Month: August 2013

Too many posts

~ beetleypete ~ 13 Comments

I looked back through this blog a day or so ago, and found an older post, where I stated that 2013 would see me posting less. Well, that didn’t happen! I know that I have been guilty of ‘over-posting’ recently. I had a fair bit of stuff in draft, and I wanted to get out my history of the selling jobs, when it was still all fresh in the mind. The changes in the weather prompted even more posts, as did the developing situation in Syria.

A different group of followers added even more inspiration, and it was always going to spiral from there. I have published fifteen posts in as many days, and I really think that this is too much, to expect anyone to fully read, and to appreciate. (Or not). Luckily, Julie has some holiday coming up, and although we are not going away anywhere, I will not be at the keyboard so much; so all of you will also get a well-earned break.

I won’t promise to be completely absent, after all, that wouldn’t be me now, would it? It will give you the chance though, if you want to take it, to catch up on the large volume of stuff I have been pumping out recently. We like to take our holiday when the schools have returned, and places are quieter. It is also our wedding anniversary soon, and we like to be off to celebrate that as well. You can take a deep breath, and relax. There won’t be so many beetleypete posts popping up in your Reader for a while.

See you soon. Pete.

Selling Yourself: Part Six

~ beetleypete ~ 33 Comments

I hope I am not wearing down my readers, with this unusually long series on my exploits in the world of sales. Judging by figures for the posts, enthusiasm has dimmed somewhat since Part One. There is one more to go after this, and that will take me up to the Ambulance Service. No more selling stories to come after that, I promise.

As I have previously told you, I needed a job, as the shop was not paying enough to save for a future. I saw one advertised locally, and had an idea that I could get it, if I gave a good interview. It was back to sausages and pies, something I at least knew a lot about. My first employer in that field had now been swallowed up, and had become part of the brand leader, who had been my second employer. There was a new number two now, all these years later, and they were looking for staff, to cope with an ever-expanding market.

Bowyers traded on a countryside theme, with a manufacturing base in the West Country. Their distinctive brown and cream livery was becoming a familiar sight in the London area though, and aggressively threatening the dominance of the leading giant. They were advertising for supervisors based in a depot in Battersea, and if I got the job, it would be a step up.

The place was a little shabby, a portakabin in a large fenced yard, and a loading bay. Twelve delivery trucks operated from there, covering all of West, and South-West London; a huge area, ranging from Westminster down to Croydon, and all the way out to Heathrow Airport. There would be two teams, and a supervisor for each, the whole thing overseen by an area manager, responsible for three sites.

At the interview, I could immediately tell that they wanted me. I had already worked for the two largest companies operating similar sales, and there was not much I didn’t know about all the potential scams, and fiddles. The salary was more than generous, and could be almost doubled by successfully hitting team sales targets. I would be expected to turn up very early, no later than 4am, and watch the loading of the vans, as well as dealing with the orders for the next day.

Any complaints from customers about my team, would have to come to me to deal with, and I would also sort out time off, lateness, and sickness.

When someone went sick, or took annual holiday, I would have to step in, and do their round as well as my own job. The hours were long, and would include some Saturdays. The job was confrontational in nature, so expected to be difficult, and stressful. That was why it paid so much. Still, I was only 25 years old, not yet married, and fit and healthy, so was confident that I could rise to any challenge. I got the job, and started the following week.

The deliveries arrived at the depot from the West Country, during the night. The driver would open up, off-load the entire lorry, then lock up and return home. By the time we arrived, we were faced with hundreds of stacks of pies, sausages, and cooked meats of all types, piled to the rafters in the small depot. They were supposed to be stacked in some approximation of each van round that had ordered them, but were often mixed up, or just dropped at random.

This instigated a free-for-all, as twelve driver/salesmen, two supervisors, and occasionally even the area manager, struggled to get it all into some semblance of order. The staff seemed friendly enough, at least at first. The idea of supervisors was a new one, and they didn’t really know what to expect. There was a closed shop in operation for the union USDAW, and it was hoped that we would join. I later did so, although I was aware that this could lead to problems.

My team was a mixed bag of individuals. I had a couple of loners, some fast-talking whizz-kids, and one man who was obviously not up to the job, and looked it. The shop steward was on my team too, a laconic, sarcastic man in his forties, who exuded an air of ‘seen it all, done it all’. By 7am, they were all loaded, and away. The other supervisor, a man even younger than I was and a trained butcher, suggested breakfast, so we drove to a nearby cafe for a ‘full English’. We were already worn out, both had pounding headaches, and the day had only just started.

Once back, we had to check the allocated stocks against what was delivered, and prepare the order for the next day, based on assumptions of what might be left over, and kept in the large refrigerated store. We quickly discovered huge differences between what was supposedly delivered overnight, and what had gone out on the vans a few hours earlier. As we had managed to check most of the orders first thing, we could only conclude that the sales staff had contrived to alter their paperwork, to show shortages that did not exist.

When we nervously rang this information through, the factory manager seemed remarkably unconcerned, and simply booked everything as ‘short-delivered’. He even suggested that we should write off some non-existent ‘damages’, to give us some extra flexibility with the shortages. The fact that it was obvious that our twelve staff had stolen almost £1,000 worth of goods, was shrugged off. It was too hard to prove, and not worth the effort of trying to establish who the culprits were.

Sales were on the up, and the profits rising accordingly. Sacking staff, and having disputes with the Union about dishonesty, would not bode well for a continued supply chain, and loss of deliveries would have meant our larger customers might have changed to the opposition. We were amazed. They had employed the supervisors and area manager to stop this kind of thing happening, then didn’t want us to actually do anything about it.

What happened next, was worthy of a Brian Rix farce, or a Mike Leigh play. Every morning, we would arrive early, put the stacks into the correct order, and watch the staff load. They would be checked off as we did this, to ensure that there were no shortages. In the meantime, staff already checked would load goods into other vans, who would then have too much stock. By the time we had it all sorted out, half the vans were short, once again. If we delayed the departure on the rounds for extensive re-checks, customers would complain in their droves, and the salesmen would get off late as well.

The whole culture of the company was to accept this wholesale theft, at the same time urging the supervisory staff to do more to stop it. I began to feel as if I was in an amateur dramatics production, running from one side of the depot to the other, as staff slid goods around, behind my back. There was only one thing left to do, only one course of action open to us.

We joined them.

Once the supervisors were ‘cooperating’, we might just as well have had a machine that printed banknotes. The opportunity to write off imaginary ‘spoiled’ goods was enormous. With tiny adjustments on the paperwork, whole loads could be shown as ‘not received’. Nobody cared, no matter what the cost involved, as the profits were so substantial. Ruined and damaged food was also tax deductible, as it could obviously not be sold, and in theory, went to be fed to pigs.

In practice, it had all been sold anyway, as it was never damaged or ruined in the first place. Every day, day in, day out, we wrote off thousands of pounds worth of stock, as either unsaleable, or never received. The rewards were immense. Some salesmen drove Range Rover cars, and lived in houses with land, stables, and horses for their children. Others were less greedy, and chose to do their round quickly, and finish early. The earliest rounds were done by 10.30am, and even the latest returnees were away by 4pm. The longer they stayed out, the greater the rewards, both in actual salary, but also in unofficial earnings. Some men had more customers ‘off the books’ than they did on them.

And we still made the sales, smashing all targets, no matter how high. In the week before I got married, in December 1977, I earned more money than I did in a month, thirty-five years later, in 2012.

