Urban Slave and Walking on Aire

Andy Owens

Description

The world is full of dead-end jobs and Andy Owens has had more than his fair share, from bagging clothes and assembling tumble-driers to packing Easter Eggs and sticking walnuts on Walnut Whips.Urban Slave charts his varied minimum-wage career, ranging from under-valued retail work to mind-numbing factory work, taking orders from useless managers and idiotic supervisors, as he gamely struggled through thirty years in low-pay Britain.Inspired by the great explorers from Mary Kingsley to Marco Polo, Andy Owens plans an expedition along Yorkshire's river Aire - a soft option to the wild and dangerous river Congo.Yet despite the absence of cannibals and crocodiles, he encounters a series of more urbane 'dangers' such as psychotic motorists, homicidal livestock, sarcastic bus drivers, eccentric birdwatchers and, perhaps most alarming of all, folk who get suspicious just because you don't have a local accent.Walking on Aire first published in 2010 to positive media and customer reviews - details at https://owensandy.com

Sujets

• Philosophie et théologie
• Condado de Yorkshire (Reino Unido)
• Travel writing
• Memoir
• Yorkshire

Informations

• Publié par: Troubador Publishing Ltd
• Date de parution: 22 mars 2021
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781800469433
• Langue: English
• Poids de l'ouvrage: 1 Mo

Extrait

Urban Slave and Walking on Aire
Dead End Jobs and A Quest for Adventure
Andy Owens
Copyright © 2021 Andy Owens

The moral right of the author has been asserted.

Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study, or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.

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ISBN 9781800469433

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A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

Matador® is an imprint of Troubador Publishing Ltd

With love to Mom, Dad, David, Nicky, Darcie, Calista and Silvie Haller


Acknowledgements
Thanks to Silvia Haller and Anne E. Knight for suggesting I write Urban Slave in the first place. Extra thanks to Anne and also Sandy Jarvis for reading through the first draft and offering constructive criticism. Likewise, thanks to Clive and Tracey Bell for reading through, and offering helpful comments on, the original paperback version of Walking On Aire .


Contents
Acknowledgements

Prologue

Urban Slave
Chapter 1: Don’t Let The Agency Down
Chapter 2: Do It Yourself
Chapter 3: Warehouse Whorehouse
Chapter 4: Get Rich Quick
Chapter 5: Factory of the Living Dead
Chapter 6: Blending Into The Background
Chapter 7: Spit and Polish
Chapter 8: Store Of Excellence
Chapter 9: You can’t get better than a Walnut Whipper
Chapter 10: Risk It For A Biscuit

Walking On Aire
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine


Prologue
Have you ever wondered how walnuts are balanced perfectly atop Walnut Whips, or how labels are stuck so neatly to bottles and tins?

Is the manufacture of coat-hangers, tumble-driers and a thousand other eternally repetitive tasks really the work of factory machines, or are these jobs so intricate that they require the human touch?

And what intelligent human being would agree to carry out these mind-numbing tasks, for such ridiculously low pay, and then continue to do them for the rest of their working lives, when every one of those people - without exception - could do so much better?

And, more importantly, why would they do it?

This is the story of Britain’s largely unseen workforce of urban slaves, as seen through the eyes of just one of them: me.

