INTERVIEW TONY BRADFIELD orocco Owner-driver Tony Bradfield is still going
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strong at 81 years of age, and drives to Morocco twice a month Words: George Barrow! Images: Tom Cunningham
An assortment of bags sit opposite the front door of a rented semi-detached Suffolk house. Tony Bradfield's bags look to be already packed, yet it isn't clear whether the tanned and smiling Bradfield is coming or going. Since moving in nearly four months ago, he estimates that this is only the eighth or ninth night he has spent in his new part-time home.
Bradfield, it would appear, does not feel entirely comfortable in his new surroundings.
The downstairs of the house is modestly furnished — bachelor pad practical rather than comfortable family home — the flat-screen TV, chairs and sofa all belong to his old friend and housemate Ray 'Razor' Rice. Bradfield's possessions, he says, amount to just a few boxes in a bedroom and the bags by the door. His life, his world, is on a job; in Spain. The truck, a 10-year-old 480hp Daf XF, has just tipped in Gibraltar and is scheduled to load in Barcelona tomorrow. Razor is due to bring it back by the end of the week. It's been a few days since he last heard from Razor, but Bradfield isn't worried. He speaks warmly of his old
friend, but it is obvious he is envious of the trip. Bradfield longs to return to the road.
Born in Chingford, Essex, in 1932 and raised in Walthamstow during the war, Bradfield's first experience in a truck came more than six decades ago — the date and time of which has long since been pushed from his memory. But it was during his two years of National Service (Bradfield reached the rank of corporal as a tank instructor) where he would charge across the bomb-cratered testing ground of Salisbury Plains "putting the fear of Christ" into unwitting passengers, that driving would take its hold. Having missed out on a call up to the Korean War (a regret of Bradfield's, who describes it in his husky, coarse London accent as "something I just really wanted to do"), he instead set about driving trucks for a living, where a variety of jobs followed. "You wouldn't believe the f**king s**t I've driven," Bradfield says. "I've done everything." Everything included more mundane jobs like moving s**t from Newmarket stables and loading tonne after tonne of lime by hand, to
other more unusual posts.
"I used to run up to Liverpool every night with soap powders and then bring a truck full of whiskey back with an escort. I had two Mk-1 Jags as escorts, one at the front, and one at the back. Then I used to take bombs for the army down to south Wales. I wasn't allowed to stop, I had an escort for that too, but there were no log books or anything, just 28mph in a civilian vehicle all the way to Swansea." An appealing lifestyle An aircraft from RAF Mildenhall roars into the sky, interrupting our conversation. Bradfield is sitting outside on a grey metal patio chair, slowly smoking a Benson & Hedges cigarette, while he recounts his early jobs and overlooks the backyard and the empty space beyond the fence where his lorry would normally be parked. The list of work is extensive. He's run for
countless operators, some for short periods, others for much longer, but always as an owner-driver and always living and loving life on the road.
His first home from home wasn't a sleeper cab, it was an Atkinson day cab; he would curl up on the seat and engine-hump with an army overcoat over him and brown paper wrapped around his feet and legs to help keep warm. Then, Bradfield began travelling abroad in a bed-less AEC, before graduating to a Magirus with a larger seat slightly more suitable for sleeping on.
Regular trips to France, Holland, Germany, Italy and Greece followed over the years, providing traction for many now-defunct firms. The lifestyle appealed to him and, in those days, the money was good. Bradfield spent lavishly on glamorous American cars from Plymouth, Dodge and Ford — he's owned four Mustangs and a Thunderbird — and later on powerboat rides (to fuel his passion for water skiing), and also a 32ft six-berth Norwegian cruiser propelled by twin Volvo diesel engines.
Regular trips to France, Holland, Germany, Italy and Greece followed over the years, providing traction for many now-defunct firms. The lifestyle appealed to him and, in those days, the money was good. Bradfield spent lavishly on glamorous American cars from Plymouth, Dodge and Ford — he's owned four Mustangs and a Thunderbird — and later on powerboat rides (to fuel his passion for water skiing), and also a 32ft six-berth Norwegian cruiser propelled by twin Volvo diesel engines.
Bradfield even set up on his own, running a small fleet of four trucks to the Middle East as far as Baghdad, Iraq, with a crew of "rough mercenaries.., and reliable drivers".
The trucks also took on work in Morocco, subcontracting loads for various UK and European operators. It's these twice-monthly Moroccan trips, and the intervening years since as an owner-driver, that Bradfield is now known for. His age alone makes him the most experienced man on the route, but with 28 years of crossing the Alboran Sea and the Straits of Gibraltar under his belt, he is unquestionably UK trucking's Mr Morocco.
