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Post by gazz on Mar 29, 2020 13:45:02 GMT
Diary of an unemployed Tesco worker. Day 9
Well, if all the DVD’s can do bonus extras.....
I naturally wake up about five minutes before my alarm goes off (which I forgot to turn off). I’m finally settled into my new routine of getting up at noon, working from 2pm until 11pm, having my tea at midnight, and watching Netflix until about 4am, and my blue fleece has been retired. The clocks are going forward tonight as well. #### me, this body clock of mine is going to need some resetting.
Catching up on some of the news from the last week or so, I find an article regarding a news conference that took place in Downing Street last Saturday. The head of the British Retail Consortium, Helen Dickinson, said: “There is £1bn more food in people’s houses than there was three weeks ago, so we should make sure we eat some of it.” Quite possibly the funniest quote I’ve ever heard in my life.
Decide to make a note of everything I’m doing today, and three and a half minutes later, decide not to make a note of everything I’m doing today.
I do quite a lot of acting in my spare time, and notifications always appear on Facebook about forthcoming shows. Today, this pops up: ‘Let Sasha know if you can make it to The Full Monty auditions tomorrow’. Not entirely sure “waving my willy about on stage” will be classified as an essential journey if I’m stopped by the police.
Chris Whitty keeps appearing on television with these public information announcements about the Coronavirus. I so wish the BBC would use the ‘Mastermind’ theme tune to introduce him, just to really sh*t us all up.
‘Robin Hood Prince Of Thieves’ is on Channel 5. Never mind all these social distancing measures. Just bring Kevin Costner and Morgan Freeman in to sword the sh*t out of this virus.
I watch ‘In For A Penny’ on ITV, which is a bit of a daft game show with members of the public. Tonight, Stephen Mulhern is in a Tesco store. He shares a breadstick with a female checkout worker in front of other customers (like that spaghetti scene in ‘Lady And The Tramp’), stuffs his face with mango slices at the till, and has a bit of sexual innuendo with a Father Christmas lookalike who’s buying melons. ‘Brand Tesco’ is alive and well.
‘Saturday Night Takeaway’ is also on ITV. Ant & Dec are presenting it from home, due to the Coronavirus outbreak. But I notice they’re in different houses. I thought they were a married couple?
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Post by bringbacklenwhite on Mar 29, 2020 14:21:15 GMT
If all key workers have to go in, why are Timpson's closed ?
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Post by gazz on Mar 29, 2020 15:14:29 GMT
If all key workers have to go in, why are Timpson's closed ? There was I thinking they'd be a shoe-in!
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Post by hatter_in_macc on Mar 29, 2020 16:29:44 GMT
They're obviously in lock-down...
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Post by gazz on Mar 29, 2020 17:05:04 GMT
They're obviously in lock-down... I can see this resulting in a barrel of laughs!
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Post by gazz on Mar 30, 2020 20:06:49 GMT
Des has found himself another job!
From stacking wheat to packaging meat
So, did you hear the one about the vegetarian who got a job in a meat factory?
Honest to God, doing temporary work during this global pandemic, I feel like I’m living in a surreal world within a surreal world. If this is ‘The Truman Show’ in real life and I’m unwittingly being watched on national TV every night by millions of viewers, please can someone just let me know. I don’t have a boat so I can’t just head out to sea before crashing into a wall in the middle of the ocean to find out for myself. It’s down to you lot to tell me. I’m sure the NHS would rather save their beds for patients whose lungs aren’t working at the moment, than giving one to a temp who’s cracking up and thinks he’s the star of his own TV show.
This latest chapter begins with one of my Facebook friends commenting on one of my Tesco posts, saying his place (which turns out to be a meat packaging factory for one of the big supermarkets) is taking on new people at the moment. On Sunday night, I send him a message.
“Are there still jobs at your place mate?”
“Should be definitely. I’ve seen a lot of new people. They’ll have anyone right now mate. A lot of comedy material in there as well LOL.”