This massive income enabled me to do lots of things. After less than a year working there, we moved to a house in Wimbledon Park. We owned two cars, both fairly new, and top of the range, and had at least two holidays a year. My wife was able to give up her job, and return to college to train to be a University Lecturer. I used to have so much cash in my pocket, it made my trousers uncomfortable.

Most of us hardly touched our actual wages, which were still more than three times a good average salary in those days. They went into the bank, paid the mortgage and direct debits, keeping  it all above board.

Everything else was paid for in cash, lots of cash. But it came at a price, as it always does. The hours necessary to make all this work, were phenomenal. I was up at three, and rarely home until five. Hours of heavy work, perhaps covering a round in between too; followed by paperwork, hassles on the telephone, and making sure all the discrepancies were covered up. I was always tired, in fact shattered would be a better description. My colleague, the other supervisor, had a sickness situation on his team, so spent most of his time having to cover a large round.

This took him twice as long as anyone else, because he was using the opportunity to shift vast amounts of ‘unofficial’ products. It was worth it financially, but it really was relentless.

In case you thought I had forgotten the actual job, I had not. This was busier then ever. The largest supermarkets, you know their names, made ever more demands on us, sometimes insisting on three deliveries a day in the busy seasons, which were Easter, Christmas, and most of the summer. If the salesmen were back and finished for the day, they would not go out again; they had a union agreement forbidding them to do so. As a member of the same union, I could not ask them to do anything contravening local agreements. My eagerness to participate in the union had indeed come back to haunt me.

It was left to me, and sometimes my colleague, or even the area manager, to get out there, with a small van loaded to the limit, with whatever they insisted that they were short of.

We were getting off later and later, having to eat our own products on the move, and paying for all that money with great chunks of our home life. And the fiddling in the shops was still going on too, that never stopped. At times, the combination of conning the company out of goods, followed by pinching stuff supposedly left in supermarkets, left us with so much money, it was too difficult to actually get it. We just had nowhere left, no outlets remained to take all the extra stock. Ironically, when this happened, we really did have to write it off.

In the whirlwind of all this fiddling and deceit, it was sometimes easy to take your eye off the ball, and forget your actual role as a supervisor. This was brought home to me one morning. The man who I suspected was not up to the job, and who I had noticed on my first day, was deteriorating rapidly. His sales were always low anyway, as there were no supermarkets of any size, on his Central London round.

We would simply invent cash sales that never actually happened, financing them from the huge slush fund available to us. This would keep his target secure, and accordingly, we would all qualify for bonuses. If he was ever off sick, or on holiday, I would do his round, make up half the sales, and still be finished by 10am, back to do my own job for the rest of the day.

One morning, I got a call from his last customer, asking why he hadn’t been in. I made up a story about breakdowns, and set out to look for him. Following his normal route, I eventually found his van, in a back street in Pimlico. As first, I thought he was dead at the wheel, but I soon discovered he was flat out drunk, slumped in the driving seat. He was lucky it was me that found him, and not the Police. I had always suspected that he liked a drink, but never noticed that he had gone this far. I got him back to the depot, and arranged collection of the spare van, sorting him a lift home at the same time.

I was shaken, as I realised that I had let him down, too busy chasing the cash. He had all sorts of problems in his life, but never felt able to approach me.

Not for the first time in my life, I realised that if all us had made a fraction of the effort actually doing our job, instead of putting all our efforts into ducking and diving, things would be a lot different. There was already talk of our company going the way of others, and reverting to a telesales service, with next day delivery. The bigger shops wanted us to deliver direct to their own warehouse, at greatly reduced prices, and they would sort it out from there.

The cash bubble looked as if it was soon to burst, and it was all feeling very stale, with lots of deja-vu to boot. I started to look around for a job to move to. I was cautious, as I would be taking a huge drop in pay, even on a good salary. I would want a new company car, so I could sell mine, and a nice sales area near the centre, to avoid staying out overnight.

One evening, I looked at the paper, and saw an advertisement for a sales representative for Bulmer’s, the leading manufacturer of cider in the UK. They wanted the Central London area covered, and offered a new car, and the usual salary package. Time to move on, to bid farewell to the sausages and pies yet again.

This time for ever, as it turned out.

‘I have a dream’

~ beetleypete ~ 23 Comments

Fifty years ago this week, I was eleven years old. I saw a news report on TV, about a huge march of protest, in Washington D.C., in America. Martin Luther King Jr. was addressing this huge crowd, the largest I could remember seeing, in my short life up to that time. I knew a little about the plight of black people in the USA, and had seen reports about segregation, and the KKK. I well remember being mesmerised by the speech, and by the style of the orator. Although I was not religious, even then, so discounted any of that aspect, this speech held me in rapture, and perhaps more importantly, made me believe in the honesty of Mr King, and to also wish for the realisation of his desires.

If you have never seen it, it will be worth the eighteen minutes of your life, to view the grainy original on this You Tube link.

If you would also like to read the words, here is a link to the original text.

Click to access dream-speech.pdf

Mr King never got to see his dream realised. He was assassinated, in dubious circumstances, less than five years later. I am not sure if he would have been pleased at the current state of things in the USA, but had he lived, he would have seen black politicians respected, in positions of power, and not least, a black president.

It is unlikely that any of this would have happened, had it not been for this memorable speech.

The Acorns are falling

~ beetleypete ~ 34 Comments

A sure sign that the season is changing, the sound of falling acorns is upon us in Beetley.

I should give some background, to make this all easier to picture. I could just post a lot of photos, but that would be far too easy. When we first viewed this house, one of the things we most liked about it, was the presence of two large oak trees. One is at the front of the property, and the other in the back garden. On a Google Earth viewing, they can easily be seen, dominating the comparatively small plot. As it is a bungalow, they do not intrude on the roof, and provide valuable shade, as well as an attractive ‘canopy’ over most of the property. They are both very old, perhaps over three hundred years or more, with the larger one in the garden, though the one at the front is a little higher. They also overhang three neighbouring houses, though they were not there when this bungalow was built, in 1979.

We were informed by the previous owner, that they are subject to a preservation order. They cannot be felled, or deliberately damaged, and any work carried out on them must be done by an approved arborist. This can be expensive, but only has to be done every five years or so, to keep the classic shape of the oak tree. The nearby houses also have to contribute to this, as the parts of the tree that overhang their properties are deemed to be their responsibility. The previous owner had lived here since 1987, and had undertaken extensive renovations, and improvements to the original bungalow. These included an extension at the rear, to enlarge the former kitchen into a comfortable kitchen/diner, and the building of a shed extension, immediately connected to the rear of the detached garage. This left us inheriting three flat roofs, the garage, shed, and kitchen. That was fine, as there was still plenty of space in the garden, as well as a good-sized patio. We bought the house in 2011, and though we could not move in at the time, we would come up for weekends and holidays.

Staying here for two weeks in September 2011, we first noticed the sound of the falling acorns. They are quite large things, and are naturally hard, the inner nut the size of a bullet, contained in a durable outer casing. The trees are around 40-50 feet to the top branches, so the farthest acorns can build up speed, as they plummet to the ground. Unfortunately, most do not make it to the softer grass, or surrounding borders. Instead, they hit the flat roofs, like a constant barrage of gunfire. Bird activity in the trees, or strong winds, can provoke an attack by hundreds of small hard projectiles within moments. If you happen to be outside, you will be showered by those missing the roofs, and others will be bouncing around, like ricocheting missiles. At night, the drumming of these things constantly falling can make it hard to sleep. Even if there is a lull, there will still be the occasional thud, as one strikes. I don’t know which is worse, the continuous pattering, or the intermittent thwacks.

