Strange meetings

Strange meetings

There is a strange camerarderie that builds up amongst commuters. Forty years ago on this line it would have been stockbrokers and overpaid clerks all respectably dressed like the extras from a Monty Python sketch. 

It isn't like that these days, but there is still a lot stiffupperlipperiness about it all. But not so much about the the starch of empire and middle class mores. More the qawkiness of a youth club disco of the time. It is what you would expect I guess.

Commuting turns you into a geek of course. No, no scrap that, take responsibility for your own foibles. It actually brings out the geek in you. Most mornings two thirds of the residents carriage three know each other. Not to speak to, except for the odd  harrumph at the vicissitudes of the integrated transport system, or disconcerting t the introduction of an irregular carriarige into the role of coach three, or the odd muttered apology crashing after an embarrassed space invasion at some dodgy points you should have remembered. 

By Clapham Junction its like a Friends Reunited reunion. 

But you do begin think you know what these fellow travellers like, what they do, who they are. Perhaps it's all in your head. In this case it clearly was. The girl in glasses and the duffle coat, with the sad eyes and the tenor voice that surprised you on the odd occasion she spoke surprised us all that day. 

I see my friends from that carriage all over the train these days. We wouldn't dream of talking about it. Plus ca change.....

Mike Hughes

Weekend's End

I had been given a festival spot, and it came with a comp ticket. I asked my mate to come with me for the weekend, and we were both up for it. It had been years since we had done this sort of thing, so we were as giddy as school-kids on the drive down. We were going to grab the weekend by the throat and have the kind of messy fun that had been such a part of our adolescent experience.

The guy who we bought them from was typically shady, the sort of bloke who you wouldn’t buy a paper-clip from, but that all seemed part of the thrill, part of the experience.

The area we were in was playing a lot of dub-step, and it saddened me to admit to myself that I didn’t get it, or particularly like it for that matter. There seemed to be some sort of disconnect between the bass groove and the drum-beat, so any attempt to try dancing to it made it look as though you were suffering from the early onset of Parkinson’s disease.

We decided to go to a different arena. We were already pretty drunk by that point, and the first one didn’t have any effect, so we made the somewhat junior error of taking more instead of waiting a bit longer.

After about half an hour, I turned around and looked at my friend. He was sweating a lot and he had gone fire-engine red. I felt quite sweaty myself, and I could the little rushes of electricity move up and down my spine. Then it really kicked in.

It all became too much. The noise and heat and light made my head swim, and I rushed over to the side of a speaker and spewed up. It came out like a hot rush of lava.

I could tell my friend wasn’t feeling too great either, so we staggered back to our tent. A couple of young girls shook their heads at us as we passed them. We had become the middle-aged ravers that we used to sneer at years ago, the Hacienda causalities that would stand in the corner of the club in their day-glo t-shirts, chucking out shapes in some furious attempt to stop the onset of age and maturity.

After making it back to the tent, my mate went off on one, and starting getting paranoid about his job and his life and the fact that he hadn’t spoken to his son in over six months. Eventually he went off to sleep in the car.

I crashed out on my sleeping bag, and started to repeat the mantra in my head that helped me to get my shit together in the past:

“Get over it, ride it out… it will all be right in the morning.”

We went home early.

Joe H

Time Stood Still

It’s my birthday 36 today no big deal but the family are over for some food.

Not very often do I get to see both my sister and my dad and my auntie all in the same day but it was today.

Usual takeaway food nothing too special a few cards no beer im playing football tomorrow.

These Sunday mornings tend to be very much the same up at 7.30 bit of toast get me kit together and then my dad turns up and we are off.

Today will consist of the highs and lows of life we are off to Dishforth for a league game if you don’t know where that is check the map.

Magic 828 on the radio our passengers some fellow team mates always love it I just think they are still a bit drunk from last night but they sing along regardless.

So as the windsock comes into view I know we have arrived big orange thing blowing in the wind.

We got changed and headed out to warm up as normal then I get a shout from my dad he has to leave.

‘Where are you going? I asked ‘its your sister there is a problem back home’ he replied I have got to go.

The game passed me by I know we one but I couldn’t concentrate wondering what was wrong I did hit the bar but that’s pretty much it from me.

Once back to the dressing room my phone was full of missed calls and messages from my dad asking me to get back as soon as I could.

One of the lads agreed to drive me back and drop me at the Lawnswood where my dad was waiting.

Then he told me ‘its Kyle’ I thought there had been an accident.

There wasn’t an accident he had hung himself at work 20 years old I didn’t know what to say.

The day became a blur I went to visit him with my sister and family and he looked like he was at peace why did it happen we will never know.