Hmm, that’s not a bad start. They’re taking new staff on. They’re not fussy. And evidently there are people there I can take the piss out of. #### the company car and the pension scheme, that’ll do for now.
After falling foul of the Tesco social media policy I was never given, there’s more reasons to keep this new job a bit more secret for the time being, and therefore more reasons to maybe get a book out of it. And if you need more reasons to break this code, you really are a ####ing idiot.
It actually turns out that more reasons don’t do their recruitment for their factories in-house. Everything goes through an agency. My Facebook friend gives me a mobile number for the agency, and tells me it will be answered by Eva or Gabriel from Hungary. Or Elaina from Romania, who is “squeaky” apparently. I’m starting to get slightly concerned that our conversation has been lost in translation somewhere and that an Eastern European prostitute is going to turn up on my doorstep within the hour, but I send a text anyway. (It’s quite late on Sunday night now, so I text rather than call the number. Guess I’ll never know if Elaina has a “squeaky” voice or not.)
At 6.34 on Monday morning, I have a reply from the agency.
“Tuesday. 10am.”
So, no prostitutes turned up last night, but I am now worried that a gangster might be after me, or I’ve landed myself in the middle of a drug deal or something. Fortunately, I scroll down to find the second half of the message.
“We need passport or birth certificate and own email address.”
Seriously, the global economy might be crashing down, but there has never been an easier time to find a job. I think even Harold Shipman would find gainful employment at the moment if he was still around, so long as he had a bank account and a National Insurance number.
Not entirely sure what “Tuesday 10am” means, I text back.
“Is that starting on Tuesday at 10? I have a passport and email address that’s not a problem.”
“Yes.”
Ah, thank you, that’s really helpful. It’s been nice chatting to you too.
I’ve tried to call a couple of times to clarify a few things, but there’s no answer. I text again.
“And that’s the more reasons factory on the Industrial Park? Do I just turn up at 10? Is there anything else I need to bring?”
Six minutes later, I receive a reply. It’s a postcode, and nothing else. Apparently Eva from Hungary/Gabriel from Hungary/Squeaky Elaina from Romania is not very chatty.
One last text.
“Thank you. I’ll see you at 10am tomorrow. Is there anything else I need to bring? What time is tomorrow’s shift finishing?”
No reply.
Okay then boys and girls. I don’t actually know what I’m doing. I don’t know what time I’m finishing. I don’t even know who to ask for when I get there. But tomorrow morning, I head back out into the supermarket world, along with my passport, own email address and postcode, in search of pastures new.
And a few more reasons for you to stay tuned.
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Post by dudleyhatter on Mar 30, 2020 20:35:24 GMT
Great resilience!
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Post by gazz on Mar 31, 2020 22:06:50 GMT
Diary of a temporary meat factory worker. Day 1.
(Day 1, and also Part 1, as I can’t be arsed doing the rest as I want to carry on watching a Prison Break.)
Did some research on my new job/employer last night. Three items of note: 1. I’m going to be working at the largest industrial estate in Europe. Ha ha. And my teachers said I’d never make it in life. 2. As it’s a meat factory, the job description says “the environment is chilled”. I pack a Bob Marley CD and a bag of weed for my first day. I know, I know, teacher’s pet. 3. I wish my parents had conceived me a bit higher up on the UK map. Colne in Lancashire to be precise. Because then I could have applied for a job with more reasons as a ‘Skilled Boning Operative’. Imaging the job satisfaction on that one.
Sleep through my alarm. My body clock is so ####ed, I don’t even know what day it is at the moment, never mind the right time. I book a taxi to the bus station. As I’m leaving the house, I realise how scruffy I look at the moment, having not had a haircut or a shave since all this started. I look like exactly the type of person you wouldn’t want heading to a meat factory to pack your ham sandwich.
