched his hand. He was a cunt for stockpiling beers and we’d regularly have five extra beers at the end of a night.
The overnight stopover in Amsterdam was probably the wildest gig I’d done. After getting completely wasted on ‘recreational’ class B drugs Squidgy only goes and burns some faggots house down. Squidgy’s a fucking lunatic after ten cans of anything and I’d count them down. I’d predict the mayhem that followed. I don’t know where the fuck he got the idea of arson this time. Maybe it was a new phase in his life.
There we were, on the A7 driving down the spine of Deutschland with BMWs racing past us like fucking shooting stars. We were in me dad’s Volkswagen transit van; a relic from the 1960s psychedelic drug scene. I imagined there’s been some shagging and skinning up done in it. I’d dreamt of the orgies that must have gone on in here. Carpet burns, spunk stains and hemp.
“Britta. She is my rose, we marry ten years ago,” the kraut goes.
“Britta? You’re shitting me? She fit?” Squidgy goes. Toma takes a swig of beer and raises an eyebrow, ‘Roger Moore’ style.
“Boab! Turn the facking radio up!”
Bob cranked the volume up on the archaic radio and the bus was soon filled with Noel Gallagher’s Wonderwall dulcet tones. Soon we were all singing and Toma the Germany fellah started to root around on his carcass for more tatts. We kept to the slow lane and soon articulated lorries began to bypass us and some honked their horns. Cheeky cunts.
One bus of old grannies came by. I could see their beady spectacled faces glaring out the window like a bunch of nutters on day release. “Don’t fancy yours much, eh?” He pointed to a woman who waved at their passing bus. Then he got all serious. “What the oldest bird you’ve shagged?”
“Eh?” I goes.
“C’mon y’must have banged some wrinkley fuck before. I’ve seen you down the workies yer dirty cunt!”
“There was one bird mind. She was all over me like a fuckin’ Chinese rash. She had nashers on her like a donkey,” I says.
“Nah. Gen up. Gen. She must have been twice my age, but I banged it all ower.”
“She was probably showing you a few things.”
“She kept on shouting at her kids to shut up while I was doing her, doggy style.”
“Would you do a granny?” He asks.
“Fuck off,” Squidge was a pure radge fucker. He’s done a few grannies, I bet.
“I did one mind,” Squidgy says, “She was about the size of this fucking van. I couldn’t shag it from the front cos her belly got in the way. I had to do her from behind. Rolls of flab, man. A bit of lube and I was in. Didn’t touch the fuckin’ sides, man!” Squidgy then turns to the kraut who was rolling a cigarette, “Would you fuck a granny?”
“Vas is Granny?” He’s saying Granny with a guttural r sound. He sounded more like a mad scientist.
“Give him another fucking beer,” I say, “The more you drink the more he’ll understand us.”
I finish a can and fling it out the window. It rattles down the motorway and is swerved around by a lorry full of pigs going to slaughter. I could hear the squeal of pigs as the driver fought for control of the vehicle. My Dad had put some work into the VW. He’d put a carpet in with a settee and a fridge in the corner. In one corner we still had 2 crates of Warsteiner, untested and untrusted German beer. Nicked from that faggot’s house before Squidgy the pyromaniac put a light to it. We’ll catch fucking Aids off that lot, if we drink it. I could still see scorch marks on the crates from Squidgy’s handiwork. They were an enticing prospect. All that beer to be had and 150 miles to go before we got to Munich.
“Did you knah Adolf Hitler was Austrian with a single bollock?” Squidgy had to bring up the Nazi thing in eventually.
“Vey bad man. He did terrible things,” Toma looks slightly put out.
“Nah, but he had the right idea, eh? We should do that in UK, gas the fucking wogs and pakis.” Squidgy’s going on a nazi argument. He’s not really nazi, but he just does it to see the expression on the German’s face change. “Stalin had the right idea as well.”
“What was that?” The German ruffles his eyebrows readying himself for the next tirade of outrage from Squidgy.
“Got rid of the dead wood. That fucker worked his bollocks off and only one of those fuckers was gonna survive. It was either Stalin or Hitler. Hitler shouldn’t have bothered with France and just gone for the bloody Russkys.” With a belch Squidgy sits, his back against the settee.
The Kraut looks like he wants to jump ship. Tommy’s pulling over, so he’s in luck. I’m fucking sick of the twat’s tattoos and his fucking shite stories.
Tommy’s singing to himself, something to do with pissing himself. “Awww fuck! No fucking toilets!”
“Piss against your wheel. Did you know that in the UK you can legally piss against your rear left wheel,” Squidgy holds up a can of lager like it’s a beacon of knowledge.
Once we’re parked Tommy’s out and running to the bushes. There’s another bloke there pissing as well. We’re sort of covered in woodland and it’s pretty secluded here, so it looks like a bum bandit. Here he goes. The bloke’s off and tugging at Tommy’s cuff. It’s the hand he’s holding his cock with. Tommy gives him a swift punch to the face. He does his flies up and we’re taking the piss out of him, there’s dribbles of piss on his jeans. The kraut’s gone already stood by a wooden picnic table looking sorry for himself.
We drive off laughing and singing to Queen. Squidgy gets his arse out to a buss full of crusty old fuckers. “Fa fuck’s sake Squidgy!” I see one of the lady’s taking a photograph. “That’s one’s got your picture you randy bastard.”
“Fuck it. Gerrus a beer out the fridge then.” He goes and I’m crawling for the fridge on all fours. Two cans of Stella and the fridge is empty. Time to slot that Dutch stuff in there, might be cold for us by the time we get to Ulm. Ulm. What sort of a fucking name is that? Ulm, Ulm, Ulm….