I don’t really celebrate my birthday that much its just a reminder of what we don’t have anymore, 9^th March is the date I don’t never look forward to.

Andy.

Days of Speed and Slow Time Mondays

Days started when I was forced to start them, with a noisy interruption to my dreamed dreams. Beds never felt comfortable enough except when alarms went off and life was constantly held hostage to mass transit. Mornings were routine. Head into the sink, hair first, then face. Bristles tickled my gums and with a quick rinse I was on the pavement. Tan work boots left, right, left, right for three blocks and into the underground with Metrocard handy and through the turnstile. Down the steps to the express platform. The same people, the same faces. That same girl with the hot body reading some book. Standing against a column, her hair down to her shoulders, whisked past her face as the 4 or 5 would plow into the station. A quick brush back with her gentle hands and she finds a seat near many of the hundreds of workers whose faces are harsh and as uninterested in starting another day as I. They sip coffee cups and close their eyes just tight enough to hold onto those last few precious moments of sleep before they have to force themselves up off the train and into another day. Up the steps and back to the pavement. The alomat hoist can be heard echoing through the tranquil dawn. Shepherded into a car like livestock with 10 to 15 guys whose only goal in life was not to end up here like their fathers and uncles. The door slams down and only a few tiny holes remind you of a world outside. Days of speed and slow time Mondays isn’t just a few words in a great song. It’s nearly a promise but most definitely a reminder at 21; life is passing you by and being bored anymore isn’t an excuse... its a disease.

I arrive on the floor by 7:15. The broom and shovel await my dry as chalk hands. The noise of busy-ness erupts with skill saws and screw guns blasting into sheetrock boards. Everyday is the same. Where I busted my ass cleaning up yesterday, is destroyed within seconds. Its a job hard pressed to find motivation. Then you’re told that checks are going to be late. It doesn’t matter, because you’re stuck here, but you still complain all the same. The south side of the floor, the 44th floor, is trashed. I’m distracted by the city beneath me. New York City. Buildings belching from the pavement nearly 50 stories below. Downtown. A gaping hole in the skyline where something is missing and you know exactly where it should be. I sweep. Push. Push. Push. A pile of sawdust is worse than asbestos they say. Electricians tut their tongues and are unimpressed at the lack of green dust compound being used. For a pile like this I feel like saying. A quick look at the phone - 7:30. 9 o’clock coffee is still a ways off. The screeching of screw guns pierce my ear drums like its a board of sheetrock. Again and again, boards fly up and are screwed in. Unused cuts begin to pile up and rolling over a yellow ½ yard container struggles to impress me any further. Cut, snap, bang into the container with relative routine. Cut, snap, bang. Cut, snap, bang. Don’t think, just do. Don’t think, just do. Don’t think, just collect a check.

The floor’s a mess. My foreman will be through the floor soon. Hurricane like force and speed, he finds issues. “... this should’ve been done yesterday.” He’s probably right, but yesterday I didn’t have time. It doesn’t matter. He’s seen it and it’s a strike against me. No such thing as a perfect floor. Floors are never done, it just means you’re not looking hard enough. And, if you’re still satisfied, give it a few minutes. He finds a good few issues on my floor. I knew what they were beforehand but foremen don’t want to hear that you’re working your way round, they want it done before it even fucking happened. I’ll be off this job soon. In construction, all jobs come to an end... for some, rather sooner than others. I probably talk back to much. I’ve failed my entire life to just go with the flow. To shut my mouth and just “collect the check.” In a perfect world, it might be considered a good thing. Someone with half a brain making decisions on his own. Not bothering the boss with silly questions and just going along with the answers given. Not here. Here, I’m rogue. Here, I am not allowing the boss to boss me. He’s the boss. There are many like him, but this one is mine. No thinking, just doing. No thinking, just doing. No thinking... “call the office.”

Tomorrow I could be working or tomorrow I could be off. I’m at the mercy of the office. It’s as helpless as helpless gets. Your fate is never in your own hands. Nearly 7 years later I’m older. Maybe wiser to the system, but still not warm to it. In 7 years, I’ve worked all over this city. The power tie, money hungry offices of Wall St. and the causal campuses of Columbia University. Hanging off the roof of midtown and wishing I could keep this view for hours. Push broom and shovel. Ear blasting roars from tools and their instruments. I feel old. I ache. New kids come in and I cringe at what they say and what they do. They’re dumb. I know they are. It doesn’t matter, they don’t think, they just do. 7 years later and I’m old. I’m old and I ache and bitterness swirls like a chip inserted into my veins. 7 years later. Days of speed in a blur. Slow time Mondays - a promise.   