As I get to the bus station, I realise I still don’t actually know where I’m going. The first part of North Wales as you leave Chester is a mish-mash of lots of little towns and villages, with pretty sh*tty transport links. And this largest industrial estate in Europe is bloody big, with lots of different entrances depending on which bit you’re working in. I see a bus heading vaguely in the right direction. A big shout-out to the Arriva bus driver who kindly lets me on for free, as it’s contactless payments only and all I’ve got is cash. He also tells me I’ve got “one hell of a walk” once he drops me off as far as he’s going, which is next to the leprechaun. As the journey continues, I start to get slightly concerned at the absence of a small bearded man in a green coat with a sign saying ‘Des, get off the bus here’ but eventually I realise the driver is referring to the name of a pub, where I alight.
Remembering the few minutes I spent on Google Maps last night, I’m anticipating a bit of a walk, but nothing too taxing. However, I’m over four miles away, which is a 90 minute walk. b*ll*cks. I phone another taxi, and the driver feels really sorry for me, giving me a pep talk like I’m heading off to war or something. “Give it a crack mate, that’s all you can do.” Jesus, how bad are these meat factories?
To be fair, the picture is pretty ####ing bleak as I arrive, more akin to a refugee camp than a supermarket factory. There’s already pockets of agency workers stood around waiting to go in (exactly how much food are we getting through at the moment, cause the amount of jobs on offer is staggering!). Inside the smoking shelter on the other side of the railings, a group of depressed-looking, shivering women extract the last few gasps of their cigarettes, with faces like they’ve just found a tub of Celebrations, but found only sewing kits and spare batteries inside. Signs are plastered everywhere saying ‘WARNING - AMMONIA’ and that I might, you know, die if I breathe too much of it in. And a bloke in an orange vest is trying to tick off names on a form whilst at the same time trying to enforce social distancing measures, but as half the people here literally cannot speak a word of English, he’s not having much luck. I’m half expecting someone to come up to me offering me a spot on a lorry to escape this abyss in return for a brown envelope of cash.
I’m due to start at 10am, but it’s about fifteen minutes later when a short Hungarian bloke appears, who runs the agency. I have to bite my lip to stop laughing at him, as he looks exactly like Bill Bailey (just without the long hair) and it keeps tickling me. He takes me and about 20 others into the corridors of the factory, which is like a maze. Honest to God, we go up and down that many different stairs, I’m expecting to end up in a Wetherspoons toilet. I don’t, but I somehow do get separated from the rest of the pack, along with half a dozen Romanians. We’re now lost in a giant factory on the largest industrial estate in Europe. I follow them from behind. They’re all laughing and joking in their own language. I’ve got no idea what they’re saying. I have a feeling it might be “he’s the guy who writes the hilarious Tesco diaries” but I can’t be sure. Eventually we bump into an English-speaking woman outside an office, who’s scoffing a fry-up from a cardboard tray. She sends us back through the door with a “you need to go down the stairs then up”. As this place seems to be a giant collection of stairwells that go up and down without actually leading anywhere, she might as well have just given us a road map of Runcorn. Eventually, we navigate our way out of the Hampton Court Maze, and into one of the meeting rooms for our more reasons induction.
It turns out I am the only English person in the entire room. Suspicious glances are coming at me from all directions. I feel like a nun at an swingers party. Hungarian Bill Bailey looks at his list of names and starts speaking.
“Where is Des?”
####. Is this Tesco-diary-comes-back-to-bite-me-in-the-bum part two?
“Obviously your English is very good. As for the rest of you I know your English is not so good.”
Wahey! I’m top of the class after literally three seconds. To be slightly picky, after 35 years living on this island, I’d describe my English as “####ing superb” but I’ll settle for “very good”. I don’t want to upset my teacher just yet as I could be in line for a sticker in a moment.
One of my new colleagues takes in his new surroundings and says: “It’s nice here.” It’s a fairly standard meeting room so I’m not sure what conditions he’s used to. Although I later find out half the room used to all work in a chicken factory in Scunthorpe, so actually, I have a pretty good idea. Although it seems Hungarian Bill Bailey doesn’t necessarily agree. “I had one guy work here last week who went home after five minutes.” He looks at me as he’s saying it. Whoa, I can handle this place. I used to work the McDonald’s Drive Thru on a Friday night.
