- Diary of a temporary meat factory worker. Day 1. Archived Message
Posted by Des Jnr
on 31/3/2020, 9:47 pm
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(Day 1, and also Part 1, as I can’t be arsed doing the rest as I want to carry on watching a Prison Break.) Did some research on my new job/employer last night. Three items of note: 1. I’m going to be working at the largest industrial estate in Europe. Ha ha. And my teachers said I’d never make it in life. 2. As it’s a meat factory, the job description says “the environment is chilled”. I pack a Bob Marley CD and a bag of weed for my first day. I know, I know, teacher’s pet. 3. I wish my parents had conceived me a bit higher up on the UK map. Colne in Lancashire to be precise. Because then I could have applied for a job with more reasons as a ‘Skilled Boning Operative’. Imaging the job satisfaction on that one. Sleep through my alarm. My body clock is so ####ed, I don’t even know what day it is at the moment, never mind the right time. I book a taxi to the bus station. As I’m leaving the house, I realise how scruffy I look at the moment, having not had a haircut or a shave since all this started. I look like exactly the type of person you wouldn’t want heading to a meat factory to pack your ham sandwich. As I get to the bus station, I realise I still don’t actually know where I’m going. The first part of North Wales as you leave Chester is a mish-mash of lots of little towns and villages, with pretty shitty transport links. And this largest industrial estate in Europe is bloody big, with lots of different entrances depending on which bit you’re working in. I see a bus heading vaguely in the right direction. A big shout-out to the Arriva bus driver who kindly lets me on for free, as it’s contactless payments only and all I’ve got is cash. He also tells me I’ve got “one hell of a walk” once he drops me off as far as he’s going, which is next to the leprechaun. As the journey continues, I start to get slightly concerned at the absence of a small bearded man in a green coat with a sign saying ‘Des, get off the bus here’ but eventually I realise the driver is referring to the name of a pub, where I alight. Remembering the few minutes I spent on Google Maps last night, I’m anticipating a bit of a walk, but nothing too taxing. However, I’m over four miles away, which is a 90 minute walk. Bollocks. I phone another taxi, and the driver feels really sorry for me, giving me a pep talk like I’m heading off to war or something. “Give it a crack mate, that’s all you can do.” Jesus, how bad are these meat factories? To be fair, the picture is pretty ####ing bleak as I arrive, more akin to a refugee camp than a supermarket factory. There’s already pockets of agency workers stood around waiting to go in (exactly how much food are we getting through at the moment, cause the amount of jobs on offer is staggering!). Inside the smoking shelter on the other side of the railings, a group of depressed-looking, shivering women extract the last few gasps of their cigarettes, with faces like they’ve just found a tub of Celebrations, but found only sewing kits and spare batteries inside. Signs are plastered everywhere saying ‘WARNING - AMMONIA’ and that I might, you know, die if I breathe too much of it in. And a bloke in an orange vest is trying to tick off names on a form whilst at the same time trying to enforce social distancing measures, but as half the people here literally cannot speak a word of English, he’s not having much luck. I’m half expecting someone to come up to me offering me a spot on a lorry to escape this abyss in return for a brown envelope of cash. I’m due to start at 10am, but it’s about fifteen minutes later when a short Hungarian bloke appears, who runs the agency. I have to bite my lip to stop laughing at him, as he looks exactly like Bill Bailey (just without the long hair) and it keeps tickling me. He takes me and about 20 others into the corridors of the factory, which is like a maze. Honest to God, we go up and down that many different stairs, I’m expecting to end up in a Wetherspoons toilet. I don’t, but I somehow do get separated from the rest of the pack, along with half a dozen Romanians. We’re now lost in a giant factory on the largest industrial estate in Europe. I follow them from behind. They’re all laughing and joking in their own language. I’ve got no idea what they’re saying. I have a feeling it might be “he’s the guy who writes the hilarious Tesco diaries” but I can’t be sure. Eventually we bump into an English-speaking woman outside an office, who’s scoffing a fry-up from a cardboard tray. She sends us back through the door with a “you need to go down the stairs then up”. As this place seems to be a giant collection of stairwells that go up and down without actually leading anywhere, she might as well have just given us a road map of Runcorn. Eventually, we navigate our way out of the Hampton Court Maze, and into one of the meeting rooms for our more reasons induction. It turns out I am the only English person in the entire room. Suspicious glances are coming at me from all directions. I