cclarke

A Roundabout In Dewsbury In The Rain

I heard he was due to come into the building, but I had forgotten all about it. I was busy. I was trying write a radio commercial for a car dealership in Leeds. It wasn't going very well. The car was some sort of fast sports affair, a brand new shiny model, the dynamics and dimensions of which enthralled me not one iota. An overpriced toy for idiots. That was my initial idea for a strap-line. But I couldn't write that, of course. I had to summon up some enthusiasm. It was my job. I had to at least pretend to be interested for money. It was taking up very last drop of my effort. I read the brief, I looked at the brochure and I typed. None of it seemed to make any sense. Performance, power, APR payments. I could feel my brain slowly seizing.
   There was some minor excitement at the other side of the room. He'd arrived. I could see the open-plan office reflected in the big window beyond my computer screen. It was getting dark outside and had started raining; November tea-time in Dewsbury, West Yorkshire. His old stomping ground, someone had said. Where it had all started. The dance halls. Everyone had been very fussy at the thought of him coming in, and now here he was. He was really here. I could hear that voice. He was being led slowly around the desks, being introduced to the staff. They kept using his title. Nobody knew about him back then. People had always said things, but nobody knew for certain. Apart from the people who nobody had believed or even listened to. But this was eight years or so ago. It was easy to dismiss it all as idle gossip. Malicious knee-jerk jibing. He was definitely lecherous, though, I could see that much in the window. There was lot of elaborate bowing and kissing of young female fingers and cheeks. But nobody seemed to object. People were laughing. They were thrilled. I got on with my typing. Cars. Test drives. Tedium.
   Then I sensed somebody directly behind me. I swivelled my chair around and it was him. He looked exactly how you would expect, almost ridiculously so; the purple shell suit, the cigar, the silver hair tied back in a pony tail, the plethora of gold trinkets. He looked old, much older than I had imagined. Small and frail, a paper doll of a man. I stood up, said hello, pleased to meet you. He didn't reply, just lifted a scrawny gilded hand, pontiff style. It was nothing like shaking hands. He wasn't shaking hands, he was allowing me to touch him. I didn't know what to do, so I sort of tapped the back of his wrist, like a polite and tentative smite of a bell on the desk of a hotel reception. It was weird. We just looked at each other. I didn't know what to say to him. I didn't trust myself to speak and not do the comedy voice. I thought I was going to start laughing. Then he said something, I can't recall what exactly, something like "Are we winning, team?", or "Everything OK here then?". Something like that.
   "Not really," I said. I took  the car brochure from the desk and held it up to show him, this sleek and sexy red sports machine. "I'm trying to write this thing about this car. I can't do it though. I can't get excited about it. I'm not a fan of cars."
   He didn't look at the picture or me. He pointed past me, out of the window. "Look", he said. I turned round and looked. We were three stories up. t was raining heavily now, really coming down. The rain blurred the hills and buildings on horizon into blocks of dark green and grey, and I couldn't see anything below us except traffic slowly circling a roundabout. I "Look at that," he said. "Yorkshire. Marvellous."

Russ L

The Brace

Richard really did fancy himself. He wasn’t a bad-looking bloke, but he
reckoned that women found him irresistible and, on the whole, they did. This
meant he often found himself seeing two women at the same time, with the
current ‘lucky’ ladies being Paula and Beverly.
“It’ll just be for a short while, until I get the courage up to tell Paula it’s over.”
He told himself, confidently. “Then Beverly need never know, and only one of
‘em gets hurt. Simple.”
If only it was that simple. He’d been seeing Paula for about six weeks now but
during the last two had found his mind, amongst other things, wandering
somewhat. He fancied her, alright, but the amount of dental work that she was
having done - including the appearance of an unsightly brace across her front
teeth - was playing havoc with their social life, as she was always crying off at
the last minute. This had allowed Beverly to step in to fill the void just over two
weeks ago and, during that time, he had been seeing them both on alternate
nights. As a result, Richard’s powers of deception were being pushed to the
limit, but with Paula recovering from another trip to the dentist the opportunity
for two evenings in a row with Beverly presented itself. Fortunately, Beverly’s
parents had gone to the pictures this particular evening, enabling Richard and
Beverly to get comfortable on the back-room settee. Richard felt something
was different about Beverly and, just as they were about to kiss again, he
asked.
“What’s happened to your brace?”
 “What brace?” Beverly replied. “I haven’t got a fuckin’ brace!”

H. J. Lawrence

Barnsley to Bradford, via Flockton & Grange Moor.