We’re given a form to fill out. All it requires is the standard details about yourself. It takes me about two minutes to complete. I’m the first one to put my pen down, and I hand my form to Hungarian Bill Bailey. “Have you finished already?” he asks, with the tone of his voice suggesting he’s actually quite proud of me. I consider standing on my chair and boasting to everyone else in the room that I’ve finished first, but considering the majority of the room don’t actually speak the language the form is written in, I stay sat down.
One guy sat at the back of the room does tickle me, who looks like what can only be described as a homeless Mr Bean. There’s immense confusion over one of the questions on the form between himself and Hungarian Bill Bailey. There’s actually another language barrier to hurdle, as most of these new agency staff are Romanian, which Hungarian Bill Bailey doesn’t speak. It takes about five minutes of toing and froing in English, Hungarian and Romanian before the punchline is revealed. Homeless Mr Bean has put himself down as ‘next of kin’. Cue laughter from everyone in the room, before the realisation that a couple of others have made the exact same mistake as well.
Seventeen hours later, the forms are all filled in. And with all the cinemas closed at the moment, we’re given a special treat. It’s time for the more reasons Food Safety DVD.
Bizarrely, it starts with Tony Robinson (of ‘Blackadder’ and ‘Time Team’ fame) playing the part of a pub landlord, who comes out of the gents toilets having not washed his hands, before chatting to a customer at the bar whilst scratching his armpits and sniffing them. Honestly, it’s ####ing brilliant. I’m p**sing myself watching this DVD, surrounded by 20 Romanians who haven’t got a clue what’s going on. Their faces look like mine did when I watched the final series of ‘Lost’. Back to the comedy sketch, the customer, who was about to order his lunch, decides to vacate the premises when the pub landlord hands him a menu, due to his obvious lack of hygiene. Cue, a forlorn-looking Tony Robinson looking directly at the camera, to tell us all: “It’s my first day too.” I’m ROFL at this point, as the kids say.
Next, it’s a detailed step-by-step guide to washing your hands. I have to wash my hands THOROUGHLY every time I handle meat or go to the toilet. The meat I can understand. But come on more reasons, you’re being a bit snobby with your toilet rule. I’ve not washed my hands after having a sh*t for the last eight years and it’s not done me any harm.
The comedy DVD continues. Diarrhoea is the next topic of conversation, accompanied by an actor in a giant chef’s hat, stirring a large pan, who suddenly realises the sh*ts are on their way, before needlessly running the long way round the kitchen and off to the toilet. It’s straight off a Benny Hill sketch show.
Hungarian Bill Bailey talks us through the art of washing your hands. We have to scrub our hands for 45 seconds every time we do it. That’s the recommended amount. I love the fact he specifically points out to us all that it’s 45 seconds, and not 45 minutes. I’ve worked in some jobs where I’ve tried to stretch out breaks a little, but I think washing your hands for 45 minutes would be classed as taking the p**s.
Our teacher then performs his own comedy routine. He’s not sure if everyone has understood the words for ‘vomiting’ and ‘diarrhoea’. He points to his mouth and does a high-pitched “bleu” before letting off a low-pitched “bleu” as he points to his arse. On the subject of piercings, he looks at the ladies in the room, points to his ears and says “not okay” before pointing to his own boob area and saying “that’s okay”. Homeless Mr Bean laughs loudly at this point. And when nobody understands the word “droppings”, Hungarian Bill Bailey gives it a five second pause before simply saying “sh*t”. Which I think is the first word we’ve all understood collectively. sh*t is universal, it seems. There’s something rather beautiful about that.
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Post by gazz on Apr 1, 2020 21:33:57 GMT
Diary of a temporary meat factory worker. Day 1. (Part 2)
Hungarian Bill Bailey’s induction continues. He talks about not scratching your face while you’re packing meat on the factory line, accompanied by another full mime show (I so want a game of charades with him when this is all over) and the classic one-liner: “Why would you want a meaty face anyway?” (Which, incidentally, is to be developed as a Saturday night BBC game show hosted by Paddy McGuinness.)
