On the Gravy Train

My last stint of casual labour, before being pitched into permanent work, was the summer holiday job at Bovril/Marmite that provided the funds for my first foreign holiday - a week in Arenal, Majorca, courtesy of Clarkson's. 

 I had been granted something of a non-job in my first holiday job at Bovril/Marmite, supplying the cap hoppers on the filling lines, which neatly avoided having to do too much in the way of offloading lorries or humping goods about the warehouse.  This was largely in deference to my emaciated appearance (see below), very young age (I was only 15 at the time) and the fact that my dad was a departmental manager there.  I did not expect to get such favourable treatment in my second visitation and, as I anticipated, I was assigned to the group of university students etc. destined to labour in the warehouse.  Thankfully, they clearly decided that I was "too light for heavy work" (as did I) and found me a job working on a new bit of plant that looked to be nearly as good a job as the cap filling from the previous year.

Bovril/Marmite were in the process of launching an exciting new product, a Bovril-based gravy powder.  I was to be assigned to a team of three who were packing this powder.  This involved rolling tubs of powder into the filling room, using a vacuum system to suck it out into a hopper from where it was funnelled into cartons, which were then sealed and stacked ready for despatch.  My bit was the rolling tubs and vacuuming bit.  This was great, as all I had to do was keep the hopper full, and the vacuuming bit was quite fun.  The rest of the time I could sit and listen to the radio.  All went well for the first few days and I was congratulating myself on my life choice of being a complete wimp in appearance and actuality, when, out of nowhere I suffered the worst nose bleed of my life.  I was carted off to the Nurse's Station and had to lie down for half an hour or so before it would stop.  Two days later, it happened again only more so.  Cue more time in the Nurse's Station.  The next day, I was horizontal with the Nurse again, but not in an exciting way.  In the absence of any underlying medical reason for these sudden nasal exsanguinations, she came to the conclusion that the salt in the gravy powder, which filled the room in which I worked, was attacking my nasal linings.  The cure for this?  Stop working in the powder room.

Consigned back to the warehouse, my nose might have been fine again but the rest of me was falling to bits.  The idea of weeks of stacking heavy boxes and shifting sacks was somewhat unappealing and I doubted that I would survive to see Majorca.  Fortunately, another less exacting role appeared just in time.

The gravy powder, that had been my undoing in the powder room, happened to be the subject of a massive national promotion in which a sample jar of powder, a coupon to purchase more of the product and a promotional leaflet were to be sent to every household in the country.  A gang of students, including me, were assigned to the job of assembling this lot, slipping them into a jiffy bag, stapling same and repeating the exercise ad infinitum.  Nice dry work with no heavy lifting involved.  Unfortunately, putting a bunch of teenagers together on a boring job is bound to lead to joking and timewasting and this was no exception.  We had great fun but the work rate was not quite what Bovril/Marmite had hoped for.  Before too long, we were replaced with a team of girls from the filling lines who could multi-task sufficiently to laugh, joke and pack jiffy bags and it was back to the loading bank for me.

See Part 3 - Character Building

The first collection of stories - "Steady Past Your Granny's" is now available in Kindle e-book format at Amazon UK and Amazon USA and now read the new bumper collection of stories, Crutches For Ducks at Amazon.co.uk and Amazon.com

Moped Moping

I suppose it was only a matter of time before my juvenile reluctance to get up in the morning collided with my continued employment as a paper boy. 

For the first year or two, I had been a relatively keen employee.  Not particularly punctual, I'll admit, but usually amongst those present.  However, in the latter part of my final year at school, it was no longer necessary to attend class all day, every day, as we were deemed to be determinedly revising.  Without the incentive of having to be up anyway for school, the daily tussle between dozing or delivering papers became an ever more unequal contest.  Therefore, after a number of weeks in which my morning presence had been, at best, sporadic, it should have been no surprise that when I turned up at Mr. Kidger's shop one evening, armed with my latest excuse for my non-appearance, he sombrely relieved me of my paper bag, handed me the meagre amount that I had earned that week and said that he thought we should call it a day.  It was like the newsagent's version of being cashiered.  I felt as if I had had my stripes ripped off and my epaulettes sliced away by a sabre. I could hardly protest, as he had been more than patient with me, and so I trudged back home to reveal that, once again, paid employment and I had parted company.