Down Dodworth road, onto the M1, foot down for one junction, off at Haigh, the roundabout of despair, literally in the depression, ni mind, just a quick quarter of it.
Fly by Yorkshire Sculpture park, pushing 60. Slow down for West Bretton, 30 school, time it right so no brakes required. Bomb down to Denby Dale roundabout, two lane, quick thinking needed for minimum stoppage. Undertake the Audi, his eyes on the iPhone, first out. Chicken out of trying to outrun the accelerating truck. Patience now, not worth overtaking on the straight up to the Black Bull. Get the fucker on the New Hall prison dip.

Got in front, cutting the corners on the sweeps into Flockton, strict 30 all the way through the village, think of a spoof Twitter account for the Flockton lollipop lady, knows everyone, and no nonsense.

Watch out for the chancers from the two Emley blind junctions, cover your brakes, cover your brakes.

Glimpsed from West Bretton you can see it, not him, not her, it

Elmley moor TV mast, a constant from ever. Sometimes shining, sometimes dull. Cloud can obscure it, just a stump, or a spike and a foot.

Hundreds of times wanted to stop for photos, you can never do it justice.

Past Grange Moor now, looking heath, looking moorland, take a right turn if you want, you could be in the Yorkshire Dales.

But you're not, you can see the Pennine ridges of Marsden, Slaithwaite
But the best is to the East, glimpses over the tops of the drystone walls. Never been confirmed, but on the clearest of days you can make out the Wolds. Right over there between the power stations and the back of Leeds.

Eyes back on the road lad, luck will run out eventually.

K B

The Storm Junkie

Facebook Update 11.03pm 27/12/12 Tony Horner

" I'm a bad weather chaser, when I see those new reports of rivers swelling and the bricks on old bridges crumble and disappear into the green brown rushing waters I'm off straight away. Cornwall, West Wales, West of Scotland. Anywhere the snow or the rain or the winds are doing enough to disrupt the daily lives of thousands who hate bad weather. That's where I want to be.

There's something truly exhilarating about rivers that burst their banks, turning fields into lakes and high streets of small towns and villages into dangerous runs of water, catching and dragging cars along in their wake.

Snowdrifts. My aim is to be ether caught in a snowdrift or even worse washed away into a dangerous river in my car. For the snowdrift I've everything I might need to stay OK under there. The boot has a sleeping bag, shovel, blankets, spare coats, water, food. I can punch a way through into the boot behind the armrest in the back seat. Or if I want save myself some money and drama I can just lift the back shelf off.

I once nearly put a big flashy 4 wheel drive people carrier off a road in Northumberland in the snow. My wife was there and she was pregnant so she wasn't too happy. we were miles from anywhere , too far to turn back, not near enough to our destination to walk. We edged along slowly, for the first time I realized the weight of a vehicle. I was unfamiliar with it. If I'd been on my own I'd have happily been more wreckless but her presence and condition and her state of mind was freaking me out.

Now that's all gone and I'm heading down to the Hills near Hereford again. There's a huge bank of snow predicted and that's after months of rain. Just to stand out there, feel the wet and the wind lashing round me, eating the toggles of my jacket, to keep the hood tight around my face. A different gust can cut straight through, two layers of thermals and over trousers and it can still slay you.

Waiting for a tree to fall, or the groan and sway of a centuries old bridge. Something so helpless about a town divided by the raging bull run of bad weather. Sandbags, hammered and battered doors buckled, mud everywhere. Nature's unstoppable force. The snow's already started and the wheels were slipping beneath me earlier. All the other traffic is going against me. I open the window and feel the air and the sleet. Ahead the black mountains and what?

They've gone now. Cloud, the snow, the cars no longer on tarmac. The lights are hazed. Ten feet too high to see their outline and now they're gone. Out of a village and back into the country. White. Roaring hell....."

From Sarah Horner

To all Tony's friends. This was my dad's last Facebook note I thought you might like to see it. It was in his drafts. they found his car in the Wye yesterday. The police are treating his death as accidental.


James Brown

Going Underground

10^th November 1984 was an unexceptional day in Allerton Bywater. The fog crept up from the River Aire and clung to the low hills and spoil heaps. It was seven o’clock. Lights went on. The sound of ablutions could be heard. All around the village, front doors opened almost in unison, as men walked down the short paths of their terraced house to the front gates.

Many carried rucksacks, containing sandwiches, newspapers, books. There was no canteen underground. Generally well turned out, the miners had an almost incomprehensible obsession with personal cleanliness. In two hours time they would be filthy, crawling in ore-blackened water, their skins grimy and their eyes red from blinking away the dust.

Danny Gofton walked on his own as was his habit. He wasn’t an unsociable man by any means, but a serious one nevertheless. He was looked on by his peers as a leader. Not a position he sought, but one he felt obliged to fill if others deemed it necessary.

