by Peter Kay
I remember feeling very nervous as I approached the gates. It was that noise. It got louder as I got nearer. I'd heard the noise of machinery many times when I was growing up. My dad was a labourer at various factories around town and sometimes I'd walk home from work with him – well, he'd walk, I'd ride my Grifter. While I was waiting for him to clock off I'd stand outside the factory listening to that noise of machinery. It was loud enough standing outside the factory – how much louder must it have sounded inside? After all these years the time had come for me to finally find out.
I followed a few other workers into the canteen. I think it was a canteen, as there was a drinks vending machine in the corner of the room. I looked at the picture on the front of it. A bone-china cup and saucer were perched on a white lace doily. Fresh tea was being poured into the cup, and out of focus in the distance, beyond the terrace, there was a field. I could just make out the blurred shapes of women in saris picking tea in the baking sunlight. That's why I was somewhat disappointed when I pushed the button labelled 'Tea' and after forty seconds and numerous bangs I was rewarded with a polystyrene cup which hesitantly began to fill up with a liquid that looked like Bisto gravy granules mixed with saliva. A whistle blew somewhere and everybody got up to leave. I had a quick sip as I headed for the door and, as I'd suspected, it tasted sod all like the Queen's English tea that I'd come to love and respect over the years.
Like a little lost sheep and without making eye contact I got to the back of the queue. I followed the others as they clocked on. Eventually it was my turn but I started to panic when I couldn't find a clocking-in card with my name on.
'Don't worry, I've still not got one and I've been here a month,' said a voice over my shoulder. I turned round to be greeted by a blond-haired lad wearing a faded Curiosity Killed the Cat tour T-shirt (I think it was the 'Misfit' tour of '86). His name was Mick Santiago and we were to become work buddies over the next few months. In fact, we even stayed in touch after Mick got sacked for getting someone else to clock in for him. He was enjoying a weekend at the Reading Festival and would have got away with it if he hadn't been caught on camera dancing to Transvision Vamp in a crowd shot. Apparently one of the supervisors almost choked on his beer when he saw it on the big screen down the pub. Mick got his P45 first thing Monday morning, but I think he was more upset about being caught on camera singing 'Baby I Don't Care' than he was about losing his job.
He went on the dole and I didn't see him for a while. Then he turned up at my front door one night out of the blue and so I invited him in for a cup of tea.
He was wittering on about how he'd been on a weekend retreat with Jobseekers and had caught the clap off a black Swedish midget. He said he then spent six hours queuing at the STD clinic just to have 'some bird jam an umbrella up my bell-end'. Then he ate all my mum's ginger nuts and left.
I slammed the front door, ran upstairs and spent the rest of the night scrubbing the bog with every type of cleaner I could get my mum's yellow Marigolds on. I even gave it a splash with some holy water from Lourdes that I found under the sink. (Well, you can never be too careful, can you?)
The last time I heard of Mick he'd fallen for a girl down at the Church of the Nazarene and was playing bass in a Christian steel band. They were on a 'The Lord Loves a Sinner' tour performing at a variety of prisons the length and breadth of Great Britain.
But that's a different story. Right now he was taking me to meet the foreman. I turned the corner to find what I can only describe as a truly overwhelming sight. There were literally hundreds of women frantically bashing away on production lines – I could barely make them out for the tissue paper that hung in the air, like a sunlit fog. The other thing I couldn't fail to notice was the heat – it wrapped round me like a blanket. The noise was incredible now, a combination of machinery pumping out tissue product, screeching forklifts, the raucous laughter of the women and Bobby Brown singing 'My Prerogative'. To this day I still get butterflies when I hear that song.
'So who gave you the job? Was it Morris?' said Mick as he led me towards the foil room
'I don't know his name. He drove a forklift and had a stutter.'
'Yeah, that's Morris Minor, he's a d-d-d-dickhead,' he laughed. I smiled nervously; for all I knew Mick could have suffered from a stutter too. They all could.
Morris Minor (I was about to find out) was a nickname, after a hit novelty song that was around at the time called 'Stutter Rap'. The trouble was he had no idea people called him that.
'Hello, Morris. We met last week,' I said, hesitantly offering him a handshake.
'What the fuck do you mean, "Morris"?... My name's Ian.'
It was then the penny dropped and I could feel Mick laughing behind me.
'I'm sorry,' I said.
'Yeah, well. .. just watch yourself, OK? Right, I want you to do a bit of shit shifting for me tonight.'
I didn't like the sound of that.
'I'm sticking you on the bins. Have you ever used a jack lift before?' he said as he nodded towards another lad pulling a pallet with one.
'Yeah, no problem,' I said confidently. Then I swear I had a look round to see who'd said it. I couldn't believe it was me, I'd never used one of those things in my life. I'd seen them down the supermarket often enough, being pulled round by blokes built like brick shithouses, but I'd never even touched one. What possessed me to say it I'll never know but within twenty minutes of being left alone with this thing I'd created a hole the size of a small crater in a plasterboard wall.
