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    Diary of a temporary meat factory worker. Day 1. (Part 2) Archived Message

    Posted by Des Jnr on 1/4/2020, 8:08 pm

    Hungarian Bill Bailey’s induction continues. He talks about not scratching your face while you’re packing meat on the factory line, accompanied by another full mime show (I so want a game of charades with him when this is all over) and the classic one-liner: “Why would you want a meaty face anyway?” (Which, incidentally, is to be developed as a Saturday night BBC game show hosted by Paddy McGuinness.)

    We talk about the fact that meat dropped on the floor should never be picked up and put back on the factory line. I’m so tempted to say “What, no five second rule?” but I don’t want to confuse these puzzled-looking Romanians any further.

    The temperature in the factory, I’m told, is between 0 and 5 degrees Celsius. Everyone else in the class smiles at me when Hungarian Bill Bailey reveals this information. He also looks at me and says: “Let us know if you don’t like it. It isn’t for everyone.” I really think he thinks I’m going to parachute myself off the building at any moment. He doesn’t realise I was the hardest lad in Tesco, though. And I’ve done Hartlepool away on a Tuesday night. I can handle anything, me.

    During all of this induction, by the way, Homeless Mr Bean continues to amuse me. Everyone else is sat listening quietly, but he constantly says “yes” after every single point Hungarian Bill Bailey makes. Not just once or twice, but we’re talking around 300 yes’s already. He seems like a really nice lad, and he’s by far the best English speaker out of all the Romanians, so it falls upon him to translate some of Hungarian Bill Bailey’s important points for his fellow compatriots. Just because they can barely speak a word of English, they still need to know what to do in the event of an Ammonia evacuation, and that you should wear a blue plaster if you cut your finger so it’s easy to find if you drop it in the food, and that you shouldn’t sneeze all over the conveyor belt of meat if you can help it. What tickles me further, is that Homeless Mr Bean doesn’t wait for Hungarian Bill Bailey to finish speaking, he just keeps cutting him off mid-sentence, translating in Romanian at the top of his voice. It’s a recurring joke that takes place every sixty seconds or so. I’m absolutely loving it, but I can tell Hungarian Bill Bailey is starting to get slightly pissed off at how long this is taking, though at the same time there’s not a lot he can do, as everyone in the room needs to know what to do if they suddenly get the shits in work, whether they can speak English or not.

    Basic training completed, it’s time for some of the more advanced stuff. Like how to pick up a box. Hungarian Bill Bailey gives a wonderful demonstration of how to pick up a box off the floor. Back straight, knees bent, this guy is the real deal. But there’s a voice at the back of the room. “No, no, no, you shouldn’t do it like that. I know how to. This is how you should do it.” Homeless Mr Bean stands up, gives his own demonstration, and I swear to God, it is an exact mirror image of what Hungarian Bill Bailey has just shown us. There literally isn’t a single difference between the two.

    Canteen information, next. The main thing is Hungarian Bill Bailey saying “don’t touch the food” to those in the room who can’t speak English. It transpires that he worked with agency staff at a previous factory, who couldn’t speak English, who picked up lots of food in the canteen with their bare hands, asking what each item was. My mind now has an image of a girl with both hands dripping with baked beans asking “vot is dis” to a confused-looking dinner lady.

    Our rate of pay appears on the screen. It’s more than I thought it was. In fact, it’s a whole 59 pence an hour more than Tesco. I’ve had a pay rise four days after being sacked. I’ll have my own private Caribbean island by the time the Coronavirus clears.

    Hungarian Bill Bailey starts to hand out keypads. We’re only doing a bloody quiz. A pay rise and now a quiz! This is the best day of my working life. I’m looking forward to questions on 90’s Britpop, Stockport County Football Club, and TV Sitcoms, so it is a bit of an anti-climax when I find out the quiz is all about food safety at more reasons. But as anything fun to do in this country has completely shut down for over a fortnight now, I’m actually looking forward to it.

    Question one. How long should you wash your hands for?

