‘I’ve never been to Finland,’ says Wrecker Jon. Now that’s a funny thing to say, because the last time he was here was with me. We fooled about, eight years ago now, atop a beached submarine on an island somewhere.
Well anyway, Namibian is causing trouble the second we step onto the ferry: he refuses to share a cabin for the crossing to Sweden. ‘I can’t sleep in bunk beds,’ he moans at the poker-faced receptionist. Admittedly, he’s too fat to climb into the top bunk, but collapsing into the lower one seems plausible.
This is especially so when you consider that he ordinarily sleeps in a truck – in which there are two bunks. Yet he is obstinate about the matter. ‘Who are you, Lord Nelson?’ retorts the Finn. The verbal tussle continues until – Voila! – Namibian has his own chamber.
I, however, am quite happy to share with Wrecker Jon, the fastest teeth-cleaner in the world. Along with the nicotine stains, he removes his gums. In fact, the action is so brisk that I fret whether his head might come off. ‘Night Jonboy,’ I say, at 11 in the morning, and we doze off.
A little later, Holger and I take Little Dick for a lively stroll around the deck. And who should we stumble upon? David, that’s who – the chap lording washing all over the place back in Barcelona. He’s putting on a brave face, but he isn’t a happy bunny.
‘Here’s one for the blog,’ he says without preamble. ‘Any driver weighing over 16 stone should be banned.’ Ooh, it seems he is not enjoying his double driver’s company. ‘If he’s not snoring, he’s farting. And if he’s not farting, he’s burping.’ David is on a roll now, ranting, his nostrils flaring as he warms to his theme.
‘Every garage we pass, he gazes at, thinking about all the buns and cakes he’s just missed out on.’ His second driver is apparently so large that his legs chafe. ‘He leaks,’ adds David, putting the final nail in. On that enigmatic note, perhaps I should sign off for today..