“Gizza job!” 1970

 

“Gizza job!” 1970

'Major' thinking 'you here again?'

I was working in the C.W. Mills, been there for getting on four years. It was six months since me and Sue had finished and I was feeling in a rut. I was twenty years old feeling like I was going nowhere. One of my pals, Robert ‘Ralph’ Ralston had left the C.W. the previous October and gone to Liverpool to start life anew. He too had grown tired of life in the Tubeworks and decided to bite the bullet and move on. Though I didn’t fancy going that far, as the weeks went by in the New Year I was feeling more and more desperate to get out and move on too.

With the dawning of spring thoughts turned to working on a building site. Out in the fresh air, shirt off in the sun. Away from the claustrophobia of the Mills. Construction of the Crown Building in the Town Centre might have been near completion but I enquired if they wanted any labourers all the same. 'No' was the answer.  'Bollocks to you then' I thought. 

Talking about this to Ted Foster, my buddy at work, he was of the same mind and a couple of weeks later, the two of us handed in our notice after being told we could start work on a Wimpey building site on the Earlstrees industrial estate. Elation was immense. 

I had taken a lot of stick off my parents about jacking in the 'Works' but holy shit, did they expect me to stay there for the rest of my days? Writing myself off at 20? I needed to get out and see what was happening around the world - and what a rude awakening it was! 

First of all the job with Wimpey went down the pan. Turning up full of anticipation about what we would be doing, driving dumper trucks, helping brickies, digging holes or whatever else they did on a building site, the Irish ganger who had given us the green light a week before, looked at us as if we were aliens! Didn't remember us! Dismissed us with a wave of his hand; "those jobs have gone!" Well is this what it was like in the building industry?

It was the beginning of a merry-go-round of jobs. Shanks and McEwan was next. There was an article in the Evening Telegraph telling of Shanks getting the contract to dismantle the overhead iron ore buckets that went to the steelworks from quarries as far a field as Desborough and Rothwell. Why we thought we would be given a job on this or one of their building sites I don't know. Instead we were plummeted right back into the steelworks doing shit jobs; tarmacking an area next to the BOS plant, which had replaced the defunct Bessemer Plant. Next day inside the BOS plant concreting a platform. You couldn't imagine worse conditions. Thick dust and acrid yellow smoke belching everywhere was the norm! On the third day of this adventure we were in the Rolling Mills, resplendent in grubby overalls, wearing waders and a helmet to shovel shite from a gully way underneath the massive rolls into a bucket which was hauled up by your mate by a piece of rope. 'What the fuck am I doing here?' did cross my mind. When an Irish, yes another one, ganger brought us all together at the end of the day to inform us; 'more good news' I awaited with baited breath. "We're working 12 hour nights next week in the Blast Furnaces, knocking out bricks!" Irish said excitedly. That was it. Off I went to see Shanks' labour officer to ask for a transfer. He looked at me astonished, laughed and told me I had no chance. 'OK’ I said, ‘if that’s the case you can keep your job, I’m off” and I went home.

Mam gave me more stick. "What are you going to do now?" she said with a hint of exasperation. My brother Alan who was landlord of the Open Hearth pub came to the rescue by telling me to work more hours part-time behind the bar. Which led to me getting a start as a chippies' mate on a water tower that was being built on the Corby to Kettering road. A regular in the bar, Neil McNab, a carpenter, fixed me up. Great stuff, until I discovered I was working at around 40 feet in the air, prancing about on scaffolding and hanging over the side of the central section with one arm whilst Neil pushed bolts through shuttering to which I was supposed to screw nuts onto. My legs turned to jelly just thinking about it. Health and Safety? Neil sensed I wasn't comfortable or ecstatic and we switched jobs in the afternoon. The ironic thing about this was, having spent all day crapping myself pissing about on planks up in the sky, when I came down at the end of the day, I slipped on the dregs of a bloody teapot that had been thrown out of the hut and fell over, catching my hip on a sodding oil drum! I wasn't happy.

Traipsing home I passed another building site by the Phoenix pub and on a whim, nipped in to see if there were anything going. To my delight I was told I could start next day so I returned back to the Water Tower to tell the gaffer, a miserable cockney bloke with a bad attitude, I was finishing. He wasn't happy. He paid me, grudgingly out of his wallet, a fiver. Thank you I said, and walked off. 

