1988 and the world is changing but I’m still standing in front of the weighing scales, weighing boxes of bacon just the same as last year, except now Bros are playing on the radio speaker above my head. This is so depressing. I’ve bought the Morrissey album. I’ve taped a couple of Smiths albums too. ‘If you must go to work tomorrow, then if I was you I really wouldn’t bother…’ Now there’s an idea. The factory hours change to 8 till 5. They take away the smoke breaks, (the men would file down to a smoke filled room downstairs and the women would sit in an upstairs room twice a day). They also stop the 11.30 finish on Friday and it becomes 1 o’clock. Boy, does that last hour and a half drag. They take on two managers, Jack and Geoff, in a bid to increase productivity. Big mistake. Geoff’s a nice guy, but Jack is a moron. He just paces around, thinks he’s a time and motion man. One day he approaches me while I’m weighing bacon.
“I’ve been watching you. You don’t look like you’re enjoying yourself. Why is that?”
“That’ll be because I’m not.”
Jack doesn’t respect honesty. Paul and I start to get the blame for everything. We laugh too loudly, we take longer lunch breaks. Water gets spilt on the stairs and some housewife slips and nearly breaks her neck. We get the blame. It wasn’t us but the next time we’re late, we’re asked why and Paul replies:
“We were washing the stairs.”
This doesn’t go down too well.
On my 18th birthday I take the day off. I run into this guy Will Ryman, who’s always hanging around town. He never has the same job for long, if he bothers working, but he never seems short of cash. Rumour has it he sleeps on the floor at his ex-girlfriend’s house. He calls everyone man and wears big baggy C-17 jeans covered in patches. A few months after he first appears it seems the whole town’s wearing C-17 jeans or the Pepe copies. I’m not wearing a cheap version, I’ve got a job. I buy the C-17 dungarees with the patches.
“I’m off to the job agencies man, come along if you’ve nothing to do.”
At the agencies they have jobs in the window, which, when you inquire about them, aren’t actually available. We fill in the forms and the woman tells us to wait while she checks the files. I’m sitting there dutifully.
“C’mon we haven’t time to wait for her, onto the next one man.”
We head over to the next agency, fill in the form and don’t wait for her either. I figure they won’t call. I didn’t even fill in my form properly.
I start taking a day off a week, usually Wednesday to break the week up. One day I return home and my mum says, “these agencies keep calling for you offering you work.” I’m liking the idea, I could work all different places, work a few days, take a few days off till the money runs out, and then get another temp job. I’m not interested in all that get a job and keep it till you get another one, make sure your CV doesn’t have any employment gaps on it type attitude. My CV says I work in a meat factory. This hasn't been getting me very far.
Paul’s determined to leave. He comes in one Monday and says he’s been offered a job at Tesco’s and he’s got his notice in his hand and he’s going to give it to Tony Adsett this morning. I tell him I will to. I go over to a slightly wet metal table and hastily write out my notice.
“I’ve told Tony,” he says.
I go over to Tony with my note.
“I’m leaving too,” I say.
“You as well. Are you going to Tesco’s too?” he asks.
“No, I’m just leaving.”
“Well don’t hand your notice in till you’ve got another job.”
“No, it’s OK, I’ll be alright, I’m going to leave.
It’s the Thursday and I clock in, knowing this is the last time I’ll do this. Matt Clark isn’t in today so yesterday he was saying how I had to be in on Friday. I can’t come in anyway, I’m booked in to collect my contact lenses tomorrow, so I’ll be able to see at last. Besides it’s pay day, another week’s wages plus tax rebate to go with the £500 I have saved.
It gets around that we’re not coming in tomorrow, so people come and say goodbye. I’ve been trying to keep it quiet because things happen when you’re leaving. When one of the butchers left they stripped him naked, tied him to a chair and took him upstairs.
Nothing happens though. We clock out, I arrange to meet Paul at twelve the next day at Mcdonalds, then I get the van home. The van, with the chat going across, I’m waiting as we crawl along, hoping they won't ask me any questions about the fact I'm leaving. I don't want their opinion. It reaches town where a few people get out, I tell Bert I’m getting out here too.
“See you tomorrow,” someone says. I slam the van door shut, turn and cross the road out of sight and start walking towards the future.
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