After a good scattering, the lawn and outside areas have to be seen to be believed. Acorns, twigs, and bits of leaf can lay up to two inches deep everywhere. As you start to sweep them, the sheer size of the problem becomes apparent. A whole wheelie bin is filled in minutes, followed by bag after bag of nuts and shucks, which naturally, are still falling, even as you try to clear the first load. The amount of these things is incredible, and they just keep coming. The gutters are filled, and have to be cleared out every couple of days. The flower beds are inundated, and they have to be cleared as well, or we will end up with hundreds of small oak trees. The flat roofs have a crunchy topping of fresh acorn, but it is hardly worth trying to shift them, as they will eventually dry out, and do no harm up there. It is a necessary but time-consuming job, that becomes boring, very quickly. When they are not hitting the flat roofs, they are striking the main sloping roof, bouncing down the tiles like the ball in a pinball machine. They didn’t tell us about the acorns. Oh no.

Some suggest that it would be a good idea to ‘import’ squirrels, in the hope that they would eat them all. Despite being portrayed clutching acorns, it seems that squirrels do not actually eat them. In fact, the only animal that can eat, and digest, these hard kernels, is a pig. Pigs naturally forage in woodland, and have developed a taste for acorns over the centuries. However, despite the presence nearby of hundreds of farmed pigs, they are not allowed to eat our acorns. EU rules are strict, when it comes to the diet of animals for human consumption, so I am not able to drive my bags of nuts over to the pig farm, and tip them into the food hoppers. They go for composting, (hopefully) removed in Council vehicles, or by me in the car, to the local dump. The carbon footprint of the humble acorn is greater than my own.

It will be the leaves next. Just read this post, substitute ‘leaves’ for ‘acorns’, and you will get the idea.

 

 

Ambulance stories (42)

~ beetleypete ~ 10 Comments

Part of The Union

When I joined the Ambulance Service, there was a closed shop agreement in place with the unions, making membership of one compulsory. I did not have a problem with this, as I was a supporter of unions, and aware of the struggles over the years to get proper recognition for workers, decent conditions, and fair hours of work. Even though the power of some unions had been attacked in the press, particularly those operating in the newspaper and car industries, I saw nothing wrong with workers flexing their industrial muscles, and getting ever better agreements.

At the time, the Ambulance workers were represented by no less than five different unions. This was a hangover from the time when local councils had been in charge, leaving staff belonging to unions no longer really appropriate, such as the General, Municipal, and Boilermakers Union (GMB). There was some membership of the Transport and General Workers Union (TGWU), then the largest in the country, though most staff belonged to one of the health service unions, like The Confederation of Health Service Employees, (COHSE) or the National Union of Public Employees (NUPE). All the unions had agreed local representation, as well as combining membership on committees. The setup was simple enough; each ambulance station had a shop steward, each area two convenors, elected by those stewards. Meetings took place with management either locally, or at head office level, with the convenors from each area. Various committees dealt with uniforms, vehicles and equipment, and other issues considered important enough. Representatives from both staff side and management would sit on these committees, at various dates throughout the year. Local agreements were discussed by the convenors, and national deals, like basic pay, would be handled at higher levels, by the full-time officers of the various unions.

This system had existed for some time, prior to my arrival on the scene. There was also a generally accepted local agreement that each union would be represented on a geographical basis. This meant that depending on where you were posted, you joined the union most represented in that district. In the South-West London area that I first worked in, this would be COHSE.  Had I been posted to East London, I would have been expected to join GMB, and so on. During our training period, we were sent to spend a few days as observers at our local ambulance station. During my time there, I applied to join COHSE. This meant that I returned to the training school, as the only trainee (at the time) to already be in a union. This caused some irritation to the training officers, who felt that my action was premature. I was marked as a  potential ‘barrack room lawyer’, and someone possibly politically motivated, before I had even passed the course.

Because of the sheer size of London, the different divisions that we were split into had a tendency to run slightly differently. Local agreements were tenaciously clung to, and any new ideas considered to be borderline revolution; and that was by the staff! Most shop stewards had been in place for as long as anyone could remember, and were rarely opposed at election time. They had a tendency to be ‘cosy’ with management, at least on a local level, and to tell their members what was going to happen, rather than asking for opinions, or debating anything. I was part of a huge new intake of staff at that time, and we came from a very different background to many of our longer-serving colleagues. They had come into the job from the armed forces, the local councils, and even the old civil defence associations. We had NHS contracts, and a view that it was a medical job, more in tune with the Health Service, and the increasing trend for better training, involving greater skill on our part. The days when someone was plonked in the back on a stretcher, and the crew both got into the front, were long gone. We now all had to drive, and I was amazed that some staff still had ‘non-driving’ contracts, harping back to a time when they were employed as either a driver or attendant, and not expected to be able to do both.

The predictable result of these changes, was an ‘us and them’ attitude, which could be seen in the resentment of some older staff. They did not include you in simple things, like when tea was made. They would not give you directions when you were in an unfamiliar area, saying things like, ‘there’s a map book, look it up’. They refused to intervene if you were doing something stupid, when you didn’t have the experience to see an obvious mistake. Some would not even speak to you, other than to give the most basic instructions; and if you returned to base, they would sit in another room, and ignore you. The only way to overcome this, was to have a very thick skin, and to grin and bear it, until you had completed your one year as an ‘unqualified’ ambulance person. When this was over, you were presented with cloth badges to sew onto your uniforms, known as the ‘Millar Badge’, and you received a certificate, stating that you were qualified. This simple patch was a prized possession, as it signified that you had finally arrived, and were the same as everyone else. During my time in South-West London, I was involved in one small industrial dispute. The shop steward told me that we were on strike, and that I would not be going into work that day, and probably not the next day, either. When I asked what it was about, he was vague, and didn’t really give me a firm answer, other than it involved ‘conditions’. I was not going to cross a picket line, so I joined it. We stayed this way for three days, then we were told that we could go back to work, as the dispute had been resolved. I made my own resolution, that I would want more information next time, and would not be so easily led.

During this brief local dispute, I had my first taste of something that I didn’t like the look of, and that was to reappear later in my life too. Standing outside the ambulance station, a novice picket, unsure of why I was there, I saw ambulances passing along the main road. I asked who they were, as all our local units were solid in the strike. I was informed that they were vehicles operated by the St John Ambulance Brigade, and the Red Cross. It seemed that these volunteer first-aiders would happily take time off from their regular jobs, to do our job for nothing, any time we had a dispute, or larger strike. It was as if I had taken a week’s holiday to work down a mine, when miners were striking. I was appalled by this at the time, and for what it’s worth, I still am. I was never to view them in the same way again in my life, and even today, I have difficulty being civil to them, if I chance to encounter any. In a strange twist to this tale, I also met many LAS staff later, who were actually in these organisations, seemingly oblivious to the dilemma this presented.  I hardly spoke to them, either.