Firman's were the contractors on the Phoenix site, a Peterborough company made up of guys from surrounding small towns and villages, all lacking the 'Corby' sense of style and humour. Another miserable shower in other words, led by a ganger called Charlie Harper. This guy was legendary as a bad ass! He took an instant dislike to me. Thought I was a reprobate I reckon. Then again he probably thought the same about all the Corby guys on the site. Never talked without scowling, face like a smacked arse, Harper was always sneaking around looking for layabouts resting behind piles of bricks or down a trench. 

I was put to work with a couple of pipe layers, right funny characters they were too. One was an old Irish feller called Hughie who once the Phoenix opened its' doors at half ten, was away. 'Tell Harper if he's looking for me, I've gone to the shops to get some fag papers'. I wouldn't see Hughie again until half two when the pub closed! I'd be hiding down the trenches, peeping up now and again to keep an eye open for Harper. I'd go home for dinner and come back, still no sign of Hughie. When he did return, stinking of ale, he'd spend most of the time rolling his fags and cracking jokes, Harper couldn't stand him. Hughie cracked me up. How the hell we managed to lay pipes I'll never know. We didn't lay many, I remember that. Harper did manage to get Hughie moved to another site near the Welfare Club in Occupation Road. Within days I heard he'd been given the boot. They couldn't keep him out of the Club!

The highlight of my time with Firman's came when I was gazing mesmerised watching two bricklayers building a wall. I felt I had to congratulate them on doing a great job for some reason. Then I stepped over it, and knocked the bloody thing down with my knee! I couldn't believe it, and neither could the brickies. Called me all the useless pricks, you name it, under the sun. I did feel a prick I have to admit. 

The crunch on the 'Phoenix' job came when I was assigned by Harper to help a Geordie lorry driver unload a stack of gable ends. The Geordie had me in stitches as he argued and took the piss out of Harper. I thought it was hilarious, brilliant. He was intent on taking his time, it was a lovely sunny afternoon and he took advantage to do some sun bathing, shirt off and lying down on the back of his lorry. Well there wasn't much else I could do, so I joined him. This was the life I thought. Harper was grimacing and growling under his breath. "Tell him to fuck off Clive" the Geordie shouted to me. I laughed out loud. What a hoot. Harper didn't know how to handle guys like this. Probably thought he would end up with a sore face if he wasn't careful. I was willing Geordie to stiffen him.

Next day, Harper came prowling, looking for prey. Somehow I knew he was looking for me. When he did, he sacked me. I didn't care. 'Fuck you!'

Around this time on another site, the Lincoln estate, news filtered through that a Kettering bloke had been sacked and took a dumper truck to get home. Sheer class. Well, being only ten minutes from home instead of eight miles, I didn't need a dumper.

Mam was by the sink when I came home; "What you doing here?" she asked with a disbelieving look on her face. "I've had the sack..." Cue more earache. I'm convinced she was thinking I was a waste of time!I was quite pleased actually. I was planning on hitching it to Liverpool next day with my mate Wilf to see a European Fairs Cup game against Ferencvaros of Hungary. Until Alan showed his face again. Alan called in every day at mam's looking for a bite to eat and a cuppa. "What are you doing here?" he asked.

"He's had the sack" mam fired in before I could open my mouth.

"What? Now what are you going to do?"

"Well I'm off to Liverpool tomorrow for starters" I said, "I'll look for another job when I get back".

He looked at me just like mam had, not quite with despair but disbelief. "Right" he said, and went into the hall where the phone was. I heard him rabbiting away. This sounded ominous.

"I've just had a word with the manager at the Lancs (Lancashire Steel Plant in the steelworks); you've to go down this afternoon for an interview. And if he asks when you can start, you say tomorrow!"

Fucking hell. Alan had spent 15 years in the Lancs before going into the pub trade in 1967. He had a good name down there it seems. I was dreading being asked the fateful question, I even had the feeling that Alan had already told him I would start tomorrow!

Why I didn't tell Alan to fuck off I don't know. Well I do really. He'd have battered me!

So the trip to Liverpool went up the spout, the Reds got beat 1-0 anyway as it happens and I trudged miserably down to the Lancashire Steel plant next morning.

