It was possible in the 70\u2019s to leave one job at the end of one week and walk into another the following week. I can\u2019t remember how many different \u201ccareers\u201d I had during the era of tank-tops and platform shoes but it was certainly in excess of 30. I would work for a few weeks then when the gigs started to come in again I\u2019d quit. After working for several months in the West End as a stage-hand I took a job in a \u201cprovisions shop\u201d in The Apple Market in Kingston-on Thames. The shop was called Bernards and it was run on a feudal basis. \u201cMr Bernard\u201d was no longer alive but you somehow felt that it was expected that you should \u201cdoff your cap\u201d to this unseen employer. I have never quite understood why any man should be expected to be subservient to any other man and although it is necessary to have leaders and managers and so on, I don\u2019t go along with the idea that one should be servile. This attitude didn\u2019t bode well for my retail career\u2026<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The shop opened at 8.30 AM and you had to get there by about 7.30 at the latest to get everything ready. The manager was known as \u201cMr Henry\u201d and he was a pernickety, thin and balding man with a strangely incongruous yokel accent. His second-in-command, Eddy, was a rather large, and extremely camp individual with absolutely no sense of humour whatsoever. He had a lisping manner of speech too\u2026<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cYeth Mithter Henry\u2026no Mithter Henry\u2026. Have you uthed greathproof paper between the slithes of ham Howard?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cOi don\u2019 waaant any untidiness \u2018oward. Make sure everything is staaacked neatly. \u2018ave you swept the floor yet? \u2018oi caaan see a sweet wraaapper you\u2019ve missed there!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Eddy had an annoying habit of repeating whatever Mr Henry said\u2026<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cYeth therth a thweet wrapper jutht there by your feet.Thweep it up!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I\u2019d be tempted to respond with something like: \u201cWell bollocks to sweet wrappers!\u201d but instead I\u2019d make a pointedly surly and half-hearted attempt to check the floor for any offending item of rubbish. I was, after all, still a teenager, if only just.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
There were two other younger men besides myself working in Bernards. They seemed a bit timid and although Keith and Alan were both OK, you couldn\u2019t really have a conversation with either of them. It was as if they feared that opening their mouths might have resulted in instant dismissal. They had both married at a young age and had young children too and seemed to be shackled to Mr Bernard\u2019s little empire until kingdom come. A profoundly depressing thought.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
My duties were multifarious and they were all pretty tedious. From feeding sausage meat into sausage condoms to make \u201cMr Bernard\u2019s Sausages\u201d or skinning frozen hams or serving rather tight-lipped elderly women \u2026 it wasn\u2019t that much fun for a would-be rock star. The big day of the week was Saturday in Mr Bernard\u2019s workplace. It was \u201call hands on deck\u201d and a huge queue used to build up down the length of the cobbled Apple Market (an ancient street in Kingston) before the shop even opened.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
It\u2019s strange to remember that it was all so different then. The shop had one of those old tills. The type where you had to spread your fingers across the keys to ring up One Pound Thirteen and Fourpence Ha\u2019penny. When the till drawer opened there was an enormous \u201cding\u201d. It was all a bit reminiscent of a famous comedy series featuring Ronnie Barker and David Jason.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
In some ways it\u2019s good to think that we served cooked meats like corned beef or ham or brawn in \u201cquarters\u201d between pieces of greaseproof paper. No plastic containers. No cling film. Brown paper bags and greaseproof paper. No latex gloves to serve anything either\u2026HORROR\u2026just your bare hands. I\u2019m not aware that anyone died as a result of me serving them but it wasn\u2019t quite as tense in the early 70\u2019s in any case:<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cMildred died has she? Food poisoning was it? Well\u2026she never was much of a cook was she?\u201d And that would be the end of it. There wouldn\u2019t necessarily be a bunch of solicitors chasing Mr Bernard\u2019s emporium for compensation, as now no doubt. Those who believe that we are more concerned about our fellow human beings these days should perhaps look at the huge number of recent war atrocities and the fact that it\u2019s not safe to be in a British hospital any longer. \u201cDon\u2019t whatever you do get ill Howard!\u201d was the comment made fairly recently by a friend of mine in the medical profession.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Through a sense of devilment and also because of utter boredom, I developed a technique which was not popular with either Mr Henry or Eddy. It was so busy of a Saturday that I figured that I could skim the quarters of cooked ham or whatever onto the scales from several yards away as if I was throwing a frisbee. One young couple came in every week to watch me in action; I could see them giggling way back in the queue. It wasn\u2019t exactly Tom Cruise in \u201cCocktail\u201d but it must have been fairly amusing; if you had a sense of humour that is\u2026<\/p>\n\n\n\n