Urban Slave


Chapter 1: Don’t Let The Agency Down
The phone rings.
‘Hello?’ I answer.
‘Andy?’
‘Yes?’
‘It’s me.’
‘Who?’
‘Me.’
‘Me who?’
‘Lorraine.’
‘Lorraine who?’
‘How many Lorraines do you know?’
‘Well…er…none.’
‘Sure you do. It’s me. Your mate, Lorraine.’
I racked my brains for Lorraines. I didn’t have any mates called Lorraine. Come to think of it, I didn’t have any mates.
‘Er…’
‘Lorraine at the Agency.’
Ah. The penny drops. My mate Lorraine at Rent-a-Muppet Employment Agency. The people’s choice, apparently. Not that there is much of a choice. I’ve worked for at least ten agencies and they’re all as rubbish as each other.
‘We are mates, aren’t we, Andy?’
I decided to play along and be cheerful. After all, it costs nothing, and how could I say no?
‘Well, yes. Sure.’
Stupidity Leak Number One. Mistaking business for friendship.
‘Now then, Andy. Since we’re mates (and you just said it and I believed you and I’m recording this and you can’t back out of it now, you weasel) I wondered if you could do me a favour?’
‘Sure. No problem.’
Stupidity Leak Number Two. Showing enthusiasm before you’ve heard the proposition or rate of pay.
‘I’ve got a great opportunity for you, Andy.’
She paused for effect. I could almost hear a fanfare and drum-roll.
‘Gobbler’s Graphics.’
‘No.’
‘Now, Andy. You don’t even know what I’m going to ask you.’
‘You’re going to ask me to do the night-shift. I’ll do day-shift. Not nights.’
‘Night-shifts are under-estimated, I hear.’
‘Ever done one?’
‘…….’
‘Aren’t there any vacancies for day-shift workers?’
‘Day shifts are very popular, Andy.’
‘A-ha!’
‘Ah, but not as popular as night-shifts. And with you being such a good employee…Well, you are, Andy. Give yourself credit. We all think you’re a super night-shift worker. Gemma, the manager, was telling us only yesterday.’
‘There’s absolutely no way I’m doing….er, really? Is that what she said? Super? That’s very kind.’
Stupidity Leak Number Three. Falling for flattery. It’s the oldest trick in the proverbial book.
‘Absolutely! Gemma said it in front of the whole staff. And while the Area Manager was visiting. She called you our pride and joy. Superstar worker Andy Hollin.’
‘Owens.’
‘That’s what I said. Andy Owen.’
‘Owens. With an ‘s’.’
‘That’s what I said. Andy Owens. I’d never get your name wrong. You’re the best worker we have.’
‘Well, I don’t know what to say.’
‘Just think, Andy. Impress the Area Manager, and who knows what you could be doing this time next week.’
‘Plucking chickens? Packing boxes? Filling bags with nails?’
‘Now, now, Andy,’ chides Lorraine.
It is not in Miss Muppet’s nature to grow cynical in the rich and promising world of agency work, supplying unskilled labour for the minimum wage.
‘After all, everyone’s got to start somewhere. Even someone as ab-fab as you…..Oh!’
‘Oh?’
‘Oh!’
‘Oh.’
‘That’s not the half of it! I’ve got even more good news for you.’
‘That was good news?’
‘You’ll be working with Jeff.’
‘Jeff?’
‘Yeah, you know Jeff. You like working with Jeff. I remember you telling me you like working with Jeff.’
‘What I actually said was - he’s the only one who doesn’t smell.’
‘Well. Same difference. So how about it, Andy?’
‘Er, well…’
‘Oh, go on. Be a mate. Be a superstar.’
‘When you start paying superstar wages…’
‘That’s really funny, Andy. You should be on stage.’
‘You think so? That’s nice. Others have said so. They’ve told me that I should do one of those talent shows. Someone said…’
‘Right, I’ll put your name down. Start at 10pm, finish at 6am. Unless they ask you to work overtime.’
‘I don’t want overtime.’
‘It’s more money.’
‘How much more? Time and a half?’
‘Just think about the money.’
‘Double time?’
‘Just think of those holiday savings.’
‘Triple time?’
‘Just close your eyes, Andy, and think of that sandy golden beach.’
‘ How much?!? ’
‘Basic rate. Be there on time, won’t you? Ta, mate. And don’t say I never do anything for you.’
‘You never do any – ‘
The phone went dead.
I was there at ten that evening. The supervisor at the warehouse was a small, weedy, bookish sort of man wearing big spectacles, which made his eyes look ridiculously small. He was stood outside the main doors with a clipboard. When I approached him, he pointed at me accusingly and said: ‘You’re a muppet!’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘You’re from Rent-A-Muppet.’
‘Oh, yes. Sorry.’
‘Where are the others?’ he said.
I looked around. ‘What others?’
He tapped his clipboard. ‘Muppets are sending four of you.’
I looked around the yard at the distinct absence of additional eager-and-raring-to-go agency workers, then gave him a sympathy smile and a shrug.
He looked around again, sighed, and consulted his clipboard.
‘I take it you’re not Ramiq Fahard or Mohammad Shallar or Shabir Aked.’
‘No,’ I smile. ‘Andy Owens.’
‘Oh yes,’ he said. ‘Andy Hollin.’
‘Owens.’
‘Ah yes. Andy Owen.’
‘Owens. With an ‘s’.’
‘Ah yes. I have it here. Andy Owens.’
‘What’s your name?’ I ask.
The man looks up from his clipboard, with a genuinely confused expression.
‘I’m the boss,’ he says simply.
He looks around yet again, and sighs.
‘I guess we’re going to be short-staffed again. So you’ll have to work harder and faster. Follow me, please.’
This was not the first time I had been dealt this illogical logic, and it certainly wouldn’t be the last. Because I was the only one of four workers who had bothered turning up for work, I had to make up the deficiency by working harder and faster, for no extra pay. This turned out to be a worrying trend, particularly in agency contracts, and I found it an increasingly difficult concept to warm to.

Likewise, in a cleaning job in a supermarket many years later, staff members would not turn up for their shift, and so I would have to do my work and their work for no extra pay. So the company would actually save on wages, by having fewer people turn up for work, and still getting the whole task completed by the deadline. Then they wonder why they can’t keep staff.

He walks up to a young man, who is switching on a machine.
‘Hi Greg,’ says the boss.
Greg turns and says ‘Hi Pete.’
So the boss has a name.
‘Hi,’ says Greg to me. ‘Are you the muppet?’
I sigh and nod my head, getting tired of this muppet malarkey.
‘Andy Hollin, right?’
‘Er, no,’ says the Boss. ‘It’s Andy Owens. With an ‘s’.’
Pete wanders off again, consulting his clipboard.
‘Thanks, Pete,’ I say.
The man comes back and looks at me.
‘What?’ he says.