It was mid-morning on a Thursday in early September, 2011. Wearing tracksuit bottoms, a grubby top, a bright reflective jacket and safety boots, I stood in a warehouse in west London holding a wheelbarrow containing a sealed box full of lighting equipment. Just as I opened the lift door to take the package up to the next floor, 'To the moon and back' by Savage Garden came on the radio. It was as if my 20s had never happened. In fact, I had to slap myself to make sure I wasn't dreaming. This was a song I hadn't heard since, er, my last stint at manual labour back in the late 90s. To be fair, I actually think it's a half-decent tune, but at the time of its original release, when it was played at least four times a day on Northants Radio, Darren Hayes's sugary vocals and his manner of singing 'affectiooooooon' made me start to lose the will to live.
Those who know me well will guess that doing warehouse work isn't exactly what was on my agenda. But money was tight and I noticed an employment agency near where I live. As I stepped in, I was met by half a dozen people originating from Eastern Europe and Africa who'd previously only done cash-in-hand - and that was just the staff (only kidding, of course). One of the real staff took one look at my CV and tried not to laugh.
"Er, you do realise we specialise in industrial work, right?"
"Yeah, but I need temping work and have done warehouse and factory work before during summers in between uni years," I replied.
He gave me a form to fill in, which I returned promptly, and within 48 hours I was assigned the warehouse job in Harlesden.
Previous experience had taught me that industrial work is usually a good bet for a quick fix (no pun intended). During those summers in the late 90s in Northampton clerical agencies were generally useless and basically told anyone without a car to fuck off. Then I joined Parkhouse Industrial, an agency specialising in warehouse and factory work, and suddenly I had work coming out of my ears (sometimes literally). They were brilliant and always laid on free taxis from their offices if we were able to get there; if we weren't, which was usually the case for early morning shifts, a member of staff would come to pick everyone up individually in a minibus.
Admittedly some companies relied heavily on agency workers, so the staff at Parkhouse were obliged to do everything in their power to provide the numbers, but even so, their service was first class. They totally loved me, as well, as I was willing to work anytime, anywhere, and was called a 'lifesaver' on numerous occasions when other workers had let them down and they needed to provide staff at short notice. On the downside, the jobs themselves were spectacularly awful, and back then Health and Safety was a Canon and Ball tribute act.
Several of us also had to face the double burden of being students, and permanent workers hated students. Maybe it was 'Common People' syndrome. So what were the worst of the worst?
Number three: Sonora Foods
Sonora Foods was a firm specialising in making bread and cake products. I had a two-week stint in its factory in Daventry, around ten miles north of Northampton, the first of which was spent in a remote part bagging slices of dough as they slid along a conveyor belt. It was tolerable to begin with, and I got to know a girl from the agency who was a student like me, so we were able to chat during the mind-numbing work. But then one of the bosses decided to speed up the machine (productivity, bla bla, etc), and it became impossible to gather enough dough in time before the stray pieces met their makers on the factory floor.
"Faster, faster, mate!" yelled the female supervisor opposite me in a tone resembling an imminent orgasm. My friend stood alongside me desperately trying not to wet herself laughing, and that gave me the giggles as well. Luckily, the machine couldn't cope with an increased speed and broke down.
Week two was the killer. I turned up to find out my partner in crime was staying where she was, while the powers-that-be put me in the main part of the factory. I spent my entire time carrying a mop and a brush, cleaning floors and various machinery, miserable as fuck.
Number two: Mailforce
Back in the 80s and early 90s, the long-running TV consumer show Watchdog was hosted by Lynn Faulds Wood, who became famous for using the phrase "a potential deathtrap" to describe pretty much every item or issue covered in the programme. However, those who parodied her had clearly never worked in the warehouse of Mailforce, based on the Brackmills estate on the outskirts of Northampton. Poor Lynn would have spontaneously combusted. In theory it was a simple operation; around 30 people on each shift would stand alongside a series of conveyor belts and position magazines so they could be bound together effectively along the line and then wrapped in plastic. Unfortunately the machines were prehistoric and in places held together by sellotape. Inevitably it meant they would consistently break down and bits of paper would get stuck in machinery. Naturally I stayed well away. I was already a legend for breaking the Hegner Jigsaw at middle school, putting it out of action for the rest of the school year, and I wasn't going to intervene. Shifts, either 6am to 2pm or 2pm to 10pm, passed excruciatingly slowly, the warehouse was full of dust, and we were continually barked at by a supervisor who looked disturbingly like Yasser Arafat.
