Shed

It was starting to get to me by then. For the fifth time in as many weeks the air brakes on my tractor unit had blown a pipe, the feed pipe from the compressor to be exact, and it was the same one every time. I'd been looking for a replacement for ages but as hard as I tried I just couldn't find one, not of the right gauge anyway, and I ended up, each time, having to bodge a repair. 

What I did was get a length of armoured fuel pipe, you know, the clear one with the metal mesh in the material, and use that with a jubilee clip at each end. Trouble was it just couldn't take the pressure and eventually a loud bang would signal another split pipe, followed by the inevitable hissing sound of escaping air. Then it was simply a matter of time before the brakes would begin to bind on, as they were doing now.

Shortly after the first one or two times it happened I started to collect the spare lengths of pipe and the clips needed for the next repair, storing them in a box in my cab's passenger well. I had sort of organised the box so each part was in its own place, which wasn't bad for a box of such a small size. I liked the order of it, knowing where everything was. I was like that with the rest of the cab, and what with all the other bits in there - the essentials for nights out, my tea making and cooking kit, and all the tools and other bits needed to keep the lorry going and looking OK - the inside of that Leyland was definitely my space. It reminded me of my old man and his shed; a man's retreat, as mum called it. I couldn't imagine why he needed one at the time, but I can see it now: it's where his stuff was, the bits and pieces he needed in order to do the things he wanted to do or just tinker away time the way he wanted. Whenever me and my brother quarrelled, played our noisy games of war, or he had had a row with mum, off he'd go to the bottom of the garden where no one, not my brother and me, or mum, dared follow.

We often peered through the window, my brother and me, when he was at work. We would look at the neatly arranged tools and the shelves stacked with cans, pots and a variety of oddments, none of which we recognised or knew the purpose of, but we never thought to enter his special space. His man's place. Although he didn't spend all of his spare time out there, far from it really, just a few hours on Saturday afternoons and then again on Sunday mornings - the days my brother and I were at our most annoying - he seemed to achieve a lot. He rebuilt a Gardner pump engine one year, a two cylinder, and in the summer on its completion he proudly displayed the little motor on our lawn, in all its glory among the garden furniture. The engine was mounted in a frame of one-inch angle iron and plumbed into a makeshift fuel tank and a tub containing water. It had started life in a South African gold mine, pumping water, a task it was still very capable of, proving itself right there in front of our eyes, in our back garden.

The block and cylinder heads were painted a deep green and all the pipework shone the golden glow of brass. Being young and living in a world that afforded adult males the luxury of idling away time in a shed, I assumed South African mine workers had a similar existence and had once sat on garden chairs mesmerised by the beauty of that little engine, as my father did then. I wondered if they too would every so often wipe it with a clean cloth before sitting back, arms folded, head to one side, their faces fixed with a distant smile. The old Gardner was eventually sold to a canal boat owner and apparently continued life idly chugging up and down the Grand Union. My dad said the boat had an engine room not dissimilar to his shed.

But back to my blown air line. My lorry wasn't always obliging in its choice of places to blow the pipe. It went on one occasion in queuing traffic in a busy town. The streets were narrow and there was nowhere to go, so I trundled on, stop start, hoping to find a place to pull over. Soon the unavoidable happened and we ground to a halt. I got out and tried to see if there was anything I could do just to get going. There was nothing: my hands, feeling, twisting and prodding had found the pipe split again. It wasn't long before there was the almost continual sound of a horn from the car immediately behind. The driver wound down his window with his right hand as I approached, I saw his other hand impatiently tapping away at the steering wheel. Before he had a chance to say anything, I suggested that I stay and sound his horn while he went to my lorry and got it moving again. He took one look at my manic expression and sank back in his seat.

