The booze cruise had been Flinty's idea. He was working in McDonald's in the town centre and one of his regular customers told him about cheap 24-hour returns on the Dover to Calais cross-channel ferry. You could fill your car with cut-price alcohol and cigarettes from the nearest hypermarket in France and flog it at a profit when you were back in England.

There was no catch. All you had to do was tell the customs at Dover that it was all for your own consumption.

Flinty explained all this to us in the pub one night and pointed out that we all had our 18th birthdays coming up. We'd all want to have a bit of a party so we could stock up on a load of beer and spirits and save ourselves a fortune. And the Ratmobile was the ideal vehicle, Flinty reasoned. We could fit a shedload of booze in the back.

We checked out the prices at a travel agent in town and, sure enough, it was cheap as chips. We just had to travel on the ferries at off-peak times.

***

It was a straight three-hour drive from Swindon to Dover and we set off at two in the morning to catch the six-o-clock ferry. The motorway was deserted at that time of the morning so we reached the ferry terminal with no problems, apart from Flinty having a last-minute panic when he thought he'd forgotten his passport. Once that was found, we drove onto the ferry and went to one of the onboard cafes for something to eat. Flinty and Spud had been out on the town the night before and were both feeling a bit worse for wear.

We were in the café when the boat sailed and didn't notice any movement until we got out of the harbour. Then it started to roll. There wasn't a storm, it was summer, but there was a heavy swell that caused our cups and plates to slide around the table.

I was fine. I'd stayed at home, knowing I had to drive but, as I watched, both Flinty and Spud began turning a sickly shade of pale green.

They spent the entire 90-minute crossing upchucking their breakfasts over the side of the ferry while I stood and laughed at them. By the time we reached the calm waters of Calais they were both looking washed out and fragile.

'Try not to drive over any bumps,' Spud begged me as I drove down the exit ramp and into the town.

***

The town centre of Calais was just coming to life by the time I found somewhere to leave the Ratmobile, so we went for a walk around the old town while Spud and Flinty slowly recovered. The shops were full of tourist tat. Stacks of miniature Eiffel towers jostled with crappy tee-shirts and fridge magnets.

After half-an-hour, Spud announced he was feeling better and could do with a mug of tea. We trooped into the nearest café, sat at a table, and asked for tea. The owner fussed around for five minutes then placed three tiny cups, each with a herbal teabag on a piece of string in front of us. Each saucer held a slice of lemon.

'What the fuck is this supposed to be?' Flinty asked me.

'Must be how the French have their tea,' I shrugged.

'Let's make a run for it and find somewhere that does British tea. I'm not paying for this crap!'

'Bloody hell!' I realised. 'We can't pay for it anyway. We haven't got any French francs.'

We'd put a century each into a kitty and I had been designated as treasurer. I'd intended to change it into francs on the ferry but had been so distracted watching the other two being ill I'd completely forgotten. I had 300 quid in my pocket but not a single franc.

'Tell you what,' Spud said calmly. 'You go and find somewhere to change our money then go back to the car. We'll sort things out here and meet you there.'

'Okay,' I said guardedly. 'What are you going to do?'

'I've got an idea. Ask him to give us the bill on your way out. Your French is better than ours.'

I drank the tepid liquid in my cup, asked for l'addition, and left.

***

I found a bureau-de-change and converted all our money to francs at an exorbitant exchange rate. When I got to the car they were already there.

'What happened?' I asked.

'He was as good as gold and agreed that we didn't have to pay,' Flinty told me with a smug grin. 'Spud's a genius!'

It turned out that Spud had noticed some dead flies on the windowsill next to where he was sitting. He'd dropped one in each of our teacups, pretended to suddenly notice them and then complained loudly, threatening to call the police, an ambulance and the British Embassy.

The unsuspecting café owner had apologised profusely and ushered them out before any other customers came in and heard the commotion.

***

Armed with our francs we decided to head for one of the many discount warehouses, which were all handily signposted in English.

The interior of our chosen establishment was an alcoholic's heaven. The place was piled high with every conceivable type of intoxicating refreshment. Flinty's contact had been quite correct, the prices were less than half what we'd pay at Tesco's. We each grabbed a trolley and started choosing crates of beer and cases of whisky, vodka and gin. We even picked a few boxes of wine for the girls we intended to invite to our birthday parties.

I did a quick calculation of what we had and told the others to stop. We were just about spent up, and I wanted to keep a little bit back for the journey home.

We wheeled our trolleys outside and loaded it all into the Ratmobile. The rear suspension groaned and settled as we humped more and more inside, and the back wheels seemed to disappear up into the wheel arches. The tyres were looking worryingly flat at the bottom when we'd finished.

'I think you better stop at that garage over the road and put some more air in those tyres,' Spud recommended helpfully.

***

I did as Spud had suggested then drove slowly back to the outskirts of town. The earliest off-peak ferry home we could catch was at ten p.m., so we had to hang around Calais until the evening. Luckily, it was a fine day and we were near a park, so we broke out a few bottles of beer and sat on the grass whiling away the afternoon. I went and bought some bread and cheese from a small supermarket and we had a picnic, whistling at the occasional mademoiselle who walked past.

By eight-o-clock we were bored with France so I motored gingerly back to the port, joining the queue for the ferry in plenty of time.

As I coaxed the overloaded Ratmobile onto the ferry, the back of the car crashed noisily onto the loading ramp. The rear suspension was right down on the bump stops.

***

Flinty and Spud both declined my offer to buy them a pint in the bar and we stayed out on deck for the entire crossing. The swell was almost as bad as our outward trip and they both grasped the handrail with white knuckles, staring fixedly at the horizon in an effort to keep their cheese baguettes down.

Halfway across the Channel, I was also starting to feel queasy, so we all breathed a sigh of relief when we docked at Dover and got back in the car.

'If we ever do this again we're going through the Channel Tunnel,' Spud declared. 'I hate the sea.'

'The tunnel doesn't do the cheap returns,' Flinty said. 'It's worth the hassle to save all that dosh.'

We followed the other cars off the ferry but when we came off the end of the ramp the rear of the Ratmobile dropped with a huge crash and a loud crack.

'That didn't sound too good,' Flinty observed.

I nursed the car through the customs post where an officer took one glance into the back and waved us to the side.

'Oh shit!' I said.

'Don't worry, just remember to say it's all for our own consumption,' Flinty said, unconcerned.

***

The customs officer asked us to get out of the car and then opened the rear doors and started counting cases.

'That is an awful lot of alcohol. Do you intend to sell this?'

'Of course not, officer,' Flinty told him politely, 'it's all for our own consumption.'

'I see, so you three gentlemen are going to drink all of this yourselves?'

'Not all ourselves. We all have our 18th birthdays in the next three months and this is for our birthday parties,' Flinty explained.

The officer frowned at Spud.

'Can I see your passports please?'

We produced our passports and he studied them one at a time, frowning again at Spud and shaking his head.

'Do you three know the minimum age for buying and drinking alcohol?'

I would have laughed at the look on Flinty's face if I hadn't felt such an idiot for not realising we were all under 18.

***

The customs people made us unload all our precious cargo and impounded it. They gave us a receipt and said we could come back and collect it when we were old enough. No, we couldn't get someone else to reclaim it. We had to come in person, with our passports.

We limped back to Swindon at a steady 30 mph and, after dropping off Flinty and Spud, I got home just in time for breakfast. My dad nearly fell off his chair laughing when I told him what had happened, and so did Brian at the garage. He charged me two weeks' wages to fix the suspension on the Ratmobile.