One formidable woman who looked a bit like a battleship remarked on one occasion that :<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cIf Mr Bernard woz still alive \u2018e\u2019d \u2018ave \u2018ad yer guts fer garters.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
What she was complaining about was not my \u201cfrisbee techinique\u201d but the fact that the niggardly Mr Henry got us to hide one fatty bit of corned beef between two lean pieces in their greaseproof paper portions. This didn\u2019t go down well. Especially so as this same woman had been up in arms that I wouldn\u2019t sell her exclusively brown eggs.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cTell \u2018em they caaan only aaave three brown eggs and three white eggs \u2018oward see!\u201d Mr Henry told me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cBut what if they say they want all brown eggs?\u201d I replied.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cTake no notice boy. They must aaave what their given.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Why is it then that white eggs don\u2019t exist anymore? I mean have hens been genetically modified to lay only brown eggs one wonders? Or is it all in the feed? Apparently \u201cvery orange yolks\u201d are not a sign of a healthy egg but an egg from a chicken that\u2019s been fed on \u201cE numbers\u201d. And how come that hens lay eggs with lions on them? It\u2019s all a bit baffling.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
We sold small eggs for sixpence (2.5p) a half dozen. No box, just a brown paper bag. Another cheap favourite were pigs\u2019 trotters. They were \u201cthruppence\u201d each. We had a great sack of these behind the counter. They were bloody and clammy to the touch. That disconnection between death and the food we are prepared to eat was quickly shattered by the sight. It made me shiver.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The incident that probably sealed the end of my career as a provisions operative is etched on my brain. I occasionally think about it and chuckle to myself. It concerned removing trays of eggs from a cardboard packing case.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cSee them boxes of eggs boy?\u201d Mr Henry said to me one afternoon.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cYes I\u2019m not blind,\u201d I answered.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He ignored that\u2026 \u201cWell oi waaant you to remove them fraaam the box and put them on the counter \u2018ere see?\u201d \u201cAnd BE CAREFUL!\u201d he added.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I have taught many teenage lads to play guitar over the years. I don\u2019t quite know why but for some reason they are generally a bit \u201ccack-handed\u201d. It is as if they haven\u2019t quite yet learned to co-ordinate properly. I think that I was no exception .Add to this, the fact that I really didn\u2019t care about anything BUT playing guitar and there was a good chance that the task entrusted to me might go wrong\u2026<\/p>\n\n\n\n
All was well until the last box. I reached down to the bottom of the carton and started to lift out the twelve trays of eggs but somehow or other I got them stuck against the other trays in the box. Rather than let them down again I tried to tug them free\u2026 they came free all right\u2026 dozens of eggs shot into the air and landed on the floor. Within minutes the whole place was like a skating rink and I was only making things worse by spreading it around with a mop. One woman fell over. It was mayhem. Unfortunately, we didn\u2019t have one of those yellow cones they put in supermarket aisles to warn customers of danger\u2026that would have made all the difference of course.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Mr Henry didn\u2019t speak although I\u2019m quite sure he was almost apoplectic with rage. All he eventually said to me as I continued to mop the floor was:<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cMake sure you clear up that waste paper while yer at it boy!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cTherth thum wathte paper there!\u201d Eddy added right on time.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Later, as I wandered back along the riverbank to my bed-sitting room I reflected on the fact that my days at \u201cMr Bernard\u2019s\u201d provisions emporium might be numbered. It didn\u2019t worry me unduly.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
It was possible in the 70\u2019s to leave one job at the end of one week and walk into another the following week. I can\u2019t remember how many different \u201ccareers\u201d<\/p>\n