His last trip to Morocco coincided with Ramadan, the ninth month of the Islamic calendar and a period of fasting across the Arabic world. With the festival of Eid, which brings with it lengthy holidays, now in full swing, Bradfield is unlikely to be on the road anytime soon. While this bothers him, he's happy enough — the planners at Davies Turner, who he drives for, have got his mate Razor on the job to Gibraltar, and Bradfield will be able to pick up other work if he wants. Eager to get back on the road Another fighter jet booms overhead, prompting Bradfield to get up from his seat. Despite having spent much of yesterday power-washing the paths and trimming the hedges of his new part-time home, he's restless and finding life in the house tedious. But his age is suddenly more apparent as he rises. His hip momentarily causes
him trouble — the result of a break three years ago when he fell from his cab in Morocco — but Bradfield walks off the ache and grabs the keys to his Nissan pick-up truck.
Despite the cars, the boats and a comfortable life as a homeowner, it's not all been plain sailing. Bradfield has been on the receiving end of his fair share of bad luck, and his extravagant days are now long gone. His current situation means he's got just enough cash to repair the lorry, should he have to, but Bradfield has been in this boat before.
"I used to do Morocco even before Davies Turner came on the scene," he says, while expertly threading his pick-up truck through the maze of tightly parked cars and the oncoming traffic in the nearby town. "The money was great, but the other firms didn't pay me. I got knocked for £80,000, but with the money it cost me for the driver's wages, insurance, diesel and trailer hire, that could easily be another £40,000 on top." Lonely work
Unfortunately for Bradfield, that wasn't an isolated incident: over the years a number of operators have left him out of pocket. "I think I've lost as much money as I've earned," he jokes, as he carefully removes the skin from the tomatoes in the café we find ourselves in. Yet, despite the knocks and the costs — the insurance payments on his truck amount to £9,000 a year — he still keeps going.
"It's a rough old game to be in, but it's all I know. There used to be at least 100 British drivers out there, but there are only about five of us going. It's only me on the boat now, on my own. A lot of them only go to Algeciras in Spain because of the insurance [costs of going to Morocco]." Once upon a time, those costs might have been justified, but now Bradfield sticks firmly to the port of Tangiers
rather than running further south into the country. The memories of several hair-raising episodes are fresh in his mind, not least a potential nightmare scenario just four years ago.
"I was going onto this trading estate in Casablanca," he recalls. "There was a crossroads, and as I've gone to go left, my motor stopped dead in the road. Someone had jumped between the trailer and my unit and cut all the airlines. Then, about 20 of them surrounded the truck. They stood on the front, snapped my wiper blades off and tried to smash their way in through the windscreen. Luckily on that lorry I've got bloody great horns, and they don't half go! So I let these hooters go and it frightened the life out of them, but only for a second. Then they started on me again. Luckily a bloke — a Moroccan who knows me — heard the hooters go, and realised I was in trouble. He brought a gang of guys up there to sort it out."
"I was going onto this trading estate in Casablanca," he recalls. "There was a crossroads, and as I've gone to go left, my motor stopped dead in the road. Someone had jumped between the trailer and my unit and cut all the airlines. Then, about 20 of them surrounded the truck. They stood on the front, snapped my wiper blades off and tried to smash their way in through the windscreen. Luckily on that lorry I've got bloody great horns, and they don't half go! So I let these hooters go and it frightened the life out of them, but only for a second. Then they started on me again. Luckily a bloke — a Moroccan who knows me — heard the hooters go, and realised I was in trouble. He brought a gang of guys up there to sort it out."
As well as being attacked, and the odd brick thrown at his cab, his drink has also been spiked (and subsequently the contents of his cab emptied), he's dealt with his fair share of would-be illegal immigrants, and even had his own Volvo truck burst into flames while driving — a well-known incident for anyone who knows him He's also seen friends lured in by drug money, and been offered work smuggling hashish — "he wanted me to get pallet carriers on the trailer, and fill the block between all the slats with drugs. I told him to piss off." Trucking in Morocco, it would seem, is full of dangers and excitement. Experience goes a long way
For all the stories of driving, of old friends, the foreign scams, terrifying attacks, the idle time spent clearing customs, the drinking, the clubs, the breakdowns and the countless ferry crossings, knowing when to break ranks, and when not to, during a tense and sometimes violent Spanish strike, is only something experience can teach. Bradfield says he'd do it all over again, given the chance.
But for all his accrued knowledge, his time on the road will probably soon come to an end. The Driver CPC is just one more expense he can't afford. And, as he queues up to get this week's lottery numbers checked, he admits he'd love to keep going. "CPC? What a load of b******s! You get some stupid f**k, who doesn't know which way the wheels go around, telling us what to do. And for what?"
It's a frank and honest appraisal of legislation that many in Bradfield's shoes don't want, don't understand, and don't want to understand. One that will sadly spell the end to this driver's lengthy and lively career. The journey to Morocco may not be the longest or most demanding route for a driver to take, but Tony Bradfield is 81 next week. Age, however, won't be what stops him from carrying on. •