We talk about the fact that meat dropped on the floor should never be picked up and put back on the factory line. I’m so tempted to say “What, no five second rule?” but I don’t want to confuse these puzzled-looking Romanians any further.
The temperature in the factory, I’m told, is between 0 and 5 degrees Celsius. Everyone else in the class smiles at me when Hungarian Bill Bailey reveals this information. He also looks at me and says: “Let us know if you don’t like it. It isn’t for everyone.” I really think he thinks I’m going to parachute myself off the building at any moment. He doesn’t realise I was the hardest lad in Tesco, though. And I’ve done Hartlepool away on a Tuesday night. I can handle anything, me.
During all of this induction, by the way, Homeless Mr Bean continues to amuse me. Everyone else is sat listening quietly, but he constantly says “yes” after every single point Hungarian Bill Bailey makes. Not just once or twice, but we’re talking around 300 yes’s already. He seems like a really nice lad, and he’s by far the best English speaker out of all the Romanians, so it falls upon him to translate some of Hungarian Bill Bailey’s important points for his fellow compatriots. Just because they can barely speak a word of English, they still need to know what to do in the event of an Ammonia evacuation, and that you should wear a blue plaster if you cut your finger so it’s easy to find if you drop it in the food, and that you shouldn’t sneeze all over the conveyor belt of meat if you can help it. What tickles me further, is that Homeless Mr Bean doesn’t wait for Hungarian Bill Bailey to finish speaking, he just keeps cutting him off mid-sentence, translating in Romanian at the top of his voice. It’s a recurring joke that takes place every sixty seconds or so. I’m absolutely loving it, but I can tell Hungarian Bill Bailey is starting to get slightly pissed off at how long this is taking, though at the same time there’s not a lot he can do, as everyone in the room needs to know what to do if they suddenly get the sh**s in work, whether they can speak English or not.
Basic training completed, it’s time for some of the more advanced stuff. Like how to pick up a box. Hungarian Bill Bailey gives a wonderful demonstration of how to pick up a box off the floor. Back straight, knees bent, this guy is the real deal. But there’s a voice at the back of the room. “No, no, no, you shouldn’t do it like that. I know how to. This is how you should do it.” Homeless Mr Bean stands up, gives his own demonstration, and I swear to God, it is an exact mirror image of what Hungarian Bill Bailey has just shown us. There literally isn’t a single difference between the two.
Canteen information, next. The main thing is Hungarian Bill Bailey saying “don’t touch the food” to those in the room who can’t speak English. It transpires that he worked with agency staff at a previous factory, who couldn’t speak English, who picked up lots of food in the canteen with their bare hands, asking what each item was. My mind now has an image of a girl with both hands dripping with baked beans asking “vot is dis” to a confused-looking dinner lady.
Our rate of pay appears on the screen. It’s more than I thought it was. In fact, it’s a whole 59 pence an hour more than Tesco. I’ve had a pay rise four days after being sacked. I’ll have my own private Caribbean island by the time the Coronavirus clears.
Hungarian Bill Bailey starts to hand out keypads. We’re only doing a bloody quiz. A pay rise and now a quiz! This is the best day of my working life. I’m looking forward to questions on 90’s Britpop, Stockport County Football Club, and TV Sitcoms, so it is a bit of an anti-climax when I find out the quiz is all about food safety at more reasons. But as anything fun to do in this country has completely shut down for over a fortnight now, I’m actually looking forward to it.
Question one. How long should you wash your hands for?
Every fibre of my being is telling to me to press ‘45 minutes’ but my head rules my heart in the end and I choose ‘45 seconds’ which is the correct answer. Three people answer incorrectly. All of the answers appear on the screen when buttons are pressed, so it gets a giggle or two when a few flashes of red appear amongst all the green. Hungarian Bill Bailey tells us this is really a test, and everyone has to get 100% to pass the induction. So we have to do question one for a second time. The quizmaster actually tells us all the right answer. One person still gets it wrong. As question one appears for a third time, I’m starting to think I could go on ‘Mastermind’ with ‘optimum hand washing times’ as my specialist subject. Third time lucky, it’s green across the board, and we can move on to question two.