This event had put fire in my belly as far as the unions were concerned, and I decided that we needed to change things. I transferred to the small ambulance station in West London, where I would stay for the rest of my career, and set about investigating the existing arrangements in that area. Our station steward, known as the ‘rep’, was a likeable man, who had been in the job for some time. He lived locally, seemed to know everyone, and he had a good reputation with the staff. I got on well with him from the outset, and I am pleased to still call him a friend today. Despite the politics associated with union activities generally, virtually nobody was actually in a political party, or remotely active in mainstream politics. Many of the crews had no interest in politics at all, and like most men (there were few women then), discussed football, mortgages, and cars. I was in a political party, the Labour Party, and had been for a few years. Before this, I had been a Communist, though young enough not to become too involved. I saw the unions as intertwined with the political parties, and felt that they should have held a fierce left-wing stance, and must be active against any attempts to undermine their members. As far as the Ambulance Service was concerned, this was far from being the case.

Trades Unions had gone through a period when they had been lampooned, on TV, and in the cinema. Films like ‘I’m alright Jack’, and TV sitcoms such as ‘The Rag Trade’, had left the public with a view of union officials as belligerent, obstructive buffoons, and inane catchphrases such as ‘one out, all out’, or ‘everybody out’, seemed to typify union activity in the workplace. This was not the case in the LAS. Pay was low, and strikes meant loss of pay. So, it was never a decision taken lightly, to withdraw labour. Not only that, we also had to contend with a hostile press, portraying us as little better than murderers, removing the emergency ambulances from the streets, with all that entailed. The Ambulance Service was not a car factory, halting exports, or a newspaper company, unable to get out an evening edition. The consequence of any strike action by us, brought with it the real possibility that people might suffer as a result. This did not escape us, so we all took it very seriously.

I was occasionally asked to stand in for the steward, when he was indisposed, or unable to attend meetings. Not long after this, he was diagnosed with Diabetes, and had quite a long time off sick. I stepped in to the role, taking to it like a duck to water. Much later, he was told that his type-one diabetes would stop him from working effectively, and I became the full-time steward, with the agreement of  all the staff. My first job, was to fight the forced retirement of my predecessor, and I took it on as forcefully as I was able. Much to my surprise, his (and my) union, COHSE, declined to offer support, stating that they agreed that ‘disabled’ staff should not work on emergency duties.  Months of trying. backed by numerous medical reports, did not dissuade either management or union, and he was pensioned off medically, at a ridiculously young age. I was so incensed at the behaviour of COHSE, that I resigned, and joined the TGWU. So, I was the steward, and in a union with little representation in the LAS. Fortunately, this did not matter. Later that year. I was re-elected, unopposed, and began my long career, beside my actual career, as a Trade Union rep.

My attitude, from the start, was belligerent, to say the least. I would seize on any issue, and take it as far as I could. Representing staff accused of disciplinary issues, I would cite management failings, and well-known incidents of local corruption too. This was not considered to be ‘playing fair’, so they soon had some idea of how I was going to work. I was as obnoxious as could be, and as militant as I could manage, given my ‘back-up’. I was called a ‘Red’, a ‘Commie’, and the old favourite, ‘barrack room lawyer’, more times than I can recall. I lived and died union militancy, it was meat and drink to me. If all else failed, I would resort to actual threats. My South London background was well-known, and I was suspected (wrongly) of association with criminal gangs. I used this to advantage, and would say to managers ‘I know where you live’, or ‘watch out your house doesn’t burn down’, I had no scruples, when it came to representing staff over management; it wasn’t a moral issue for me. However, my main problems were with my colleagues; those on the local area committees, and the convenors. They fell into two groups. One of these was militant enough, though allied to the Socialist Workers’ Party. I had no truck with these modernist Trotskyites, and let them know that. The other, larger group, was the middle of the road, working with management types. I despised them, as little better than collaborators, and let them know how I felt also. So, I was almost alone, a hard-liner in a world of other views, determined to get the very best for my members.

My other adversaries, were the unions themselves, represented by the full-time officers responsible for Ambulance issues. Those people, all men at that time, had little understanding of our job, and had never actually done it. Every time we forced an issue, they quivered in fear of government action, and possible sequestration of their funds. They were only worried about wider issues, and were hamstrung by their association with the Labour Party, always asking them for direction, or instruction. They saw strikes as potential PR disasters, and they similarly regarded local issues as things that might escalate, and give them bad press. As a result, I sought other areas to promote our cause, and joined a fledgling group, the Association of Professional Ambulance Personnel. This was a ‘pure’ Ambulance union, run by staff, and only having existing Ambulance Personnel as members, nationwide. I got many of the LAS staff to join, and took off to their annual conference, hoping that I had found the solution to our problems. I was wrong of course. They wanted no changes, nothing to upset the existing situation. All they sought, was professional qualification and recognition, and they were essentially anti-union, and run by right-wingers. They did not want Bolshie Londoners in their ranks, and were running scared at the possible power our large membership might bring.

So, it was back to the TGWU, and the everyday struggles. We were constantly at loggerheads with Ambulance Control, as well as our local management. The issues ranged from insufficient breaks,  refusal of annual leave, and inappropriate use of resources, (sending the wrong ambulance station)  to inadequate uniforms, and deficiencies in equipment. It may seem to the outsider, that it all runs like clockwork, but I can assure you, this is far from the case. Staff were working unsocial hours, at a fraction of the normal wage, and being treated unfairly. One of the biggest issues, was refusal of annual leave. It was all but impossible to get occasional shifts off, to attend weddings, or other unscheduled events. When you worked four weekends out of seven, it was stressful enough, let alone being refused leave that you were actually entitled to. As well as doing the same job as everyone else, the union work was beginning to take its toll, and I had a short break from being the rep.

Someone we all knew transferred in from another area. He was a famous union man, and I was happy to hand over the reins to him. This did not last long, as he was soon elected to convenor, and I went back to being steward. I also became his crew-mate, leading to the unusual situation of two union reps working together; one the steward, the other a convenor. This did not go unnoticed by management, or by Ambulance Control. They quickly ensured that we worked twice as hard as any other crew in the area, as well as making sure that we got off late, and had more than our fair share of ‘unpleasant’ jobs. We took it on the chin, realising that we had to be seen to be better than any other crew, and to not do anything wrong, for fear of victimisation. They soon found someone to complain about us, and with the most spurious of allegations, tried to get us sanctioned in the local Coroner’s Court. Luckily, the Coroner saw through them, but the stress was unbearable for my colleague, who eventually left the job, and went to live in Ireland.

I could see the writing on the wall. I was getting nowhere fast, and my colleagues were constantly asking me ‘what is the union doing about this, or that?’ My answer was,’you are the union, so what are you prepared to do?’ I was working with people, at the height of Thatcher’s excesses, who were voting Conservative. I couldn’t see the point of going on. I arranged for an election, and someone else became, reluctantly, the new steward. It was on the proviso that I would be there, to help and advise them. But I had a much-needed rest, after almost seven years in the role. Just around the corner, was the National Ambulance Strike of 1989, the worst dispute ever known in that job.

That is another post though, for a different time.

The Syrian Situation

~ beetleypete ~ 11 Comments

Given that it seems we are days away from some sort of military intervention in Syria, I thought I would use this blog to urge everyone to protest about this. I am not asking you to camp outside Parliament, or to stand on the corner of your street with a placard.  Just send your MP an e mail, stating that as a constituent, you do not support this action. The details are easily found on the Internet, and those of you in the UK can easily discover not only who your MP is, but also their contact details.

Here is the e mail I sent to my MP just now. feel free to use it as a template. Let us try to avoid another Afghanistan, and further attacks on our citizens, at home and abroad. We have to stop believing the lies, and behaving like sheep. Enough is enough.