For the next few months, I was reliant on my pocket money (about 50p per week, I think) and whatever I could drum up by collecting empty bottles to return for their deposit value, until the local off-licence got wise to the fact that we never actually bought anything from there, and discouraged the practice.

That I should move from this state of impecunity to one of fabulous wealth (by my standards anyway) seemed unlikely, but it happened.

I have mentioned before that I worked for a few weeks at Bovril/Marmite during the intervening period between my leaving secondary school and starting at Burton Technical College.  I cannot remember how much money per week I was earning then, but I do know it was far more than I had ever had in my life.  Even with my dissolute habits, it was impossible to fritter it all away, and so I started to think about how I could usefully spend all of this cash.  I decided that I would really need some form of transport to get me to and from South Broadway Street and Burton Tech. and started to look longingly in the window of Jacksons' Motorcycles in Borough Road.  My dad, however, diverted me to the adverts in the local paper.  One short visit to a rather nice lady in Stapenhill later, I became the owner of a Mobylette moped that she had, apparently, never really taken to.

Complete with 'L' plates, provisional licence and a tank of two-stroke mixture, I was ready to roll.  This may have been an accident waiting to happen, given that I was not all that competent even on a pedal cycle.  However, any misgivings my parents might have had about a motorised me, were quickly dispelled when it became apparent that I was never going to be challenging the local chapter of the Hells Angels on this contraption.  In fact, I would have been hard put to out-run a group of schoolchildren on a Cycling Proficiency Test.

Obviously never designed for tremendous speed, even though it had a speedometer that optimistically finished at 80mph, it was clearly less nippy than it should really have been.  As I had no mechanical aptitude, and neither did my father, there was really nothing much I could do about it other than to fill it occasionally with petrol and hope that it would miraculously sort itself out.  Nevertheless, it was pretty embarrassing to be overtaken by people on push-bikes. 

I persevered with the moped during my first year at college but, eventually, consigned it to a temporary retirement in our back yard.  I couldn't afford the petrol, but, more importantly, I couldn't stand the embarrassment of parking it by the sleek, shiny motor scooters of my contemporaries.  

See Part 2 - On The Gravy Train

The first collection of stories - "Steady Past Your Granny's" is now available in Kindle e-book format at Amazon UK and Amazon USA and now read the new bumper collection of stories, Crutches For Ducks at Amazon.co.uk and Amazon.com

Crutches for Ducks - we've got you covered!

The cover for the bumper collection of 49 stories, all sure to raise a smile (possibly from a young woman, see below!) now published on Kindle -  Crutches For Ducks

For an excerpt from the new book, click here

First review on Amazon.com, for the rest of the review, visit here.:

"Having enjoyed Phil's previous effort Steady Past Your Granny's I eagerly snapped up his second book. So far I've only read the first 3-4 chapters however I was reading it on the train and experienced an involuntary fit of giggles and then noticed a 20-something woman looking over at me and smiling, obviously enjoying the fact that I was laughing so hard at something. Our eyes met and we smiled at each other. So reading Phil's new book causes beautiful young women to regard you benignly. This is not much use to me as a middle-aged woman but it was a nice little moment of shared humanity nevertheless. I'll add more when I actually finish reading the book."

Grate Expectations

A question for you.  What is the connection between ‘Bonanza’, the hit cowboy series of the 1960s, and your old coal fire at home?  For the answer, read on…

What brought this subject to mind was the sudden failure of our boiler on one of the coldest days of the year so far.  Bereft of central heating, we resorted to our electric fire, which normally fulfils a decorative function.  Briar, our dog, trotted forlornly over to the fireside and spread herself in front of the limited heat.  This scene instantly took me back to my childhood living rooms.

