May 1985, local election day. I wake up in Norwich, where I’ve been visiting friends, and need to get to Leamington Spa, where I’m living, by 9pm, when the polling station closes. The guy standing for Labour has been round my door and I’ve promised him my vote. It’s likely to be a close run thing, he says, and every one counts. I set off at lunchtime. I’m hitch-hiking, because I haven’t much money.
At first it goes well. It’s mainly Labour voters who pick me up, and we discuss politics on the way. I get through Peterborough and Bedford, and get dropped off at Watford Gap Service Station, on the M1. I stand at the back of the hitching queue and wait. And wait, and wait.
Sometimes, when you’re hitching, you know you’re going to be stuck for ages. I’m there about three hours. Eventually a silver Rover stops.
“Where are you going?”
“Leamington.”
“Jump in, I’ll set you on your way.”
The guy’s a Tory, in his fifties, and we have a political debate. Quite a row, actually: I’m not yet 21, and my politics are more ruled by passion than experience. After an hour or so he pulls to a halt at the bottom of a hill on a busy single lane road.
“Walk to the top of the hill and there’s a roundabout: one of the roads is signposted to Leamington,” he says, and drives off down a junction. I walk to the top of the hill, but there is no roundabout. The cars are going too fast for me to hitch, so I trudge on. Another hill, again no roundabout. Another hill, again no roundabout. He’s set me up. The bastard.