‘Dear Mr Freeman,
As one of your constituents, I am urging you to vote against any military intervention by the UK in Syria. I include in this any bombing, arming of rebels, and use of UK armed forces in any way whatsoever. After the shameful lies that took us into war with Iraq, and the ongoing debacle in Afghanistan, I find it inconceivable that we are even considering attacks on Syria, based on the spurious ‘evidence’ we have available. 
I hope that you do not want to be a part of a government that would use these tactics, purely to secure rights to oil, or to further de-stabilise the already delicate situation in this area. It is not our business to intervene in this civil conflict, irrespective of whether we prefer one side, or the other. We must learn the lessons of Vietnam and other conflicts where this happened.’
Thank You.
Pete Johnson, Beetley, Norfolk.

 

 

 

Selling Yourself: Part Five

~ beetleypete ~ 27 Comments

At the end of Part Four, I mentioned two more jobs, both covered previously, in other posts. These are behind us as we continue, and it is now 1976. My next sales venture was back in retail, though in a very different way from before, and for totally different reasons. I have touched on this earlier, in a post I called ‘Looking after Mum’, and I will now go into it in more detail, and if you will forgive me, at considerable length.

When my Dad left, and forced the sale of the marital home, I was working as a taxi driver in Kent, and Mum was working in an office job. I was in my early 20’s, and did not want to be tied to a mortgage at the time, especially one taken out with my own Mum. However, it was highly unlikely that we would have qualified for a home loan, as my employment was strictly ‘off the books’, and my accountancy procedures had been erratic at best. The amount of money remaining after the division of the marriage assets, was not enough to buy anywhere outright, so my Mum decided to use it all, and to invest in a business.

To make this work, she would require my involvement, as well as my commitment to working anywhere that she could afford to buy. This was hardly an inviting prospect for me, but I did not see how I could let her down, and leave her to fend for herself. Some research into various shops for sale, soon told us that we could not afford to buy freehold, and that we would need to find somewhere with suitable accommodation included as well. It took a while to shortlist some places to look at, but after a few trips, our mind was soon made up.

We had found an off-licence in Clapham, South-West London. This involved applying to be a Licensee Tenant, on behalf of the brewery that actually owned it, and we would be tied into buying all our alcohol through them. It was a pleasant corner location, a short walk from Clapham Common, and was attractive to me, for two reasons. It was a lot closer to where my girlfriend, soon to be my wife, lived. More importantly, in a very large building that had once been a Victorian pub, the accommodation was extensive, though the shop itself was of average dimensions.

There were two floors above the shop, offering me the chance to have a completely self-contained one bedroom flat, as well as use of the huge living room, and all the usual facilities. Downstairs, there was a very large storeroom at the rear of the shop, behind a small living area, serving as a place to sit, when there were no customers. Mum was accepted as the licensee after we had an interview at the brewery, and we had to visit the current tenant, to view the stock.

We met a man and his daughter, who were both running the shop at the time. He claimed to be retiring for health reasons, and freely admitted that the shop takings were also below his expectations, and gave him little enthusiasm to continue. This was hardly surprising, as the fittings in the shop were outdated, and stock levels were depressingly low. It felt unwelcoming, a little shabby, and they didn’t even have the lights on inside. (To save money, apparently) We discussed the sale, and we were told that we would have to buy all stock at value, which would be audited by an independent accountant. Mum and I thought we could improve things, by investing in a chilled display, getting in an ice cream fridge, and having suitable display stands installed, for crisps, sweets and cigarettes, which were only displayed in delivery cartons.

The flats upstairs would take all the furniture from our house in Bexley, and there was enough space to get a dog too. There was even a small yard at the back, with room to hang out washing. After a weekend of consideration, we went ahead, and agreed to take it over. Having seen the miserable pair running the place already, we felt sure that we could do better.

On the moving day, we knew that we would have to open at 5pm. The shop would remain closed for the morning session, but had to open in the evening, due to the rules attached to the liquor licence. We were aware that the strange hours involved would impact our lives considerably. It was a seven days a week operation, with hours the same as those that then applied to pubs. We had to open from 11am to 3pm, then we had to close until 5pm, when we opened again, until 11pm. On Sundays, this was all reduced by one hour. We could not close for half-day midweek, as all the other shops did then, and this was all subject to scrutiny by the Brewery, who had area managers checking on you.

Although we felt that we had bought a business, we had to face facts that all we had really spent our money on, was the right to operate this shop for the Brewery, and we could never own it outright. We were unconcerned, as it gave us a chance to combine somewhere to live, with having jobs as well, and that would have been impossible, had we not gone along this path.

Arriving at the shop, we were surprised to find it brimming with stock, of all kinds. Cigarettes of brands that we had never heard of, stacks of small plastic bottles of cheap-looking soft drinks, and hundreds of boxes of crisps and snack foods, again with brand names that nobody have ever heard of. The storeroom was crammed to the rafters, with crate after crate of empty bottles. There were beer bottles from the brewery, in quarts, pints, and half-pints, as well as dozens of empty soda-syphons. More worryingly, we discovered hundreds of loose bottles, not in crates, arranged in rows, all around the walls.

None of this had been there during our visit, when we first agreed to take over the place. In the shop, was an ancient electric till, previously unseen, and two large freezers. These battered freezers had also not been there before, and they blocked the path to the counter. They were also packed full, with strange ice creams and ice lollies, again with names never seen before. The auditor was there, hurriedly scribbling down every single item, from each bottle of wine, to half-used rolls of sellotape. The previous tenant had left as we arrived, and could not be contacted.

Something was going on, and we made it our business to find out what it was.

There followed intense discussions with the auditor, phone calls to the Brewery, and to our solicitor too. After a couple of hours, we got to the bottom of what was happening. The former tenant had deliberately let stocks run low inside the shop. This was to give the impression that it would not cost a lot to buy the ‘stock at value’. Once he had a changeover date agreed, and a tenancy signed, he returned all this defunct stock, from storage in a nearby warehouse. This would now be considered to be the actual stock in the shop on the day, and charged to us accordingly. The crates carried a deposit charge of £1 each, as did all the soda syphons. Though the empty bottles had a deposit value of only a few pence each, the huge number of them added up to an enormous amount of ‘dead money’, tied up in this exchange system.

Of course, we told the Brewery, and our solicitor, that we would not fall for this sharp practice, which was a blatant con trick, in our view.  They were surprised at our attitude, telling us we should have expected this, and that it was all legal, so we would have no alternative but to comply. Failing this, we would lose our deposit, be out on the streets with nowhere to live, and would then be sued by the Brewery, for any losses incurred. It seemed we had no choice but to carry on, and we opened the shop at 5, as arranged.

During the first couple of weeks, it was all something of a blur. We discovered many other things to worry about. Children were returning countless empty bottles to us, to receive the deposit money, which they then spent on sweets. The problem was, they were sourcing them from everywhere, and we had insufficient crates, to return them to our supplier. We then had to ‘buy in’ crates, paying even more deposits, just to send the bottles back. We had to have a rubber stamp made, with the name of our shop on it. Every label was clearly stamped, and after a given date, we refused to hand over deposit money on anything that did not have our stamp. This caused untold arguments, not only with the local kids, but also with their parents, and many regular customers, who apparently hoarded bottles, until they had enough to get a decent deposit return.

This whole sideline, of the deposit payment, and return of bottles, was so time-consuming, and so irritating to the retailer, it is small wonder that it has now disappeared completely. It made you no money, and only helped the Brewery in the long term. If is ever to be reinstated, to help recycle all the waste glass, it will have to be much better organised than it was then.

