Squatting Cigarettes and the Art of Hitchhiking

Back in the early 1980s, and for only a short while, I was fortunate to be living in two places at the same time.

I was living with friends in a beautiful, remote farmhouse at the top of a hill in West Wales. In sharp contrast, I also had a room in a squat in North London.

Today, squatting is uncommon and generally frowned upon, but back then it was legal and commonplace, especially in big cities like London. Perhaps it was one of the few realistic ways to find accommodation whilst claiming benefits or struggling with a low-paid job.

I was signing on in Wales, so had to be physically there to cash my giro cheque. However, I was enjoying the bright lights and the opportunities of London and that was where I wanted to be.

It was difficult and time-consuming to move my benefit records across from Wales to London without risking the pathetic income. So I found myself frequently on a slip-road on the M4 motorway, hitchhiking from Wales to London and then a few days later returning to Wales to sign on.

You do not see many hitchhikers nowadays, but back then it was fairly common. It wasn’t unusual to be sharing a motorway slip road with two or three other hitchhikers. Traditionally, it was a case of standing on the side of the road, thumb stuck out, waiting for luck to intervene. But it took more than luck to get a lift; there was a certain amount of skill and psychology involved.

After many hours potentially stranded on unfamiliar roadsides, I had come to the conclusion that, if I was to successfully get to my destination, I would need to improve the way I interacted with drivers.

Initially, I just used city signs, hastily scrawled out on a piece of cardboard, but later I improved the system by creating a set of individual cards and inserting them into a modified plastic record sleeve. Each card had a swappable city destination printed on it in block capitals: Cardiff, Bristol and London, for example. I would then find a safe part of the road where cars could pull in, make good eye contact with drivers, hide my spiky black hair under a hat and boldly display my sign.

One miserable, damp afternoon, somewhere near Swansea, the brake lights of a passing car glow red as it slows and pulls onto the side of the slip road. I hurry towards the car and pull open the passenger door.

The driver, a man smoking a cigarette, tells me to get in. I seem to have luck on my side as he is travelling all the way to the capital. I get in, somewhat apprehensively.

The driver looks like a travelling salesman. He wears a crumpled shirt and tie and appears to be in his mid-forties. A black briefcase sits on the rear seats and a suit jacket swings from a hanger. His car looks expensive and relatively new. We pull away from the slip road, gather momentum and enter the motorway heading eastbound. We don’t exchange names.

The interior of the vehicle resembles a jazz club from the 1960s, with thick, stale smoke hanging in the air. The ashtray that sits between us is overflowing with cigarette butts. Many have already spilled onto the floor.

The driver adds to the ashtray mess by extinguishing the cigarette he has been smoking and immediately lights up a fresh one.

I sit quietly in the passenger seat as the driver talks. He is eager to talk, but not necessarily to converse. Without much of an introduction he tells me about how much he despises his wife and what a miserable life he has. It’s a one-way conversation. I cannot really add anything to the discourse, so I occasionally nod my head and look out of the window, hoping that the topic changes soon.

He is clearly very bitter, perhaps angry too. As we speed down the motorway towards London he chain-smokes and continues to rant about his life.

We have been travelling for about an hour and are now approaching Junction 17. I cannot take it anymore. His relentless monologue and the unhealthy air has taken its toll on me, and despite his offer of a lift all the way to London, I have made an executive decision.

I tell him that I have changed my plans and will be changing destination. I politely ask to be let out. The driver goes quiet. He snaps on his indicator, drives up the exit ramp and comes off the motorway.

We part on good terms, I wish him well and he reciprocates. I stand on the slip road again and watch as he speeds off, continuing his lonely journey to London.

Now, decades later, the episode often returns. I wonder what happened to him as he drove away. Did he pick up more hitchhikers? Was it an altruistic move to stop for me, or did he just really need someone to talk to?

I also wonder if I should have been a better person that day, perhaps a better listener, a longer listener. But I was young, naive and probably not skilled enough to offer any real help.

What I do know is that he was prepared to stop his car on a damp Welsh afternoon and scoop up a young hitchhiker off the side of the road.

It was a very kind gesture. And I am still thankful for that.