feel like a nun at an swingers party. Hungarian Bill Bailey looks at his list of names and starts speaking. “Where is Des?” ####. Is this Tesco-diary-comes-back-to-bite-me-in-the-bum part two? “Obviously your English is very good. As for the rest of you I know your English is not so good.” Wahey! I’m top of the class after literally three seconds. To be slightly picky, after 35 years living on this island, I’d describe my English as “####ing superb” but I’ll settle for “very good”. I don’t want to upset my teacher just yet as I could be in line for a sticker in a moment. One of my new colleagues takes in his new surroundings and says: “It’s nice here.” It’s a fairly standard meeting room so I’m not sure what conditions he’s used to. Although I later find out half the room used to all work in a chicken factory in S####horpe, so actually, I have a pretty good idea. Although it seems Hungarian Bill Bailey doesn’t necessarily agree. “I had one guy work here last week who went home after five minutes.” He looks at me as he’s saying it. Whoa, I can handle this place. I used to work the McDonald’s Drive Thru on a Friday night. We’re given a form to fill out. All it requires is the standard details about yourself. It takes me about two minutes to complete. I’m the first one to put my pen down, and I hand my form to Hungarian Bill Bailey. “Have you finished already?” he asks, with the tone of his voice suggesting he’s actually quite proud of me. I consider standing on my chair and boasting to everyone else in the room that I’ve finished first, but considering the majority of the room don’t actually speak the language the form is written in, I stay sat down. One guy sat at the back of the room does tickle me, who looks like what can only be described as a homeless Mr Bean. There’s immense confusion over one of the questions on the form between himself and Hungarian Bill Bailey. There’s actually another language barrier to hurdle, as most of these new agency staff are Romanian, which Hungarian Bill Bailey doesn’t speak. It takes about five minutes of toing and froing in English, Hungarian and Romanian before the punchline is revealed. Homeless Mr Bean has put himself down as ‘next of kin’. Cue laughter from everyone in the room, before the realisation that a couple of others have made the exact same mistake as well. Seventeen hours later, the forms are all filled in. And with all the cinemas closed at the moment, we’re given a special treat. It’s time for the more reasons Food Safety DVD. Bizarrely, it starts with Tony Robinson (of ‘Blackadder’ and ‘Time Team’ fame) playing the part of a pub landlord, who comes out of the gents toilets having not washed his hands, before chatting to a customer at the bar whilst scratching his armpits and sniffing them. Honestly, it’s ####ing brilliant. I’m pissing myself watching this DVD, surrounded by 20 Romanians who haven’t got a clue what’s going on. Their faces look like mine did when I watched the final series of ‘Lost’. Back to the comedy sketch, the customer, who was about to order his lunch, decides to vacate the premises when the pub landlord hands him a menu, due to his obvious lack of hygiene. Cue, a forlorn-looking Tony Robinson looking directly at the camera, to tell us all: “It’s my first day too.” I’m ROFL at this point, as the kids say. Next, it’s a detailed step-by-step guide to washing your hands. I have to wash my hands THOROUGHLY every time I handle meat or go to the toilet. The meat I can understand. But come on more reasons, you’re being a bit snobby with your toilet rule. I’ve not washed my hands after having a shit for the last eight years and it’s not done me any harm. The comedy DVD continues. Diarrhoea is the next topic of conversation, accompanied by an actor in a giant chef’s hat, stirring a large pan, who suddenly realises the shits are on their way, before needlessly running the long way round the kitchen and off to the toilet. It’s straight off a Benny Hill sketch show. Hungarian Bill Bailey talks us through the art of washing your hands. We have to scrub our hands for 45 seconds every time we do it. That’s the recommended amount. I love the fact he specifically points out to us all that it’s 45 seconds, and not 45 minutes. I’ve worked in some jobs where I’ve tried to stretch out breaks a little, but I think washing your hands for 45 minutes would be classed as taking the piss. Our teacher then performs his own comedy routine. He’s not sure if everyone has understood the words for ‘vomiting’ and ‘diarrhoea’. He points to his mouth and does a high-pitched “bleu” before letting off a low-pitched “bleu” as he points to his arse. On the subject of piercings, he looks at the ladies in the room, points to his ears and says “not okay” before pointing to his own boob area and saying “that’s okay”. Homeless Mr Bean laughs loudly at this point. And when nobody understands the word “droppings”, Hungarian Bill Bailey gives it a five second pause before simply saying “shit”. Which I think is the first word we’ve all understood collectively. Shit is universal, it seems. There’s something rather beautiful about that. |