Eckythump!

The good old Yorkshire Post is on strike.
My sweet natured friends in the transport division are no longer there. The presses have been shut and now they're culling the reporters.

It's like seeing an old friend die.

The YEP was my home for nearly three years. The men and women I worked with were like heroes in a legend.
We all had nicknames.
I was the Nutty Professor. Or on a good day, Buddy Love.
They sacked all the managers who stood up to them. They killed the 'Post.
Johnston Press is in trouble. That's all. They can't make enough money any more from Newspapers.
I hope the old thing survives; I've great memories of the people and the job.
Scotty, playing bagpipes in the frosty air at one in the morning on a Saturday, whenever we were waiting for the presses to roll out the Post.
Driving like a maniac to Scarborough. Pitch black. The most dangerous trunk route in Britain. Hitting speeds of 90 miles an hour in a fully loaded Sprinter in the dark. And all through we were well within our abilities, because we became that good. Except once; I was going 88 round a curve on the A64 and misjudged. I had to tighten the turn. The heavily laden van started to fishtail.
Remembering an old piece of advice from flying days, I held the wheel rigid and didn't attempt to correct.
The vehicle recovered. Just.
I sweated. Then I laughed. Then I stopped at the all nighter for an extra strong coffee.
We always got through. If the vans got destroyed, too bad.
We'd check up on retired Post employees, popping in off our routes for a cuppa, to see the old lads straight.
It continued even after they installed satellite tranceivers in the vans.
We were a family.