Number one: British Pepper & Spice
We didn't have the benefit of radio in either of the above jobs, so on paper British Pepper & Spice, which did, should have been bearable. Trouble was, local radio had some kind of mental breakdown in the late 90s, and suddenly each station's playlist, regardless of location, barely dipped its toes in the shallow end of variety. I should have seen the warning signs when me and my three housemates from uni in Nottingham hired a car and had a day out in the countryside near the end of term. By the time we'd drifted away from Nottingham we'd heard three songs on the radio. When the signal returned as we hit another local station, we heard the same three again within 30 minutes.
"Kristian, I should warn you that British Pepper & Spice is a difficult environment to work in as there's a very strong smell of herbs and spicy products," a member of staff at Parkhouse told me.I wasn't particularly fazed. For a start, I quite liked the aroma of spicy foods; and secondly, I was fine at Sonora, where the dough gave off a fairly spicy smell.
British Pepper & Spice, however, was in a league of its own, and on entering the factory I realised I should have taken her advice more seriously. Despite wearing gloves, a jacket, a hairnet and a face mask, nothing prepared me for the stench of the various herbs being concocted. My job was mainly just boxing up stuff and delivering it to other parts of the factory, plus the odd bit of sweeping up, but it wasn't long before I was drenched in powder from head to toe with my eyes occasionally streaming in onion-chopping fashion.
And, of course, there was Northants Radio. In addition to Darren Hayes begging me to be his babeah, we were delivered a constant stream of The Corrs, The Lighthouse Family, Boyzone, Jamiroquai and the horrific 'Life' by Des'ree. And that was basically it. Admittedly there were occasional toe-tapping moments - 'Freed From Desire' by Gala and 'Free' by Ultra Nate, for instance - but they were rare highlights.
Even getting home was horrible. Although British Pepper & Spice was also based on the Brackmills estate, there was a bus stop right outside the factory so I didn't need a lift back. On paper the journey was fine, but the bus was a single-decker and therefore always packed. I knew I reaked, particularly of garlic, and hated putting other people through it, even though I wasn't the only person from the factory. But I still had to change buses at the station for the final leg of the journey home.
"Right, get in the bath!" were the comforting words of my mum as I turned the front door key. I didn't blame her, to be honest, as I couldn't wait to do just that anyway. Nevertheless, it still took three changes of bath water and half a bottle of shampoo to get myself clean(ish). Somehow I managed to stick it out for the rest of the week.
Back to the present and this job only lasted a couple of days. Compared with the horrors of Northampton it was bearable and I was shocked to find out there were others in the same predicament as me. I was completely knackered after each day, which made me realise how insulting it is when football managers and commentators talk about players putting in 'a good shift'. My short-term colleagues work bloody hard for pittance.
It was a strange feeling when the agency told me I was no longer needed the following week. On one hand, of course, I was relieved; this was the first job in well over a decade I'd genuinely dreaded getting up for. But when you're mentally prepared for a torturous few hours and your other half wakes up with you at the crack of dawn to comfort you and share breakfast, there's a small sense of disappointment knowing it won't last just a bit longer.
Besides, who wants to make proper use of their degree sitting in a cozy office anyway? Wouldn't you rather sweat buckets carting heavy boxes from floor to floor and take a crash course in Arabic for nine hours a day on minimum wage?
Copy-editing is for wimps. One more time, everyone: "So would you beeeeeeeeeeee my baby, yeaaaaaaaaaaah!"
Animated pic by John Dalziel