Looking at the mountains of old stock we had been left with, Mum and I decided to get rid of it by means of special offers. We offered the ‘unknown’ cigarettes for sale at a 25% reduction, and the crisps were sold at half price. The cheap pop drinks were also shifted, on a ‘buy four, get six’ offer. This naturally cost us a lot of money, but at least gave us a fresh start, with more saleable stock. The main problems left were the rows of un-crated empties, for which we eventually had to buy-in crates to return, and the various items from companies that we did not have accounts with, so would not take them back.

We carried on with our plans to modernise the shop. The unattractive old desk that served as a sales counter was dumped, and replaced with a smart new-looking ( but actually second-hand) display fridge, with a serving counter on top. Customers could see the wines and cans clearly, and we could access the fridge from behind, to serve the chilled items. The shabby freezers were put into the storeroom, and a smart new ice-cream fridge installed. This cost us nothing, save a small service charge, as it was put in by the ice cream company who we traded with. We then set about re-organising the interior racks and shelving, which had previously displayed goods at random. One side was used for wines, with reds, whites, roses, and champagnes given allocated areas. Then we added Sherry, Port, and some cheap liqueur drinks.

The other side was left to display beers and soft drinks, with the most expensive spirits, cigarettes, and cigars, only accessible from behind the counter. We had a proper display rack for tobacco products built on the wall, to allow the customer to see the choices, and attract spontaneous purchases too. I bought a used sweet display rack from a supplier, and we enlarged our stock of brand-name sweets and chocolate bars. We also decided to increase our range of large boxes of chocolates, liqueur chocolates, and gift items, as we found that many customers arrived desperately seeking something for a forgotten occasion.

In a short space of time, we had transformed the look of the shop, changed the window displays, and made it cleaner, fresher, more welcoming, and up to date. But we had little money left, and were now dependent on increasing our trade as fast as we could. At least with only two of us serving, and being family, we avoided the problem of dishonest staff. We got a small new till that gave us a daily total, and could provide a receipt if the customer asked for one. We were careful to take notes out of the till on a regular basis, in case we were ever robbed, or had arguments about change. We had soon got to know the regular customers, and we took note of things we were often asked for, but did not stock, and went out of our way to get them in.

It was getting warmer every day, and we would soon experience the famous Summer of ’76, the hottest, longest summer in living memory. It was easy to see that sales of canned drinks, especially soft drinks, were increasing at an unusually high rate. Although we were tied to the Brewery for alcohol, we could buy everything else wherever we wanted, and we had accounts with the big companies, like Coca-Cola, and Schweppes, as well as numerous small local wholesalers. There were also some well-known Cash and Carry establishments that we could use to top up stocks, so we thought that we had it covered. Trade was steady, we didn’t pay ourselves much, though we ran a new car through the business, saving a lot; and despite the long hours, it was a congenial atmosphere to work in. Most of the time.

At that time, Clapham was going through a transition. Formerly a poor working-class area of London, it was fast becoming trendy, and a desirable place to live. Easy access to the centre, convenient tube stations, and the attractive open space of the huge Common; all of this was attracting young professionals, upwardly mobile office workers, and artists and actors, from all over the UK. Prices of flats and houses were increasing rapidly, and rental costs were so high, only those with considerable incomes could think of living there. On the other side of the main road, towards Chelsea Bridge, the large council estates of Battersea were being populated by West Indian, and African families, as the cultural landscape of this area changed dramatically.

An area once home to only ‘have-nots’ was becoming divided between the ‘haves’, and the ‘have even less’. We had to reflect this change in our shop, and cater for a clientele that bought cheap cider one minute, and a case of Chablis the next. It was a delicate balance, and did not make life at all easy. Unfortunately, this change brought with it some more worrying aspects. Unruly customers had almost been unknown before, but we could now get gangs of aggressive teenagers descending on us, as well as determined shoplifters, and others trying to pass bad cheques, or even forged currency. We started to notice things going missing during busy periods, and we also had to constantly refuse requests for goods on credit, something that was becoming increasingly common.

By far the biggest impact on our trade, was the sudden decision by the leading supermarkets, to sell alcohol. For you younger readers, this was something new then. Prior to this, any alcoholic products could only be sold in Licensed Premises, so just pubs, or off-licences. The supermarkets got round this, by applying for licences in the names of the shop managers, essentially making them individually responsible for this area of sales. For the big breweries, and soft drink companies, this was seen as a welcome sales boost, also reducing the need for them to have the bother of running their own shops and pubs. More than anything, this was the beginning of the end for the traditional off-licence, and eventually, many of the pubs too.

In the hot summer of 1976, it was also responsible for killing off what could have been a sales period that would have made our small shop a great success. It was so hot, that we could sell almost anything liquid, and cold. We soon sold out of all soft drinks, most canned beers, and many bottled beers too. The wholesalers had nothing, the cash and carry outlets were empty, and the supplying companies introduced quotas, for small customers like us. We might order 200 dozen cans of Coke, and only be ‘allowed’ to have 60 cans. Our customers soon deserted us, as the supermarkets had all the stock, their buying power held like a gun to the head of the suppliers, who sent them almost everything.

We managed to survive, just; but only because we were open late, as the supermarkets all closed at normal times in those days, and did not open on Sundays. The biggest sales opportunity for a hundred years, had left us with less sales than during the weeks before it began; it was a tragedy for us, and took a long time to recover from.

Outside of shop life, our personal lives were beginning to suffer. I was only 24 years old, and my relationship with my girlfriend was conducted at the counter of our shop, or after 11pm, as we sat upstairs, cashing up for the day. Mum and I were thrown together in a 24-hour a day working and living situation, and it was straining our usually good relationship. I rarely got time off, and even when I did, I could not relax, as I was worried about who was helping Mum in the shop, and whether or not it would all be OK. I also had very little money, as the wages provided by our profits were derisory. After a lacklustre Christmas season, I decided that I would have to get a ‘real’ job, if I was ever going to be able to save money, or have a decent future with my girlfriend.

I applied for, and got, a very good job locally. (This will be covered in the next part) This left the problem of managing the shop. My Mum was keen to engage an assistant, a regular customer who she got on well with, and had asked if we had any part-time vacancies. I arranged for a local teenage boy to come in after school, to help with the heavier jobs, sorting out the storeroom, and filling up the shelves. I also agreed to help out at the busier times, and to give Mum the occasional day off too. At the same time, we bought a flat not too far away, and I moved out.

I had a new job, a new flat, and a wedding planned for late December that year (1977). Mum was seemingly happy, as she now felt completely in charge, and was content to be there alone, as she had a huge Alsatian dog for company, as well as a kitten. The dog would sit under the counter, and looked suitably fierce, hopefully discouraging any robbers. I went off to my busy job every day, and helped three evenings a week in the shop as well. This was exceptionally tiring, and we soon realised that it would not work out. The assistant was employed, almost full-time, and I only helped at weekends.

Within a year, things were beginning to go badly wrong. The takings were still good, but profits were down, and stock was going missing, at an alarming rate. I worked some shifts there, taking holiday from work, hoping to discover what was wrong. I found that the teenager employed to manage the storeroom, was taking lots of sweets and cold drinks. I spotted a lot of discarded wrappers and cans at the back of the storeroom, hidden under some cardboard. He was too lazy to even throw out the evidence. I went to his house, and told his Mother. She was mortified, and felt very ashamed, accepting that he was now sacked, and barred from the shop. I also noticed that the new assistant, a woman in her 50’s, was very cagey around me, and that a lot of her family and friends were always hanging around in the shop.