He walked through the gates and acknowledged a few mates with a nod. The car park was still empty. Most of the miners were still local men. The car park was generally used by the office staff, skilled workers and management, who arrived later.

He entered the wash-house and lit a last cigarette before going underground.

He changed into his working gear, long johns, a second vest and overalls, then strapped on his lamp, self-rescuer and his gas warning meter. He double checked the equipment, fastened his locker then walked to the pithead. There he picked up his tally and put it round his neck and waited for the cage to ascend.

The cage clanked up the shaft, the banksman opened the metal gates, and he walked in. By now there were a dozen other miners with him, most of them younger. He said little – listening to unlikely stories of their drinking exploits, sexual conquests and plans for the weekend. A weary smile flickered across his face. It was part of the rights of passage for most young men that had passed him by.

The pit wasn’t doing well. Every time the target was met, then it was raised again. There was no overtime. Everyone just had to work harder and smarter, but with tools and techniques that hadn’t changed for twenty years that was well nigh impossible.

The only way was to cut corners. Cages carried more men. Trains went faster, trucks were overloaded, machinery was fixed rather than replaced. Warnings were ignored.

The cage reached the bottom of the shaft, the onsetter opened the cage gates and they jumped on the train. It was a ten minute journey to the coal face. Most people quietened down at this point. Some tried to read their newspapers, others just stared blankly around them. The featureless walls and electric strip lighting provided no stimulus.

The train juddered to a halt and they jumped off and split up into their teams of six. Each team member had a role. Danny was a barrowman. The hewers, with a combination of drills and picks, win the coal from the coal face. It was the barrowman’s responsibility to separate the slate and shale, get the good coal into the tubs as quickly as possible and then hitch the tubs up so that they could be towed away. Their seam was too narrow to accommodate sophisticated machinery, but it contained anthracite of the highest quality.

The tub had their team name on. When it got to the surface it was weighed and the bonus for the team calculated. There was no room for shirkers, no time for rest. Any coal spilled cost money.

There was a slight incline down to the coal face following the dipping Silkstone seam. Pushing the tubs up the incline to join the train needed two strong men.

Danny didn’t like breaking rules. If a deputy or an overman caught you, it was instant dismissal. He fought a constant battle with the rest of the team about basic safety issues. Shoring took time but had to be done. Trucks were clearly marked as to where they could be filled to. The team could be fined if they broke the rules. But still they did it, particularly the younger guys. It caused friction in the team, arguments. Danny knew he was right but he gave in. He understood.

Underground it was constantly wet. Wet from perspiration, from clouds of exhaled air, but most of all from the water that leaked from the coal seams, making the anthracite gleam in the artificial light. It ran down the walls. It dripped from the roof. It often gushed out of the face when new coal was won.

A thick grey corrugated rubber tube ran to the coal face, occasionally moving of its own volition like a tentacle. When all else was quiet you could hear water gurgling through it and the distant hum of the pump that removed the water from the coalface.

Today, as often happened, the pump stopped. It was usually as a result of dust and grit clogging the filter. They were supposed to stop drilling and wait for maintenance to fix it. They all knew what that meant. Lost time and lost money.

As ever, they took a vote as to whether to stop. As ever, Danny was outvoted. They continued, the water rising slowly but inexorably, making the floor slippery.

A tub was full. The hewers stopped. Danny noticed it was well above the limit, but there would be no point in even suggesting unloading. They pushed the tub up the incline, coupled it to the next full one and tramped wearily back down. Sore, wet, tired, lungs heaving and sinews aching.

A dull thud echoed round the coal face. Miners became accustomed to all the noises they heard underground. This was different and immediately Danny looked round to see the tub trundling down the slope, slowly gathering speed and moving towards them. His mate hadn’t seen it. Danny yelled, but the hewers had started up and his mate couldn’t hear him. In desperation Danny pushed him out the way, but as he did so he slipped in the slurry produced by the water and coal dust. He regained his balance but it was too late. All he could do was grab the front of the tub and try and stop it. It was a losing battle. Although he kept his footing, he was pushed inexorably down the slope and pinned against the coal face. A jagged lump of coal pressed agonisingly into his back. The tub recoiled and he collapsed to the floor and lost consciousness.

Pete

Fields of Athenry

Tommy O’Hanlon says he knows some families up Carnley Road way, who still speak Gaelic at home.  Most of 'em from Mayo he reckons.  I'm doubtful, but then again, when we were kids he once told me Father Mullin tried to touch his arse one afternoon, so he could be onto something. 