I was welcomed almost as if I was an escaped prisoner. The boss, who's name was Braybrook, had a gleam in his eye. "Ah, so you're Alan's brother" He looked at me with relish, as if he was going to give me some goddamed boring job that would do my head in. And he did. Bottom of the rung I was passed around for the next few weeks working with all sorts of characters, doing nothing in particular. Another boss, Harry James, his name sticks in my head because he shared a name with an old band leader from the 30s or something, asked me every week if I would mind doing a backshift or nightshift the following week. Christ, that's the last thing I wanted to do. I had told them at the outset and repeated it all the time that what I wanted was a constant day job. Think I was getting on their tits in the end. I wasn't quite living up to Alan's reputation. That's all I heard; 'How's Alan?' 'Alan was a good worker'.. I couldn't escape him! Everybody wanted to know about Alan! 

Eventually my luck held out. Harry James asked me if I was still after a day job. "You know I am” I said. "Right, come with me". Relief at having the weekly routine of 'what job I would be on next week' over and done with came with a mixed feeling when I was told the guy who's job I was taking had just had a heart attack and had been doing the dirtiest and smelliest job in the whole plant! 

What a title too. Bog Ore Assistant! What the fuck was that. Well it was a job of cleaning gas tanks out. One a day. Two levels in a big 20 foot square tank, each covered with six inches of peat, which had to be shovelled into the back of a lorry and then fresh peat spread around to replace it. Thing was, you only had an hour and a half to do it as apparently the peat would eventually ignite after being exposed to the air. To do the job I was given a fireman's jacket and hat! No overalls. Had to supply them myself. Which was a joke. As if I was going to spend money on buying overalls. It soon became a cause of debate and argument. 

The charge hand Nobby Clark came and told us each day which tank we were cleaning. One particular morning I was hungover, had a headache and I was wearing a pair of white jeans. Hadn't really bothered to change from the night before. Clark came by, never much of a conversationalist, told us; 'number 12 today'. Sipping my coffee, I stopped him in his tracks; "got any overalls Nobby?" He turned around, amazement on his face with me sitting there looking as if I was going to a disco. 

"You supply your own overalls" he said with a look as if I'd asked him for a fiver.

"You should supply the overalls" I countered.

"What have you been wearing since you've been doing this job?"

"That's besides the point, would you do this crap job wearing white jeans?"

This was obviously beyond his comprehension. 

"That's your problem. Number 12 tank is the one to be done today" he said abruptly and went to walk off.

Cocky bastard I thought; "It's not my problem, it's your job to find me overalls!" I shouted at him.

This really fired him up. "You'll have to manage without overalls then!"

"No" I said, "if that's the case, you'll have to get someone else to do the job, I'm not doing that manky bloody job dressed like this!"  

Just then, with Clark looking totally exasperated, the foreman Ron Sismey came by, looking perplexed. "What's the matter?"

"I told him, I wasn't going to do the job today without any overalls".

Sismey looked at me, puzzlement written all over his face. Don't think he could believe my white jeans either. To be honest I've no idea why I was wearing them in this filthy hole either if truth be told. My head was still banging and I'm thinking; 'Don't need this bullshit'.

Sismey turned to Clark and told him; "find him some overalls"

Clark looked defeated. Fuck me, is that it? End of story? All this arguing with the charge hand and the foreman comes along, and sorts the problem out just like that. Sismey commanded my respect after that, nice bloke, no fuss, spoke pleasantly. Clark didn't have a clue.

I was working with a Scottish feller called Toner who sounded as if he'd just got off the bus from Glasgow. Couldn't resist taking the piss and talking broad Jock back to him. He looked at me one day and said; 'you're aff yer fuckin' heed'. 

It was a day job and I was happy, to a certain extent. The stench from the tanks when you took the lids off was unbearable. What a pong. It permeated everything you were wearing, embarrassing at first. We started at seven and sat on a wooden plank perched on a couple of bricks against a wall drinking tea and reading the papers until around half nine when we would make a start. The job took us up to eleven o'clock and that was it. Leaving four hours to kill! At first I walked around looking for people to have a chat with but invariably they would shy away, 'fuck me' they'd say holding their nose. It was that bad. I grew bored rapidly. One day I was walking around the perimeter of the plant, which was surrounded by a big steel slatted fence. This did feel like a prison camp! Suddenly, my eyes lit up. There was a slat missing in the fence. 'I'm sure I could slip through there' I thought, 'I'll give it a go tomorrow'.