I glanced around. Nobody had noticed so, feeling strangely confident, I decided to try and drag a two-ton steel bin, piled high with rubbish, out to the crushing machine. I was quite proud of myself. I slid the forks underneath the bin. I jacked it up no bother at all, I even managed to drag it outside to the car park and then I lowered it. . . straight on to my foot. The following ten minutes were a complete blur and the next thing I remember I was sat in a pickup truck being driven by Morris Minor himself on my way to A&E.
'J-J-J-J-J-J-Just what d-d-d-do you think you w-w-w-w-w-were doing, you d-d-d-d-dopey prick?' he snarled at me at the lights. 'I thought y-y-y-you said you c-c-c-could use one?'
I just shrugged and mumbled, 'Dunno.' All I could do was stare at my big toe, which was starting to resemble something out of a Tom & Jerry cartoon. I could actually see it throbbing and it was beginning to turn a violent shade of maroon. I hadn't been in the job an hour and already I was going to get sacked. Good going, Peter.
Morris screeched into a disabled bay outside the A&E unit.
'Right, g-g-get out,' he growled. I hopped out of the truck with my sock in my mouth. Before I could shut the door, he had reversed and was starting to drive off with the passenger door still swinging.
'Hey,' I shouted to him, 'where are you going?'
'Back t-t-t-to work,' he b-b-b-barked (he's got me at it now).
'How am I gonna get home?' I said with tears in my eyes.
'Sweet J-J-J-Jesus,' he shouted and, reaching into his pocket, threw a ten-pence piece at me. 'Here, ring for a f-f-f-f-f-f-fucking t-t-t-t-t-t-t-t-taxi,' he said, and sped off.
As I picked up the ten-pence piece and put it in my pocket I glanced down at my big toe. It looked like Trevor McDonald's nose.
The accident-and-emergency unit was packed. Well, it was July, so it was full of kids with broken limbs. I was given a ticket and told to wait until my number came up. You know, like you do in Argos, where you have to wait and listen to that annoying recorded female voice repeating, 'Customer number five, to your collection point please.' (You obviously won't be getting the benefit of the impression I just did, but take my word for it, it's a very annoying voice.)
Hold on, my phone's ringing now... it was my nana. I bought her a boxed DVD set of 24, Season One, off t'Internet, because she's a big fan of CSI: Miami and I thought she'd lap it up. I mean, it does keep you on the edge of your seat, I'm sure you'll agree. Anyway, she was calling to tell me that it doesn't make any sense
and she's having trouble following the story. Now there's six discs in the box set and four episodes on each disc, hence twenty-four. My nana had put disc one in, watched an episode, then taken it out, then put disc two in and watched an episode, taken that out and ... I could go on but I think you get the gist. 'I put the second one in and Kiefer Sutherland's wife's been kidnapped ... it doesn't make any sense, Peter,' she said. I've just had to try to explain that there's four episodes on each disc. 'It's twenty-four, just follow the clock.'
Anyway, where was I? Oh yes, I was in A&E and had just got to the front of the queue for the payphone.
'Hello, Mum,' I said as normally as I could muster.
'Well, how's it going, are you on your break?' said my mum.
'Er . . . well, kind of, I'm at the hospital.'
'You're where? The hospital? Jesus, Mary and Joseph, what's happened?'
'I dropped a bin on my foot,' I said matter-of-factly.
'What kind of bin?'
'A two-ton steel one.'
'Oh my God.'
By this time my dad had overheard my mum's side of the conversation and was starting to shout questions over her shoulder.
'What's happened? Where is he?'
'It's R Peter. He's dropped a bin on his foot and he's down the hospital.'
I could see that my credit was running out on the phone (they just eat money).
'Tell him I'm coming down now,' shouted my dad.
'No, no, Mum, tell my dad to stay there, I'll be all right, my pips are going to go.'
'Oh my God, his pips, his pips are going now, he's losing his pips,' said my mum in a lather.
'His what?' asked my dad.
'MUM, PLEASE TELL MY DAD I DON'T WANT HIM TO COME DOWN!' I shouted after her, but it was too late, she'd gone. 'Shit!'
I hung the phone up and turned round to find half the A&E staring at me. Lord knows what they made of that conversation.
The last thing I needed right now was my dad coming down. He was always the same. Whenever I had any kind of an accident he would somehow find it funny to wind me up. When I was a child and I'd fall over and cut myself, I'd come staggering in from the backyard sobbing, snot dripping down my top lip, and sure enough my dad would look at the blood on my knee or elbow and shout to my mum:
'Deirdre, go and get the saw out of the shed, I'll have to cut it off,' and then I'd start wailing like a banshee.
