When you're 20 years old and possess a shiny, black, top end sports car, you get noticed.
A lot.
I spent many, many, hours a week driving on the motorways to see my customers. From Scotland in the north to the very south of England.
I also spent at least thirty minutes a week on the roadside, talking to our friendly transport police.
Invariably, I was made to pull over and produce my insurance documents and driving license, and explain myself to them.
I was never doing anything wrong.( except speeding a little, possibly)
A twenty year old driver in a car that screamed 'illegal activities'.
Well it did with the British transport police.
A suspicious lot by nature, they eyed me and my car, and wondered whatever it is they wondered.
Drugs dealer, I would presume...
Arriving in Ireland....
I came to the realization that I had been invited on this road trip to Ireland, not out of some brotherly love, some bonding experience, but convenience.
How did I come to this conclusion?
Well, my suspicions were aroused when it was suggested we take my car.
I had a brand new sports car at the time (one of my 'good job' perks).
My brother had an old beat up Landrover. It had trouble making to the end of his street, never mind Ireland.
Chris had no car at all.
This was my first clue.
My second clue came around 30 minutes into our journey heading north to Scotland.
While this route entailed a much longer drive to get to our desination than the other, shorter routes - there were three of us after all, so it wouldn't be too much of a strain on any single driver.
....Or that was how it was discussed between the three of us before we set off, should I say.
As I heard the sound of bags being opened, and the 'pop' of beer can ring pulls behind pulled, I dispelled this notion of changing drivers pretty quickly.
It appeared I had become the unwitting 'de-facto' driver.
'This is bollocks!', is what I thought.
I wasn't drinking of course, and we still had a few hundred miles of a journey to complete.
Can...after can...after can...of beer was consumed. At a petty impressive rate, I must confess.
I was essentially a free chauffeur in a nice car. See what I mean about the wanker brother of mine?
Chris was Irish, so I forgave him.
To put an Irishman in an enclosed space full of alcohol and not expect the the imbibing of the liquid nectar, goes against all the natural laws of physics. It enters 'the twilight zone' territory.
And it really is against all human decency.
Denying access of beer -to an Irishman - in that situation - could be construed as cruelty!
(I would imagine there is a subsection hidden somewhere deep in 'the human rights act', to allow for this specific eventuality, to be quite honest).
...Four hours later, we arrived at the port in Scotland, in Stranraer.
I had trouble seeing out of the rear view window due to the piles of empty beer cans, by this time.
While they were having a great time, I was stuck in car with two drunken twats.
Nice.
Fortunately for me, I had some reprieve on the ferry trip.
Unfortunately for me, the ferry ride was only an hour or so.
I had just enough time to stretch my legs, before heading our way back into the bowels of the ship, and the car.
'They' had time to get buy in more booze, though.
We eventually disembarked in Northern Ireland in a small town, called Larne.
Larne was about fifteen miles from the capital, Belfast.
And we had to go through Belfast to get to our final destination (or so I thought at the time).
This was my first time in Northern Ireland and it came as a bit of a shock, I can tell you.
Or should I say, Belfast city came as a bit of a shock to me.
I never even imagined a hovel like this even existed in the United Kingdom.
The place was a pit.
Graffiti everywhere telling the Brits to 'fuck off' and then more graffiti telling the reader, 'Belfast is Britain and always will be'.
You get the Idea.
There were some very angry people in these parts...
I wasn't expecting leprechauns or anything, but neither was I expecting dozen's of men in uniform's, happily pointing there machine guns at us.
This was the very early nineties of course, and the 'Irish troubles' were still knocking around, albeit lessened from the previous decades.
Chris, my inebriated travel companion was from Southern Ireland.
As we entered into Belfast he sobered up extremely quickly.
"Make sure you stay on the main roads through this place, Karl," He said, leaning forward.
"We don't wanna be goin' into the wrong area's in this town. We'll get lynched if we're caught in the wrong street. They don't like Catholics around here much, " He laughed, seriously.
I laughed to. I wasn't Catholic.
After calling me a 'proddy bastard' several times, he also pointed out that being mates to 'a Catholic', can actually be worse than being a Catholic.
A fate worse than a fate worse than death, kinda thing.
(Yes, this was a real mentality, back then.)
"They might just shoot me," He said, and went on to explain joyfully, "But they'll 'tar'n' feather' you and set you alight.!"
I stopped laughing, and concentrated on driving.
Driving through Belfast was about as much fun as cramp.
Once a had relaxed, and gotten used to being perpetually watched by neighbouring cars, always with two well armed policeman looking over at me, it turned out ok.
I was soon speeding out of the dismal surounds of Belfast and into the open coutryside, following signs for Dublin.
The tension in the car in Belfast, and the release of the tension once we were inopen country again, seemed to revive my two travel companions, and soon they we partying loudly again.
Very nice for a sober, tired, driver, to endure..
The thought's of Belfast and turning into the wrong street seemed like it might actually be the better option at this point...
" If one more beer tin hit's the back of my head, you're fuckin' walking!," I screamed.
After a few " God , calm down's," and a few, "Stop being such a miserable fucker," the children calmed down and it was nearly civilized.
For a while.
Then we rolled up slowly to a police checkpoint, close to the military checkpoint to the northern/southern Irish border.
The situation rapidly deteriorated.
The moment of deterioration is still so very, very, crystal clear in my mind.
I can still pinpoint the actual millisecond second in fact when everything went wrong.
The big bang moment...
"Where are you boys going, then?" Said the cheerful voice of the policemen.
He scoured the beer strewn innard's of my expensive sports car, looking very closely.
"We're off to 'The feile', sir. The rock festival," I replied. As politely, and as nicely as possible.
I knew how to handle the police to get on with things to make them as hassle free as possible.
After all, it was a weekly dialogue that I seemed to have with them.
Then a drunken Irish drawl of a voice erupted loudly from the back of the car.
Chris.
"We ain't got any drugs on us, or anything," He shouted, laughing.....
"Get out of the car, sir" Came the very firm reply, from the now not so cheerful policeman.
Four other heavily armed officers started to approach....
Yup, things definitely deteriorated rapidly from that moment onwards..
