WHAT on earth is the point of putting cash into the deep pockets of the Hebridean oil barons for overpriced petrol if you know that you are about to head off to the mainland and be passing filling stations where the spondulicks demanded for premium unleaded are going to be considerably less?
It’s not that I am in any way tightfisted, you understand. But that was my reasoning as I managed to somehow squeeze the Vectra on to the now hugely-inadequate tub with which CalMac still inhibits the number of passengers that can cross the Minch.
My plan was to fill up there at the mainland’s first port of call, but some well-informed Ullapudlian shooter-of-the-breeze strolled up and made it clear that that also would be financial folly. Once I’d got south of Invershneggie, he suggested, quenching the thirst of the General Motors’ reps and reporters workhorse saloon would become a much less-painful affair.
Right, mate, good one. Just 20 quid’s worth would do in Ullapool and I would then fill my boots, fuelwise, on the highway south.
I remembered an American clever person on the radio recently. He told just how well signposted our country was. Much better than other nations like the States, he thought.
Across the pond, apparently, there just aren’t enough road signs, the ones they have are far too small and they don’t always give accurate information. Brilliant, I thought. Something we are better at than these bolshie Yank-types who have taken again to snapping their fingers and making Scottish politicians jump. Way to go. Literally.
As I bypassed the Highland capital and aimed the chariot at Perth, the bottles of water were being slurped and ditties of life in the land of the bald eagle were being sung. Yankee Doodle Dandy and Uncle Sam were getting a loud airing.
Then, a bit north of Perth, the fuel warning light came on. Already? Still, this would be when I would make a massive saving compared to dealing with those Stornoway fuel barons. I’ll show them, eh?
Seeing a sign for “services” somewhere near Bankfoot, I turned off and began the hunt for a petrol pump. And, because the issue was becoming somewhat pressing, a toilet.
No joy. However, I did find a place that did lovely tea – which did nothing for my most urgent issues.
Back on to the tarmacadam and, after a while, I saw a sign for more “services” at Aberuthven. Never heard of the place, but it will undoubtedly have a pump and facilities for the cross-legged, methought.
The turn-off took me past an industrial area and after that I realised I was heading into open countryside. Heck, where are these “services”? An answer to the toilet question was now getting urgent.
I did think of asking a raucous squad of young footballers where they were. However, I decided against that, having been guilty myself of once misdirecting a driver who was also very obviously bursting. I could not stand it if they did the same to me.
Hey, I was young. I was foolish. The other RAF lads with me put me up to it. I am just a very bad man.
So, already moist with sweat and in terror of a deluge, it was back on to the A9 to resume the quest for porcelain.
Then . . . I couldn’t believe it. There, rising out of the swirling mist ahead of me to the accompaniment, in my head at least, of a fanfare of golden trumpets was what was at that particular moment the most cherished of all of God’s creations – a filling station.
See? He doesn’t just answer Free Presbyterians. Not on a Saturday afternoon, anyway.
Slight snag, though. It was on the other side of the road, on the northbound carriageway. And, because that stretch of road is now more dug up than Stornoway town centre during a special music festival, it is all cones, barriers and heavy lorries, so no right turns are possible.
So near and yet so far. Seeing the sign for the toilets as I had to keep on driving by on the other carriageway was such torture that I would recommend it to the CIA if they have to give up waterboarding at places like Guantanamo Bay.
When I was able to turn off, I found myself in a wee village called Blackford. At least if there were no pumps in the village there wouldn’t be anything there to make me think of liquids and going to the smallest room.
What was the first thing I came to? The factory for Highland Spring water. Great.
Changing my prayer from filling stations to better bladder control, I kept right on and found myself in Auchterarder. Lovely place – just like bigger, cleaner Stornoway, but without toilets, or at least any WC signs.
What did that daft Yank on the radio say about our signposts? Twit.
Auchterarder is cute. During my pimply period, a childhood idol of mine was Eve Graham, of the New Seekers.
They did I’d Like to Teach the World to Sing, for Coca-Cola. Bonnie lass, memorable for her pair of large boots.
Eve, if I remember right is from Auchterarder. As I was looking around anyway, I wondered if I could spot her in her white, perfectly wrinkle-free, PVC knee-lengths.
Na. She was probably indoors rehearsing You Won’t Find Another Fool Like Me. With poor me outside singing I Can’t Find Another Place To Pee.
Eventually, I found a filling station. Great place. Officially, they only do takeaway, but I had a fantastic sit-down, if you know what I mean.
The moral, I suppose, is that perhaps we should be grateful for our wonderful fuel retailers. While they may charge a penny or two more than on the mainland, giving them our business could make our lives more comfortable in the long run.
No, I never thought I’d ever say that, either.
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