Anyway, we've never been like that in our house, though I know the old bloke still gets a twinkle in his eye when Ireland beat England at rugby.  Nothing to do with nationalism, or republicanism, or religion.  He still half-believes, but when the Provos started blowing stuff up over here, it turned his stomach.  All those old songs he used to sing.  He doesn’t sing them any more.  And whatever residual notion he had of the pike in the thatch, has also gone. 

One time he was first through the door at St Theresa's.  Every Sunday.  Think he still winks at the place when he goes past, but funerals apart, that's as near as he ever gets these days. Our Patricia's the same; Irish-lite.  Four Green Fields and a bit of Pogues. 

Had to laugh the other week though.  Sunday afternoon and after half a pig and a sackful of potatoes and veg, most of the family is dozing in front of telly and fire.  Songs of Praise comes on, so our Patricia turns the sound down and puts a tape on.  "Rebel songs of Erin" or some such bollocks.  Got it off a car boot for ten bob. 

Anyway, the old lass wakes up during some line about a prison ship sailing away, and she sees the great British middle class, washed and polished on the telly, apparently singing along, and she’s up and shouting at me dad, “Wake up will yer Jackie…they’re singing the Athenry on Songs of Praise…” 

Reddened and roused, he opens his eyes.  It only takes him a couple of seconds to work it all out.  He’s quick that way.  Doesn’t say anything to ma and he’s already closed his eyes again as he silently mouths “Feckin’ eejit”  and goes back to sleep.

Martin C

Mano Blanco

It was always the same at the end of every harvest, the last days rituals and the almost deflated feeling of finality. Manu tossed old rotten fruit crates on the fire, just like he's done so many times in his home country, where he'd farmed his families land.

He headed down to the  coast line for one last time this year and bought barbecued sardines from a vendor, he could see his countries coast line in the distance and watched the lights come on one by one as the sun went down.  A half hour ferry trip home but culturally and economically a thousand miles apart.

  As he mooched back to his temporary caravan home, he reflected on how the sands had shifted and how glad he was he'd always treat migrant workers with respect.

   The economic meltdown had left it's mark on Spain. Now increased taxes and export duties had rendered his farm in Spain no longer viable, his fruit crop going to waste, a victim of the vanity projects like the airport in Valencia where they forgot to allow enough space for the runway, projects which effectively bankrupt his country.

  And now Morocco, his salvation, one of many Spanish migrant workers finding work in North Africa, the world turned on it's head. If he was careful the money he earned would just about see him through winter back home.  He'd heard the Moroccan authorities were tightening up on the working visa regulation for next season, if it turned out to be true it would be the ultimate irony. The world going well and truly mad or had it already gone mad and this was the period of redressing? What goes around comes around. He was just glad the Moroccan farmer who employed him was returning a favour from 20 years ago when Manu had employed him as migrant labour. He'd like to think he was employed for his experience or organisational skills. But he wasn't, he was the hired help, the Mano Blanca.

JW

Hate You Job?

Finding myself between jobs in 1990, a friend suggested contacting an old school mate as the place he worked were always looking to recruit. I knew from the horror story's that the work was rough, but it was only six weeks at most until I could start my proper job, so the call to Dave was made.

Monday, 7am found me waiting outside the hide and Skin warehouse, a subsidiary of Northern (wholesale) butchers, part of a huge abattoir/fat refining complex. The gaffer was an elderly Ukrainian bull of a man called 'Jo' who set me to work salting a grisly pile of cow skins. Stank isn't the word.

The cow hides were semi frozen (it was winter) slimy, and could weigh anything up to 80kg each & the salt wasn't table salt but more reminiscent of the grit that is spread on the roads. They were then weighed, graded, and put on pallets for export.

By lunchtime {which seemed to consist mainly of spliff smoking, well, the nature of the work did tend to dull ones appetite I suppose}  the reason the other blokes were laughing at me carrying out this task became apparent. The salt began to eat into the flesh on my hands, causing extremely painful burns. Gloves were out of the question as you could not grip the slippery hides whilst wearing them.

Lorry after lorry reversed into the freezing, stinking hall and tipped its vile cargo onto the concrete floor before me. Christ, what the fuck have I let myself in for?

After a few days, 'Jo' relented and sent me out with a driver for a week. We went to various slaughterhouses across Yorkshire, picking up sheepskins and cow hides. Often, the hides were still attached to their owners when we arrived. I'd stand in the slaughter hall watching with morbid fascination as cattle were shot in the head, and reduced to their component parts within a few minutes. The worst bit when throwing the skins onto the lorry, was when you got slapped across the face with them, some of them still warm and steaming.