This was brilliant and for the next few months I disappeared out of the Lancs and walked through the steelworks which took about half hour and then into the White Horse for a couple of pints and a game of darts! Magic. Splendid way to take your lunch. Until a manager stopped me one day...

"Can I have a word?" Oh no, I had a gut feeling what this was all about.

"You were seen going through that hole in the fence yesterday". Bollocks, some bastard has shopped me. Trying to stay composed, I asked him; "What hole?" all innocently.

"You know what hole!"

"No I don't" Bollocks again as I could see my pint in the White Horse being knocked on the head. You couldn't get out of the Lancs except past the Patrolman on the front gate. Realising I was going to admit fuck all, he let the matter drop with just a warning. And I went round the back of the building to check the fence. Bastard! They had filled the gap in.

Feeling downcast, news came that the Lancashire Steel plant was going to close in two months. That didn't bother me in the slightest but the next bit of news did. We were all getting transferred over to the Tubeworks! That meant three shifts again! God almighty, can't I escape from this place?

When the time came, in February 71’, I went along and started on dayshift in the EWSR. A month later, I was off again. Couldn’t stand it, pissing about putting tubes through a paint machine. Jesus H. Next stop was with the Fusiliers at McAlpines in Kettering. 

That’s another story.

My love life at this time was at a standstill until out of the blue my old mate Ralph got in touch to ask me if I fancied another blind date. He was beating Cilla Black by about 30 years at this game! It was Ralph who had fixed me and Sue up with a blind date in 1968. He had endured a pretty rough time since he had moved to Liverpool. Kicked out of his digs on Christmas Day because the landlady claimed he hadn't paid his rent. He was constantly shifting from digs to digs. He failed to get any work for months but vowed to prove everybody wrong and stuck at it. Then he met Colette. No doubt Col saved his life. Maybe she was thinking of doing the same for me! Colette's best friend Barbara was set up for me when I went to stay with Ralph in his latest digs in Sunbury Road. What a date and weekend it proved to be. 

I hitch-hiked it to Liverpool on  the Friday before the football season kicked off and planned to hitch it to Burnley next day for Liverpool's first game. Ralph's digs was just round the corner from Anfield. He was staying with a lovely couple, Gordon and Brenda. They had two little girls and welcomed me with great warmth. 

After getting settled in Ralph and I met his girl Colette and her friend Barbara in the Old Campfield pub just after seven. The place was heaving, an old guy was clanking away on an upright piano, smoke filled the air, and the chatter was relentless. The pub resembled something out of a cowboy movie. We joined the girls, was introduced and straight off, Barbara looked at Colette and screetched, laughing out loud; "Don't e' talk funny!" Fucking hell, thanks a mill, never made me feel a divvy!

We were sitting alongside each other on a bench seat so conversation was going to be hard enough, never mind about the din.

Every time I opened my mouth, Barbara yelled, "don't e talk funny!" pissing herself. It didn't help that Ralph and Colette thought it was hilarious too, creasing up every time! I began to feel inhibited and I could see that this was going to be a waste of time and resigned myself to seeing the night out.

After a while we headed off to the city, had a couple of drinks in a den called the Mona and then, best of all, to the Cavern. This was what I'd been excited about all day. Going to the Cavern. Where the Beatles and all the other Mersey bands played and started.

By this time, things had calmed down, it was obvious me and Barbara were not hitting it off and we made our way down into the basement cellar to see a band from Manchester on stage. It was just as I'd seen it in the music mags and papers. I felt as if I had arrived in a place of worship. Rows of wooden benches. Wow. The smell of sweat and stale atmosphere added something too.

Taking a pew, my joy evaporated. My arse was wet! What the hell? I stood up to inspect, and saw that some dirty get had spewed up all over the seat! And I had just sat in it. That completed a miserable night! Deflated I told Ralph I was going. 

"Where?" he asked astonished.

"Back to the digs" and I left the three of them there to carry on enjoying themselves. I wasn't that bothered, it was about half one by this time and I was up early next morning to head off up the East Lancs Road to Burnley, then making my way after the game to Nottingham by train for my niece Fiona's christening on the Sunday, before hitching it to Blackpool for the Monday night game with Liverpool. An interesting weekend it was. 

And an interesting year really!