Operation: “Get Percy, Drive Percy Home" - Pt 2

Chesterfield with its grey skies, clogged road system and messed up church spires are now behind us and we’re rocketing down the M1 heading southwards once more. Well, when I say ‘rocketing’....

The rain is continuing to fall, just as it had from the moment we departed my cul-de-sac this morning and the little Prodder’s wipers are working tirelessly to keep the windscreen clear. The fact that it’s barely got light all day has also necessitated the use of the headlights, which to be honest have proved disappointing, being about as bright as those little tea lights you can get in bags of a hundred for £2.99 down at Ikea.

This means concentration is key, making sure I’m checking my mirrors with a regularity only seen in spy films where the paranoid agent is on his way to a ‘contact’ and constantly looks to see if he’s being tailed. Performance however isn’t quite as bad as I’d feared. Percy is bumbling along at a respectable 70 miles per hour most of the time and whilst this isn’t exactly land speed record material, it at least means I’m not being overtaken by caravanners and articulated lorries piloted by homicidal Bulgarians who’ve been awake for 36 hours straight.

Scary in a Perodua.

Momentum it seems is key. If I can keep the speed up, it’s pretty easy to pilot the little fella along. However, all it takes is one misjudged maneuver for that momentum to be lost. And it takes some effort to get it back. It also means that each time I lose speed, I have to pass through what I’ve come to call “the wall”. This is the point where Percy breaches the 50 miles per hour mark and tells you he’s not terribly happy about it by starting to shake and wobble a little. I’m sure Chuck Yeager felt a similar sensation when breaking the sound barrier in his X1. Ok, so he was in a finely tuned engineering masterpiece at the cutting edge of technology whilst I’m in a shite Malaysian city car cum-filing cabinet with tyres as wide as a rubber band on the M1 in monsoon conditions. But apart from that it’s probably quite similar.

I bet his fucking stereo worked as well.

Still, riding the wave of terror that comes along with blasting back through “The Wall” at least does wonders for keeping me awake, so nodding off at the wheel won't be an issue. Finally though, we reach the M25 and this prompts a string of hands free phone calls between the two cars. 

The basic jist is whether we should still attempt to reach Ramsgate for the football, even if it is just for the second half. And if so, where do we ditch Percy that’s safe while we continue on in Chalmers Peugeot at speeds the Prodder could only dream about.

We decide that being sad bastards, we will indeed attempt to reach Ramsgate and the basic plan of “We’ll find somewhere along the M20 to ditch the Prodder” is hatched.

Remember, good at plans. Not so at execution.

Rolling through Essex, I take a glance at my watch. Crap. It’s now half past two and we’re not even south of the river yet. There’s no way we’re going to get Percy parked safely and get to Ramsgate for any of the game. Then it hits me. Another of them there plans. And it’s actually a good one. Time for another phone call.

“Chalmers! We ditch the car at Ship Lane!”.  Paul finds the concept baffling, but I persist with this latest foolproof plan.

Ship Lane. Nice & safe.

“Ship Lane! Thurrock FC mate. They’re playing away today, so their car park will be empty”. Finally the penny drops.

“Not bad, not bad at all. What about the fee for the crossing?”

“Sod it, it’ll only about 5 quid in all. We ditch Percy in a place we know is nice & quiet and come back for him later. And besides, who the hell is going to steal a Perodua from a Non-League football club car park?”

“Good point. Thurrock it is”.  I hang up, quite pleased with myself that my knowledge of shit Non-League football clubs would have some sort of genuine practical use.

Minutes later and we’re swinging off the M25 just shy of the Dartford bridge and pulling into the small gravel car park of Thurrock Football Club, a team in our league. With a quick check to ensure Percy is all locked up and safe in his own little corner, I hop into Paul’s car and we tear off towards Ramsgate.

We do eventually make our destination having maybe bent the national speed limit on barely a couple of occasions and arrive in time witness a terrible second half in the freezing rain and a 3-1 defeat. Oh well, that was well worth it.  I s’pose we better go back and get Percy then?

A little under an hour after the final whistle, we’re once more back in the car park at Thurrock and there in the still incessantly falling rain sits Percy. “See, told you no one would nick it” I remind Chalmers as we pull up alongside.

Ramsgate. Wet & Cold. 

“Yeah yeah. Let’s just get the fucking thing home so we can go get down the pub. I'm parched”

It’s a fine suggestion. It’s been a long day and it really is well past beer o’clock. I once more jump back into the finely crafted Malaysian interior and flick Paul the v’s.

“Race you!”