Each evening, when I got home, the Mrs {often retching} would make me strip to my underwear in the back garden, I stank like you wouldn't believe.

I stuck it for the six weeks. The upside? a fiver at the abattoir would get you a carrier bag full of chops, steak, and sausages. Would I do it again?... would I fuck.

Si Richardson.

Happy Hour

-Vodka and Orange?
-No, I'll have a Screwdriver. Hahaha....
I fucking hate this job sometimes.
-When are you going to marry me girl, make a dishonest man of me?
-Arh Tommy sweetheart how are you? Heineken?
Another prick. Comes in here every night after work, flirts like fuck. Married with two kids and a wife who deserves better. I've seen the gun in his pocket when he kisses me good night. These fuckers leave you a tip, think they own you.
- Clare honey, how are yer?Two Jamies please.
Shaun and Pete. Now these two, I like these two. Young lads from the 'hood, good fun, good tippers. I think they're carpenters. I know they're union. Sure, they'll flirt but they don't make me feel dirty when they do. It's in fun. I've met their girlfriends. They're going steady.
- Well if it isn't my two favourite whatever it is that yous do. What'd you say we kick everyone else out and us three see what happens eh lads? 
- Clare yer too much honey , I tell yer...
-We might take you up on that one day Clare.
-I'll be here, just say the word. 'scuse me, look who just walked in.
-911 Emergency, Fire, Police, EMT or barmaid which service do you require?
- Just getting off fellas? Rescue any cats?
-Very funny. Erm, two Buds, a Miller and a coke for the rookie.
-Who put The friggin' Ramones on again?
-What you don't like 'em? They're from Queens, just like us.
And here we go.
-The KKK took my baby away/they took her away...
I fucking hate this guy. No you're not fucking funny you're a prick. I caught him doing coke in the bathroom one time. The ladies. Cried like a baby when I said I'd tell his sister. Me and Jackie we go to the gym three times a week together. The gym, look at the fucking state of me, drip white, never see the sun, 6pm to 4am, five nights a week in a crappy neigborhood bar, two packs a shift, drip fed vodka. Thank Christ I don't pay for it.
-Alas Clare I must leave you but I'll return tomorrow.
-Goodbye Sgt.
Mr Ryan, 'nam vet. In everyday at 3 out everyday at 7. $2 tip. Cheap bastard. I have heard every war story way, way more than once. His grandson's cute though.
-Clare same again and one for yourself gorgeous.
-Hey Freddie how are you baby?
-All the better for seeing your beautiful face. When are we going to run away together? I'll get you a greencard.
Take more than a fucking double vodka for me to run away with that piece of shit. I'd rather get deported. This fucking crowd make me wanna puke.
-Er, hey Clare, how's it going?
-Hey handsome, great, great. You?
-Okay yeah. I got a few papers to write but other than that, can't complain. 
-A drink?
-Erm, no thanks, gotta get my grandpa home. Thanks anyway. 
-Mr Ryan. Mr Ryan, Jimmy's here for you.
I wish he was here for me. I ride his tight little arse all the way to NYU and back again. Fuck, I need another vodka.

C W

Fly Fishing With The Old Man

I looked forward to my first day of fly fishing eagerly. My dad and I had spent many, many days fishing the local rivers and lakes with float tackle and ledger rig ever since I was a small boy. I took my first fish, a 3/4lb Perch with my second ever cast, using a built cane float rod, from The River Wharf at Kirby Sands. Parental pride went out the window pretty quick that day. “You jammy bugger! I fished every night for 3 weeks before I caught anything.” It was alright. I loved my dad all the more for his honesty.  Indeed, the bond that grew between us as we fished more and more cannot be over stated.

I would spend hours, I’d like to say in the shed but the truth is the old man kept his rods in my bedroom, admiring his fly fishing set up. An Allcocks Ariel reel and a Mytre Hardy – the less expensive line – rod. I was fascinated by the line, the flies, dry and wet, even waders. I loved it all and I longed for the day when I would be judged ready to fish with it. In truth, I felt that fly fishing was the only true form of fishing. I could be a right little pretentious sod at times and I’d read all the fishing books in our local library, most more than once.

When the big day finally arrived we’d been holed up on a rain soaked caravan site in the Lake District for the best part of a week. The sun had broken through early and dad said he thought today was as good a day as any to learn. I’d cast with the rod before. I was blessed to be brought up in a house that had a really big garden and while the other kids kicked a football around I’d take out my old man’s rod and reel and cast around above their heads anytime Mum and Dad’s shifts meant they’d both be at work together and I was left home. I wasn’t bad at casting; they both worked a lot.