I suspected that she was handing them extra goods free of charge, when they made small purchases, and perhaps giving them excess money in their change as well. It was difficult to prove, with no CCTV then, so I just had to let her know I was watching.

Mum would hear nothing against her, but then things started to get serious. The VAT people came in, and told her she was not paying enough VAT, or income tax, as her profits were ‘artificially low’. They suspected that the stock losses were contrived, to avoid taxes, and demanded that she pay thousands of pounds in unpaid back tax. When she tried to explain that she had to keep profits low, to generate custom, they would not hear any of it, and even her own accountant advised that she pay something. When I tried to tell her it was because of the assistant and her cronies, she became angry.

Around the same time, Mum was the victim of two robberies during opening hours, when individuals leapt over the counter, and snatched money from the till. The ‘fierce’ dog just watched them, he didn’t even bark. During all this trouble, the same assistant decided that she would leave anyway, citing family reasons. That confirmed my suspicions that she had been up to no good, and feared discovery.

Mum could no longer cope, the long hours and pressure was all getting too much. She sold up, and bought a small grocery shop in Kent. The off-licence time was behind her, and it did not leave either of us with fond memories.

I was still working at my new sales job, which is the subject of the next episode in this saga.

Last Bus to Nowhere

~ beetleypete ~ 8 Comments

I have written before about the shortcomings of public transport here, and in the countryside as a whole. The services in and between the main towns and cities are actually very good. They are reasonably priced, arrive and depart on time, and the buses are clean, with cheerful and helpful drivers too. However, once you get out to the surrounding villages, and some of the much smaller towns, the bus service begins to deteriorate rapidly. The companies manage to operate a curfew for the residents, with our last bus from Dereham to here leaving before 5pm. So, no chance for a night out in the pub, a restaurant meal, or a trip to the cinema, returning by public transport. The local taxis are plentiful, but prohibitively expensive. Not only is the basic fare high for the three-mile trip, they hike it up by almost 50% after 11pm, as they have a comfortably captive market.

Even though we can get a bus to and from the city (Norwich, or King’s Lynn) with relative ease, returning to town after 11pm leaves us with the option of a dangerous three mile walk along unlit roads, with fast traffic, or an expensive taxi home. As a consequence of this bus policy, we have to either drive everywhere, or stay in. Buses become an interesting, often startling sight locally, like a passing vintage car, or a traditional horse and cart; things you do not expect to see, and are pleasantly surprised when you do.

There is one destination seemingly well-served by the two local bus companies though. I regularly see buses, either on their way there, or returning at speed from there. It is a place I have never been, and vow to go to one of these days. it must be a place of some interest, or importance, as all the bus companies seem to run numerous buses there, at all times. I am sure it must be in Norfolk, but I cannot find it on any map, not even on Google. Perhaps you have been there, or passed through it, and can help me in this quest for the Shangri-La of the omnibus? It is a fairly straightforward name, so its absence from maps is puzzling. I can only imagine it to be a wonderful place, so I am very keen to see it.

It is called ‘NOTINSERVICE’. Do you know it, by any chance?

Back to The Blog

~ beetleypete ~ 6 Comments

Having a break from my recollections of past employment, and political rants on my ‘other’ blog, this shorter post is one of my occasional dips into the life of my blogs, and how they are progressing, if at all.

I passed something of a landmark earlier this week, with over 10,000 views on beetleypete.wordpress.com. And before you ask, my own views do not count in these figures! This works out at an average of 770 views a month, roughly 26 a day. The lowest ever daily view, during the thirteen months I have been blogging, was 4, from 1 visitor. The highest was a fraction under 130, from 28 visitors. So far, at least on this blog, I have not sunk to 0 views, though it will happen one day, I have no doubt. On my other blog, 0 views is the norm, so a best ever daily figure of 190 on that blog, was a welcome blip, courtesy of a mention elsewhere.

Like a lot of us, in the ‘minor leagues’ of blogging, I often wonder if it is all worth it, and need constant self-discipline, just to bother to continue. When I just feel like closing up my blog shop, and leaving for Internet obscurity, I remember why I started it in the first place. It was always for me, to keep me thinking, my mind working, and my thought processes constant. Part of it serves well as a diary, to reflect on later, other parts might provide a sort of legacy, for those that would ever be interested. Expressing my thoughts and opinions, and recalling experiences based on a reasonably long life, is never going to please or interest that many anyway, but it comes with an inner satisfaction for me personally.

Being a part of a blogging community has always been worthwhile. That community changes constantly though. Companions come and go; some disappear without warning, as others appear, apparently from nowhere. For many, outside influences seem to impact on blogging. Their lives become too busy, or overwhelmed with other issues, and blogging has to go. In some cases, anger at events in this country, or abroad, spills over into the need to blog, to make their protests heard, by means of the written word. Then there are the gentle bloggers, posting very nice photographs, and letting us know what they have been doing, and how their lives and interests are progressing. They are the stalwarts of the blogging world, remaining constant, their occasional posts are comforting and relaxing, like a letter bringing good news from home.

Having followers is a nice feeling, and gives you the idea that at least that many people are constantly reading your output, and anticipating your next submission. This is a fallacy of course, as realistically, you can safely assume that less than 20% of those shown as following are actually doing so. It doesn’t matter, leave the big numbers to the huge blogs, where daily views and visitors exceed my thirteen month totals. Have a look at the Top Blogs, at the bottom of your dashboard, if you ever get time. Nintendo, Street Dancing, Climate Change, just some of the most-viewed and followed blogs on WordPress.

When I see this, it makes me feel a lot better. I think I might just carry on as I am.

As always, a big thank you to my blogging ‘friends’, old and new. For all your comments, your views and opinions, and the effort and time spent reading all my stuff. It is appreciated, perhaps more than you know. Thanks also for your own blogs, the enjoyable reads, the thought-provoking subjects, and the wonderful photos. We are all in this together.

Selling Yourself: Part Four

~ beetleypete ~ 30 Comments

The reason the interview for my next job was on a Saturday, was because the staff started far too early, to allow for a weekday interview process. After less than seven days, technically unemployed, but paid until the end of the month, I was taken on by this new company, following the most basic meet and greet, and a quick driving assessment. They were so short of staff, even the top managers were out doing rounds, so as long as I could read, write, and drive, I was certain to be employed.

I was back on van sales once again, this time for a bread company in the Medway area, Betabake. Knowing that they had little hope of competing with the brand leaders like Wonderloaf, and Sunblest, they concentrated instead on the neglected ‘personal retail’ market. This was a posh term for door-to-door selling and delivering, something like a milkman, but with bread and cakes. I was given a company overall, a cash bag, lists of prices and products, and a card index, containing the details of the hundreds of calls I would have to make. I didn’t get to keep the van outside of work, and I had to be in by 4am daily, to get my quota of freshly-baked goods from the factory. If I did well, and avoided traffic, they told me that I should be finished by 2pm.

That still seemed like a hell of a long day to me. I also had to go out on Saturdays,  primarily to collect the money owed, as well as shifting anything that I had left. This was far from being a job I would normally have chosen. A large element of the salary was tied up in commission or performance pay, and with the very few exceptions of some small local shops, all the customers paid in cash, a week behind. This involved banking, which always took a chunk out of your day as it had to be done before 3.30pm. It also meant that you had to carry a reasonable cash float, and lots of change.

I had two days with a trainer, showing me the ropes on his own round. Of course, he had it sorted, and it ran like clockwork, so didn’t seem too bad.