    Every fibre of my being is telling to me to press ‘45 minutes’ but my head rules my heart in the end and I choose ‘45 seconds’ which is the correct answer. Three people answer incorrectly. All of the answers appear on the screen when buttons are pressed, so it gets a giggle or two when a few flashes of red appear amongst all the green. Hungarian Bill Bailey tells us this is really a test, and everyone has to get 100% to pass the induction. So we have to do question one for a second time. The quizmaster actually tells us all the right answer. One person still gets it wrong. As question one appears for a third time, I’m starting to think I could go on ‘Mastermind’ with ‘optimum hand washing times’ as my specialist subject. Third time lucky, it’s green across the board, and we can move on to question two.

    At this point, considering half the contestants can’t speak English, and the fact our induction has now been going on for three months, Hungarian Bill Bailey simply points to each answer on the screen with a laser pen. Why couldn’t my GCSE’s have been like this? With a red light highlighting the answer I need to press on my keypad, I’m starting to feel extremely confident I’ll pass this test. Although two people still answer question two incorrectly, so we have to do that one again as well. Homeless Mr Bean laughs out loudly.

    Eventually, we get through all 20 questions, and there’s a 100% pass rate for every pupil, helped by the fact that by the end of the test, Hungarian Bill Bailey is practically pressing the buttons on our keypads for us. You might think staff working in a meat factory are well trained, and on paper at least, they all have a 100% score on food safety. But some of those genuinely wouldn’t know the difference between safely handling properly chilled meat with gloves on for your chicken salad, and sweeping the floor for mouse droppings and fingernails to give your BLT a nice bit of added crunch.

    That’s pretty much it, apart from a 10 minute conversation on spitting. Hungarian Bill Bailey apologises to the Romanians, but apparently they are well known for spitting everywhere. Oh, how I long for the days when I stacked shelves in Tesco. He tells us that he’s actually lost many members of staff for spitting on the factory line. Mmm, can’t wait for my lunch today. It clearly is a thing, though, as some of the Romanian guys in the room ask Hungarian Bill Bailey if they’re allowed to spit in the corridors, spit in the smoking shelter, spit in the toilets. I might have to work on some excuses if Homeless Mr Bean invites me round to his for dinner one night.

    Finally, we’re given some stapled sheets of paper, detailing every single topic we’ve covered today. There’s about 100 different things on the list, and we have to write today’s date and our signature next to every single item. ####ing hell. I am never, ever getting out of this place. Some of the topics listed we have talked about today, like the temperature of meat, and cleaning up. Other topics, such as the safe use of a fish knife, and how to load the slicing machine, haven’t been mentioned once. But I’m scribbling my signature down anyway, saying I’ve understood everything. Legally, it seems a lot of responsibility falls at my door rather than more reasons if anything goes tits up. I think I’m going to have to be very careful in this place. If I end up smashing my tibia and fibula on a bacon slicer, I don’t think I’ll have a leg to stand on.

    Induction over. It’s actually been a rather fun day. I thought I was starting work today, so getting full pay for six hours (even though I’ve only been here for three and a half) to watch a Tony Robinson DVD and do a food safety quiz has been a very pleasant surprise. Granted, I’m covered head to toe in spit, but you can’t have everything.

    I’m thinking to myself I might rather enjoy this place, as we’re escorted out the building a different way, right next to the main part of the factory.

    Then it hits me. The smell.

    Oh my God, it ####ing stinks.

    Now, I’ve experienced some pretty unpleasant smells in my life. I was dancing away in Fifth Avenue the night someone let off about a million stink bombs. One of my friends once boiled a full kettle of Special Brew in a Blackpool guest house. And I once shit myself at the end of an excessive all-dayer in Liverpool, when we were supposed to go and watch Stockport County play at Tranmere, but as it was Ladies Day ahead of the Grand National, we decided to stay in Liverpool all day and night instead. That was not a pretty sight.

    But none of those smells come close to the waft of chicken that smacks me in the face as we’re heading down the stairs. I gag immediately, and it’s a relief to get out into the fresh air. As someone who’s led a fairly sheltered working life in an office environment, with biscuits, water coolers and ergonomic chairs (in my defence, I am vegetarian and the smell genuinely does almost knock me sick) the thought of an eight hour shift in this chicken sweat box fills me with absolute dread.

    I’ll give it a go, but I’m not promising I won’t spit all over a ham shank an hour into my shift.

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