I fell for it every time, hook, line and sinker, and now this sadist was sat on a bus on his way to A&E.
It was the first time I'd been at the hospital since I was struck down with a water infection the previous summer. I went to watch Genesis in Leeds and to cut a long story short, I caught thrush off an Orangina bottle. A few days later I started to notice a burning sensation when I passed water (and I don't mean when I cycled past the reservoir). The burning was getting worse. I thought I was going to set fire to the bathroom curtains at one point. After much denial I finally went to see the doctor. He was a big, bearded fellow with a booming voice and reminded me of Brian Blessed. In fact, if this book is ever made into a film Brian Blessed would be the perfect actor to play the doctor.
I told him about my burning sensation and for some reason he weighed me. 'Fifteen stone, my God, boy,' he boomed, 'you must have balls made out of ivory.' Then he handed me some dolly mixtures out of a jar on his desk and sent me to see a urologist.
On reflection this isn't a very big role for Brian Blessed. He's only got one line and although it's a good one, with plenty of booming, it's really not worth an actor of Brian's pedigree getting out of bed for. I'll give it to Paul Shane from Hi-De-Hi.
I had to take a sample of urine with me when I went to see the urologist at the hospital. I couldn't get anybody else's so had no choice but to take my own. I'd never given a sample before and the letter I'd been sent didn't specify how much they required. My mum wasn't available for advice so I filled up half a bottle of Lucozade and put it in my rucksack and headed for the hospital. I got to the packed waiting room in the outpatients department, reached inside my bag for the bottle and found that most of its contents had leaked. It must have been all the jigging about I'd done running for the bus. I had half a mind to write a strong letter of complaint to Lucozade regarding the state of their screw-top lids. The reception nurse wasn't overimpressed either as I passed her the piss-stained bottle with see-through label.
After a wait of ninety minutes (thanks to Thatcher) I finally got to see the urologist. She (and by 'she' I do mean a lady) asked me about my condition.
'A couple of questions for you, Mr Kay. When you pass water is it a trickle or is it a good healthy jet?'
I had to confess that I'd never really noticed. It was an uncomfortable thing for a lad of fifteen to discuss, especially with a female doctor. I was just incredibly shy. Then I slipped out of my dungarees (I'm kidding) and climbed up on to the table.
'Lie on your side, Mr Kay, and pull your knees up into your chest.'
Pull my knees up into my chest? I thought, Christ, you'll be lucky, I haven't seen my ribs since we lost Shergar.
'High as you can, Mr Kay,' she pleaded, 'and try to breathe deeply.'
Breathing deeply was the easy bit. I don't remember her asking me to roll my eyes back into my head and bite the back of my knuckles but that's what I did when she inserted two of her fingers into my anus.
'Good God in Heaven!' I said, trying to disguise it with a cough and almost severing her fingers.
'Is that tender, Mr Kay?' she asked.
'Tender? It's brilliant, Doctor ... Er ... is there any chance you could do it with a bit of a rhythm?'
I'll not disclose what happened next. Suffice to say I wasn't invited back to her outpatients clinic.
Fast-forward one summer and I'm back here once again. Same hospital, different table. With my toe still throbbing I lay in the curtained cubicle, studying the nurse in front of me as she held a large needle over a naked flame.
'Where are you going to put that?' I asked nervously, as the end started to smoulder.
'Through your toenail,' she replied.
I gulped loudly
'It's either that or you lose the nail,' she said.
That's when I started to think, do I really need a toenail, I mean, do they actually serve any purpose in life? But before I could arrive at any kind of conclusion my train of thought was derailed by the sound of my dad charging through A&E.
'Where is he? Down here?' There then followed a shriek – 'Sorry, love, wrong curtain' – then our curtain tore back and there he stood. He turned his attention to my toe, took a sharp intake of breath, smiled proudly and said:
'I think I better go and get a saw. It'll have to come off.'
The next day I was back at work, limping dramatically. I think Morris must have taken pity on me because I was taken off shit-shifting duty and put to work on a line with the women.
I was sixteen, I was naive and I had never heard filth like it in all my life. These women were mothers, grandmothers, but their endless barrage of filth and sexual innuendos would have made Bernard Manning blush. It was certainly an education for me and they were far worse than any blokes I've ever worked with.
But despite their passion for smut and their obsession with grabbing my arse every time I tried to reload the foil machine, I learned to love them all dearly and have nothing but fond memories of my time spent with them.
Later, when I settled into working with them at Franny Lee's, I used to bring my radio-cassette player with me. It was quite a heavy piece of kit from the days when the general consensus seemed to be 'the bigger, the better'. Size mattered and seeing a half-naked male stagger down a beach with a stereo the size of wheelie bin on his shoulder wasn't an uncommon sight at all in the late 1980s.