My dad had been given the heads up on a short stretch of river from a local he’d befriended over pints in the village pub and we followed the directions written on the back of a cigarette pack, the old man monitoring the tenths of a mile ticking off until we came to a gate at the side of the road to our left. “This is it lad. Get out; open the bloody gate before anyone sees us.” There was nothing unusual in this; we were always doing things he didn’t want anyone to see. Our garage was stocked with tools that would make the local council blush. Our garden walls built with fine old cobbles from when they tore the roads up near the hospital, all acquired under cover of darkness, after I’d done my homework.

We turned off the road, locked the gate and drove a short way down, out of sight from the road. I could already hear the river. We were traveling light; just the one rod and we made it down the steep bank to river edge. The old man took note of what he termed ‘the lay of the land’, pointing out the debris high in the tree branches left over from the rain induced high water. He picked a spot out in the river at the edge of the fast water, selected a fly, waded out and then put on what I thought was a master class in fly fishing. His casting appeared effortless and almost silent save for the seductive sound of line cutting through the air. He placed his fly in the same spot time and time again. His face a study in concentration and the spark of mischief I loved so much dancing in his eye. He pulled back firmly on the rod sending it up right into the air. Then the tip bent and the fight was on. He let the line run out as the fish speed first up river then down. “Rainbow,” he said with an air of authority, then he cracked a smile. I loved that self-depreciating humour he had. Two minutes later I held a Grayling in my hands. “What’d I tell you son? Grayling.”

I returned the fish to the river and watch him cast again. “Another five minutes and it’s all yours.” His next cast got hung up in an overhanging branch. “I can get it dad, stay there.” I crept down the bank mindful to hold onto the branches as I went. I felt my foot sink then the sky went black.

“Jesus! Get under the bloody water!” I felt his hand pushing down on my shoulder and then the river enveloped me. I gulped down a lung full of water as the current took me downstream.  I tried to swim, unsure what was going on. I stood up on a gravel bar. Looking back up the river I could see my dad, about 25 feet from me packing up his gear standing on the bank. Beside him an angry cloud of wasps circled, oblivious to his presence.

In the car driving back to the caravan we surmised I’d managed to put my foot through a wasp nest, they’d immediately swarmed around me and dad, far from trying to drown me, had saved me by pushing me under and down the river. Amazingly, I’d only been stung twice. Later I learned it could have been much worse.  Dad speculated that the wasps were probably drowsy as a consequence of the river flooding and probably covering their nest.  I never forgot my first day fly fishing.

JL

Anarchy in the UK, well Bradford....

He smells of glue.

Of itself nothing remarkable. 

A few do I’m sure. But they ain’t that close. His is fresh. It’s still fucking wet. And on his chin. And he’s got long hair. And it’s damp with sweat. And he's wearing a bright yellow jumper. And those creases in his face mean it's clear he's had way too much adhesive next to it.

And of the thousand or so people that decided to watch Crass tonight he’s next to me.

This is a ‘March For Jobs’ gig. I'm not marching. I’ve got a lift coming later. I’m 11.

And at this moment, I have no options. I’m stuck.

And this bloke is breathing Evo all over my head. And I just want to get in. We’re shuffling in. The coppers are watching like we’re a threat to society.

I’m no threat. I'm at school. I not looking to start a riot or set about destroying capitalism. I just want to get away from glue-boy.

And eventually I do.

And we’re in a venue that isn’t used much. And after Annie Anxiety has screamed at us for a bit the Poison Girls are on. And the crush starts.

And I may be the novelty young one (it got me some wonderful ‘presses’ against women when I was far too young to be having them at Brannigan’s, the Palm Cove etc) but this ain’t good.

Bit fucking mad to be honest.

Very mad. And scary. 

I’m getting crushed. They’ve got tables on their sides to keep people back. And they’re not moving. And it hurts.

And then someone is grabbing me.

And I’m up.

And watching the Poison Girls. Sat on the edge of the stage.

This is good.

It’s loud. I don’t even like them that much. But I’m right by the band. And they’re ‘grown up’. And 'real'. And 'into' what they're doing.

And I just want to take this in....

'Bombing cities, pulling switches, we won't do your dirty work.....'

And then Crass come on. And I know it’s all a bit earnest even at my age. But they’re fucking good. Because they mean it. Not many that do.

I’m only 11 but I know what they’re on about. And the saddest thing is that even at 11 I know it won’t work.

‘The problems that you suffer from are problems that you make.....No one ever stopped the church by pulling down the steeple, you'll never beat the system by bombing number 10'

We’ll all forget it as we get older, that sense of wanting to change things. Things get in the way. Exams, jobs, bills. And people with glue on their chin.

Matt H