At this point, considering half the contestants can’t speak English, and the fact our induction has now been going on for three months, Hungarian Bill Bailey simply points to each answer on the screen with a laser pen. Why couldn’t my GCSE’s have been like this? With a red light highlighting the answer I need to press on my keypad, I’m starting to feel extremely confident I’ll pass this test. Although two people still answer question two incorrectly, so we have to do that one again as well. Homeless Mr Bean laughs out loudly.
Eventually, we get through all 20 questions, and there’s a 100% pass rate for every pupil, helped by the fact that by the end of the test, Hungarian Bill Bailey is practically pressing the buttons on our keypads for us. You might think staff working in a meat factory are well trained, and on paper at least, they all have a 100% score on food safety. But some of those genuinely wouldn’t know the difference between safely handling properly chilled meat with gloves on for your chicken salad, and sweeping the floor for mouse droppings and fingernails to give your BLT a nice bit of added crunch.
That’s pretty much it, apart from a 10 minute conversation on spitting. Hungarian Bill Bailey apologises to the Romanians, but apparently they are well known for spitting everywhere. Oh, how I long for the days when I stacked shelves in Tesco. He tells us that he’s actually lost many members of staff for spitting on the factory line. Mmm, can’t wait for my lunch today. It clearly is a thing, though, as some of the Romanian guys in the room ask Hungarian Bill Bailey if they’re allowed to spit in the corridors, spit in the smoking shelter, spit in the toilets. I might have to work on some excuses if Homeless Mr Bean invites me round to his for dinner one night.
Finally, we’re given some stapled sheets of paper, detailing every single topic we’ve covered today. There’s about 100 different things on the list, and we have to write today’s date and our signature next to every single item. ####ing hell. I am never, ever getting out of this place. Some of the topics listed we have talked about today, like the temperature of meat, and cleaning up. Other topics, such as the safe use of a fish knife, and how to load the slicing machine, haven’t been mentioned once. But I’m scribbling my signature down anyway, saying I’ve understood everything. Legally, it seems a lot of responsibility falls at my door rather than more reasons if anything goes tits up. I think I’m going to have to be very careful in this place. If I end up smashing my tibia and fibula on a bacon slicer, I don’t think I’ll have a leg to stand on.
Induction over. It’s actually been a rather fun day. I thought I was starting work today, so getting full pay for six hours (even though I’ve only been here for three and a half) to watch a Tony Robinson DVD and do a food safety quiz has been a very pleasant surprise. Granted, I’m covered head to toe in spit, but you can’t have everything.
I’m thinking to myself I might rather enjoy this place, as we’re escorted out the building a different way, right next to the main part of the factory.
Then it hits me. The smell.
Oh my God, it ####ing stinks.
Now, I’ve experienced some pretty unpleasant smells in my life. I was dancing away in Fifth Avenue the night someone let off about a million stink bombs. One of my friends once boiled a full kettle of Special Brew in a Blackpool guest house. And I once sh*t myself at the end of an excessive all-dayer in Liverpool, when we were supposed to go and watch Stockport County play at Tranmere, but as it was Ladies Day ahead of the Grand National, we decided to stay in Liverpool all day and night instead. That was not a pretty sight.
But none of those smells come close to the waft of chicken that smacks me in the face as we’re heading down the stairs. I gag immediately, and it’s a relief to get out into the fresh air. As someone who’s led a fairly sheltered working life in an office environment, with biscuits, water coolers and ergonomic chairs (in my defence, I am vegetarian and the smell genuinely does almost knock me sick) the thought of an eight hour shift in this chicken sweat box fills me with absolute dread.
I’ll give it a go, but I’m not promising I won’t spit all over a ham shank an hour into my shift.
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