Hours before boarding the cross-Channel car ferry, I received a text message from the company warning of severe fuel shortages on the other side of the Channel. Nevertheless, it went on to say, for safety reasons the transporting in vehicles of fuel-filled jerry cans was strictly forbidden. Bugger that. I went out and bought two five-gallon second world war-style green steel jerrycans, filled them to the brim with diesel, and concealed them in suitcases. As we queued to board, I looked around at the lines of vehicles, many with trailers and roof boxes, and hoped and trusted that every one of them was packed to the gunnels with fuel containers of every description, because surely they weren’t going to search every car before letting us on board — were they? No, of course they weren’t. Languid dock workers waved us nonchalantly up the ramp, and the ferry, perhaps sitting several inches deeper in the water than usual, set sail at 10 p.m. sharp.
The overnight crossing took ten hours. The cabins were fully booked. The only accommodation available at the time of booking was a reclining seat for six quid, which was all I needed. As the undisputed British, European and Commonwealth sleeping champion, I could sleep draped over a washing line if I had to. But as an insurance policy I riffled through my drawers at home and found an old strip of Zopiclone sleeping pills.
Zopiclone is a controlled hypnotic sedative that shuts down the central nervous system. Given the choice, monkeys will self-administer Zopiclone intravenously. In France, it is among the top ten drugs obtained on a forged prescription. Even if I didn’t know any of this, and had no previous experience of Zopiclone, I would always put my trust in a hypnotic sedative beginning with the letter ‘z’.
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