Most of our houses were essentially arctic wastelands in the winter, except for the semi-circle in front of the (usually) coal fire.  There was a strict pecking order for pride of place.  The cat was usually first on the scene, and woe betide anyone who tried to displace him or her.  Directly behind the cat, as close as possible without actually making physical contact, would be the dog.  Behind these would often be the clothes horse with the washing of the day or, alternatively, the bed linen ‘being aired’ (my Nanna Whiteland insisted that all bed linen should be ‘aired’ for at least three days before it went on the bed).  Finally, grouped around the fire like a squad of crack fielders at a Test Match, would be our family, dimly aware that somewhere behind the washing, the dog and the cat, was a source of heat.

The fireplace could be a place of great activity.  The hearth would contain a gleaming Companion Set comprising poker, dustpan and brush (often slightly singed).  There might also be a coal scuttle and possibly a toasting fork.  One of the fireside rituals at Nanna Whiteland’s was toasting the bread.  Grandad was always delegated to this task because, as a retired railwayman, fire held no fears for him.  He would sit there, with the brass toasting fork getting ever hotter in his hand, whilst lesser mortals (like me) would shriek with pain at the transferred heat and drop fork and bread into the fire.  Grandad had asbestos hands from years of working on steam locomotives.  He thought nothing of picking up an errant live coal from the hearth and tossing it casually back onto the fire.  There’s something about toast made on an open fire that is infinitely better than a toaster or grill, likewise pikelets (as we called them, or crumpets).

So, where does the reference to ‘Bonanza’ come in?  Well, if you remember the opening credits, these used to show a map of Nevada and ‘The Ponderosa’ being devoured by a flame that would start at the centre.  Igniting a coal fire at home could lead to something very similar.

The process would usually start with a few sticks of wood wrapped in paper or, if funds ran to it, a commercial firelighter (a cardboard tube full of wood shavings coated in some flammable substance).  Setting light to this (or these) was usually quite easy but the whole process could fall apart if, like me, you were over-enthusiastic and then buried these nascent flames in half a ton of slack and coal dust.  All might not be lost if you could ‘draw the fire’ by blocking off the mouth of the fireplace and causing air to rush through the grate and up the chimney.  The blocking mechanism of choice was a sheet from a broadsheet paper (tabloid was useless), and the only broadsheet in our household was usually the local newspaper.  I quite enjoyed this job, watching the paper being partially sucked into the hearth and seeing the flames begin to work their way up through the dust and slack.  However, if I lost concentration (usually because I was reading the paper that I was using) I might miss the telltale charring in the middle of the sheet and would suddenly find myself clutching the headlines, as the rest of the paper vanished in flames.  Perhaps this was where the expression “a headline grabbing moment” came from?  No?  Oh well, please yourselves!


The first collection of stories - "Steady Past Your Granny's" is now available in Kindle e-book format at Amazon UK and Amazon USA.  This story features in the new bumper collection now released as a Kindle edition - "Crutches for Ducks"

Win a signed hard copy - 3rd edition of the quiz

In celebration of Steady Past Your Granny's selling its 2000th Kindle edition, I'm offering a signed hard copy of the book to the first correct answer, received by 23.59 BST on 9th September, 2011, to the following simple question, the answer to which can be found in this blog.:
Which Balearic island did I visit in the 'Forty Years On' series of posts (which start at 'Forty Years On - Putting A Lid On It')?
In the event of more than one correct entry, the first one drawn out of my rather disreputable hat will win the prize.  The author's decision is entirely arbitrary, often wayward and decidedly final! Post your entry as a Comment, which will only be published after the deadline. Good luck!


And the answer was...Majorca (or Mallorca if you prefer).  As this quiz once again failed to trouble the scorers, I now seem to be in the classic situation of being unable to give the book away ;-)  Clearly a different marketing strategy is required...would it help if I burst into tears?

Cider and Stupidity

I was giving my daughter and son-in-law a lift to a party the other Saturday night.  As we were driving along, I remarked that I rather liked early Saturday evening, as the streets are full of young people in their best outfits, all full of hope and expectation for their night out before… “that’s dashed by cider and stupidity” my son-in-law chipped in.  I thought this was such a good phrase, and so accurate, that I just had to steal it for this article.  You see, if anyone’s hopes and aspirations were frequently dashed by cider and stupidity, then it was me. 