But this time my lorry was much more considerate. We were on a long country A road littered with lay-bys and as soon as I heard the bang I pulled into one of these, just as the brakes started to bind on. It was a lovely summer day and the temperature was already over 20 degrees centigrade, so out came my collapsible garden chair and tools. I spread all the things I needed, neatly on a large rag placed over the grass between me and the open passenger door. I arranged them in order, piping, tools, clips etc. There was no rush, essentially I'd finished for the day and had by then decided to stay. Later I'd get out my bed board, the one I laid across the seats to sleep on, and that would be me till the following morning. And so I thought for a while, pondering each of the items in front of me, and those other items I knew were in my box, in the cab. I came up with the idea of using duct tape to wrap the new pipe once I'd fitted it. It seemed worth a go. It was probably the sort of thing my dad would have done in his shed, utilizing what he had, but above all trying.

Dad's shed wasn't a common wooded job, it was actually block built and whitewashed on the outside. He had a great fondness for it, we knew that, but also for the idea of sheds in general, their purpose and, in his view, necessity. I can remember him sitting in front of the telly once, watching a news item about the police searching for some bloke who'd done I can't remember what, although something pretty nasty, I recall that much. Anyway, dad said the police should have a 'men without a shed' register and at times like this go out and round them up. Everyman should have a shed or its equivalent, he said, there's something wrong with those that don't. Dad was a bit extreme at times. He even carpeted the floor of his shed, with the cast off when he and mum renewed the carpet in our living room. At the time our neighbour was throwing out a 4 stroke hover mower: it wouldn't start, he said. Dad took it into his shed and sure enough in less than an hour he had it going, mowing a perfect circle in his carpet, exposing the concrete base below. My tape idea didn't work. I kept at it, though, and the following time I sleeved the pipe with a larger hose. In the end it held; just long enough for me to sell the lorry.

57

It's hard to explain American football, I don't mean the rules, although that would be difficult enough, I mean why, why does American football exist at all? Why the complexity and show, why not just play rugby? It's as if someone sat a five-year-old boy down with some paper and a box of crayons, showed him a game of rugby and asked how it could be improved. The game of American football was then invented from the explosion of colour that remained after all the laser sticks and tanks were removed.

And it's the colour, complexity and show that mask what the game is all about: the simple act of violence, male violence over territory and possession. All that razzmatazz is just a way to authorize, to establish credibility and create approval. In some ways it's how the acceptance of religious doctrines and bonding in the military is achieved. Chanting and trinkets, beating music and uniforms all appeal to the most basic of animal instincts: to belong to a group is the way to survive. Paraphernalia makes a powerful contribution because it provides the illusion of legitimacy. In this way American football endorses itself, fluffs up its feathers and struts its stuff.

And once a following is established it's time to plant the idea firmly in the minds of the people by playing the game. The wealth of the church, the loyalty of soldiers and the success of the team depend on the cooperation of everyone involved. In American football, a player's number indicates their position and 57 is usually a centre. His job is to get the offensive going by snatching up the ball and passing it to the quarterback, then block any attempt by the opposition to thwart his teams' plans. He plays his part as his team advances, bit by bit, yard by yard, all the while ensuring his own continued status and position. And it's all achieved in a flash of colour, the chanting of orders and the sound of clashing armour.

Rugby is just as much about territory and possession, but its violence is raw and open. Rugby is much less of a spectacle than American football and in that way more honest. Maybe in part due to the dull, overcast and muddy fields of Britain, I always think that Rugby is best not watched in colour. There's no illusion, just grit. It reminds me of the pure and simple fact that sometimes, when the need arises, you just need to get stuck in. Like Tom Yately did in 57, when the violent Red ruled the roost.

The 1957 film, Hell Drivers, was a first-rate B movie about a firm of tipper drivers. It came out of an era of change when traditional roles were starting to be challenged. It's a male dominated black and white drama that sees good conquer evil. Filled with conflict over position and possession, Hell Drivers is more than just a British western: the characters, although extreme, were contemporary, authentic and real. The film shows how aggression is sometimes needed to defeat the damaging parasitic effect of wrongdoing, in this case by a rough, antagonistic top driver and a corrupt employer.  Here the team of drivers are weak and uncoordinated against the powerul Red and his boss. But Tom, their '57', snatches up the ball and goes on the offensive. Simple, undressed male violence. There's no need for deception or illusion; it's refreshing to watch.