I started the following week, responsible for some notorious estates in the area around Strood, in Kent. Chatting to guys at the depot, it seemed that this round was a veritable salesman’s graveyard, and had seen at least four others off in the last year alone. Having got up at 3am to be at work before 4, I was tired by the time I had loaded and checked my van, and I still had all day to do. The first few days were chaotic. People cancelled their orders, or increased them; some told me not to call again, and others approached me, asking me to add them to my rounds.

Schoolkids stole stuff from the van as soon as my back was turned, and I had to resort to the tedious procedure of locking it all the time. Existing customers constantly argued that I was arriving too late, and their breakfast was already over. I couldn’t interest anybody in the special offers, or promotional goods, as I rarely got to actually speak to anyone, unless they waited in to complain. I was constantly running late, and was always the last one back to the depot, to the annoyance of the manager.

Back at home, still sharing with my friends, it was impossible to go to bed early enough, to get sufficient sleep before leaving again. So, I treated it like night work; stayed up as long as possible, then slept during the late afternoon, before the others got home. This meant that I was always flat out on the sofa all evening, half asleep, and getting irritated. They were getting pretty fed up with it, and so was I. On the plus side, I provided us with unlimited bread and cakes of course, so we were never short of stodge.

I began to see another side of human nature too. Many customers constantly avoided me when it was time to pay. If caught in when I called, they would offer all sorts of lame excuses for being unable to pay, or send small children to the door, to tell me that ‘mum was ill’, or ‘mum had gone to the shops’. I had only one sanction available, to issue a note demanding payment, with a threat to stop delivering, if they failed to pay. This had to be agreed by the debt recovery department, as it rarely involved enough money to make it worthwhile taking proceedings to recover the amounts owing. I would normally be instructed to continue supplies, with the increasing debt ‘charged’ against my account, as a debit balance.

These debit balances affected my commission, and any bonuses due during promotions. If the company could not get the money from the defaulting customer, they took it off me instead.

Wandering these estates with my outdated baker’s basket, the laughing stock of serial fraudsters, was hardly a satisfying employment experience. One day, I arrived at the door of a customer who owed a month’s bill, to find a note in the window of her front room. ‘Cannot open the door, as chickenpox in the house. Two extra white sliced please’, It read. I decided to take matters into my own hands, and did not leave anything, save a note telling her that she owed almost £20. She complained to the depot, and I was forced to drive all the way back, to leave the bread outside her house. The extra debit was charged against my account, and I got off work really late.

The funny thing about all this, was that I was actually sympathetic to the plight of most of my customers. I was aware of the situation of single parents, struggling to make ends meet, buying my unhealthy food to feed their family. Old people at home alone would enlist my help in collecting prescriptions from a local chemist. I once gave a lift to the station to a customer who could not start her car one morning. I even purchased vegetables from a mobile shop, on behalf of a disabled client, who was unable to go to the meeting point to use this shop. I wanted to do some good, as well as selling them buns, rolls, and bakewell tarts.

I saw myself as part of a community, something that was already dying out in that area, even then.

Regrettably, the majority of my customers saw me as little more than a mug, to be exploited, along with the local milkmen, window cleaners, and other door-to-door services. They knew just how far to push things, and minutes before being refused service for good, would offer to pay £5 off their bill; just enough to allow them to continue to receive supplies. They could be downright nasty, and on one occasion, a woman who appeared at the door in her nightdress, told me that she would say that I had sexually molested her, if I refused to leave extra bread. I had dogs set on me, and angry boyfriends or husbands would be sent out to argue with me, offering violence in lieu of payment.

It may be fair to assume that this was a minority of customers who dealt with me in this fashion; sadly it was by far the majority.  Years later, when I heard pundits lamenting the demise of this type of personal delivery service, I would always remark that they only knew half the story.  I was getting really fed up with all of this, as well as the incredibly early start times, and always feeling tired. I resolved to have a showdown meeting with the depot manager, and tell him how upset I was.

It was immediately obvious that I wasn’t telling him something that he did not already know. Previous operators on this round had come to him with all sorts of horror stories, and there were even tales of sexual favours being exchanged for trays of ring doughnuts. The debit balance had always been bad, I discovered, and had been written off three times in two years, as too difficult to collect, and not worth the trouble. Yet they persisted in this loss-making delivery method. I never received a really satisfactory answer as to why they continued to do this, just some vague stuff about getting the brand recognised, and being the market leader in home delivery of bread and cakes.

He could see that I was stressed by it all, and offered me a change of scene, for a while at least. They would pass the round to a supervisor, who would attempt to use his experience to get the debts down, and to weed out the worst customers. In the meantime, I would be allowed to drive the larger trucks, that delivered bulk loads of bread and cakes, to both wholesale customers, and other Betabake depots. As there was no restriction on driving a lorry at that time, it would not be a problem. I would have to start even earlier though, but would receive a slight pay increase. to reflect the unsocial hours involved.

The next night, I arrived at the larger depot, attached to the factory further down in Kent. I first had to load the very large lorry with huge cages full of of sliced bread, as well as wooden trays of unwrapped cakes and buns, slotted into special racks. I then received a list of deliveries, with each tray coded for the customer, or receiving depot. In the early hours, with little or no traffic, this was a much easier job, and the nature of the bulk deliveries, with no cash and minimal paperwork involved, seemed like a holiday to me. Being based at the factory, it was simple to help yourself to any amount of ‘free’ bread and cakes that you wanted, as stock control was non-existent at the point of manufacture.

Getting up early, then working quite hard, made you feel very hungry, and it was not unknown for each of us to polish off a six-pack of fresh jam doughnuts, before leaving to do our deliveries. Once again, I was working somewhere that was enabling me to eat free of charge, albeit very unhealthily.

Just as I was settling into this nocturnal routine, and becoming one of the ‘wholesale gang’, I was approached by management, who told me that I had to return to the retail depot in Dartford. They were adamant that my round in Strood had been sorted out, and I was assured by the supervisor, that he had everything under control. I wasn’t happy, but they had told me that my move was only short-term, so I couldn’t do much about it. I was so desperate to stay where I was, that I even offered to do the unpopular job of shuttle driver, which involved driving around collecting empty cages and racks, from the different wholesalers. This was an early start, late finish job, for basic pay, with no extras. I would sooner have dropped down to this, than gone back to my bleak housing estates.

But I had been employed as a salesman, and they insisted that I go back to my previous role.

I had a bad feeling that they were not telling me the whole truth, and this proved to be the case. Back on the round, I soon discovered that most of the debts had simply been written off, with little or no effort to collect any of the money. All the worst customers were still there, and I had even lost a lot of the better ones. More annoying though, was the fact that the company had increased my commission ceiling, based on the fact that they had ‘cleared’ the debit balance.

Once again, they were essentially getting the salesman to pay for the fraudulent behaviour of the customers. I was back to the same old grind, with less chance of earning any extras above the basic pay, and the same old defaulting customers, ready to increase their debts once again. I knew it couldn’t last, but I had to find something else first.

When it did come, it gave me the chance to get out of the bread game, and into something a great deal more civilised, and interesting. I have already covered it at some length here; https://beetleypete.wordpress.com/2013/04/27/the-rizla-experience/ .  After that, I began to work as a taxi driver, also dealt with in a long post here; https://beetleypete.wordpress.com/2013/03/11/did-someone-call-a-cab/

Part five of this story starts after those episodes in my employment journey ended.