August is a trying month for most students.  By now, everyone should have had their ‘A’ Level and GCSE results and I really admire the bravery, but question the wisdom, of those students who were bold enough to open their results letter on live national television.  It was just as well that I was not placed in that situation when I received my GCE and CSE results back in August, 1970.

There were not many subjects at which I excelled at school, but English was definitely one subject in which I consistently did well, mostly because I enjoyed it.  English Literature was a favourite of mine and I was generally expected to achieve a good Pass in my exam, so much so, that I had been accepted to study the subject at ‘A’ Level at Burton Technical College.  Anglesey, my school in Clarence Street, did not have a Sixth Form.  In fact, the Fifth Form that I was in was a relatively recent addition, and it was still the case that the majority of students left Anglesey, with no formal qualifications, at the end of the Fourth Year.

The exam was scheduled to take place on the afternoon of a hot, early summer, Thursday.  Thursdays were my dad’s pay day and I had fallen into the habit of meeting him at The Union in Union Street to get some pocket money, scrounge a cigarette or two and, I regret to say, have a pint of cider.  This had not been a problem in the latter weeks of the school year, as we did not have to attend school, although we were expected to be at home, revising.  Whether it was wise to call in at the pub immediately before an important exam, I’ll leave you to judge.

The main problem with English Literature is that you need to be able to quote extensively from the works that you have been studying, to demonstrate your understanding of the texts.  I have always had a poor memory but I had tried to memorise a few relevant quotes for the exam.  Unfortunately, a pint of cider, on a relatively empty stomach, and on a hot day, is not a wonderful means of improving one’s mental capacity.  Sitting in the oppressive heat of the examination room, it was all I could do to stay awake, let alone recall choice quotes from Macbeth. 

To add to my distraction, there was a bee mooching around on the window next to my desk.  I have always had a horror of being stung and now, in my alcohol-induced haze, I was transfixed by this insect.  Try as I might to concentrate on the question, my mind wandered and my eyes remained glued to the bee and its meanderings.  I could only recall two of the batch of useful quotes that I had tried to commit to memory and was reduced to using these over and over again to support a wide range of points in an ever more tenuous fashion.   

Needless to say, my work did not achieve the standard expected and, in that August, I learned to my horror that I had actually managed to fail an exam that I was supposed to go on to study at ‘A’ Level.  It was only thanks to the understanding nature of Burton Technical College, and some relatively reasonable results in my other exams, that I was able to carry on with my studies.

The first collection of stories - "Steady Past Your Granny's" is now available in Kindle e-book format at Amazon UK and Amazon USA

Win a signed hard copy - 2nd Edition of the quiz

Heard about Steady Past Your Granny's?  The little book that's been a surprise hit on Kindle? I'm offering a signed hard copy of the book to the first correct answer, received by 23.59 BST on 14th August, 2011, to the following cryptic-ish question, the answers to which can be found in this blog.  To make it a little easier, I have put links to the posts, and the dates of the relevant blog posts, in brackets:
What is the connection between a recent venue for a walk (The Hills Are Alive-ish, August, 2011), a little-heard film in Belper (Three for the Flea-Pit Part 2, March, 2011) and a device that perplexed my grandmother (At The Setting of the Television, November, 2010)?
In the event of more than one correct entry, the first one drawn out of my rather disreputable hat will win the prize.  If no absolutely correct entries are submitted, the nearest entry to the correct answer will win the competition.  The author's decision is entirely arbitrary, often wayward and decidedly final!  Post your entry as a Comment, which will only be published after the deadline. Good luck!


And the answer was:  Eric Idle


To explain, the recent venue for a walk was Rutland, a little-heard film in Belper was "A Hard Day's Night" starring The Beatles, and the device that perplexed my grandmother was the television.  The connection was Rutland Weekend Television was a sequel to Monty Python's Flying Circus devised, starring and written by Eric Idle.  From that show came the spoof group, 'The Rutles' (oddly similar to The Beatles) with Eric Idle and Neil Innes.


No winners I'm afraid, clearly I'm making these things too complex!