1960-70
Decided I needed to spread my wings, so I took a job
contracting with a chemical company who had depots dotted over eastern England.
The first day a message caught up with me at 19:00, "you have been
transferred to Essex for two weeks, be there for 7:00 tomorrow", what the
hell, I wanted to get about so 6:45 I was sitting on the depot door step waiting
to be let in (no motorways those days).
I was up there for six weeks doing
aircraft work with a hard drinking, hard working bunch who knew every pub in 4
counties which did not recognise opening hours, being shipped from one depot to
another, where ever they needed someone who did not worry about sleeping time.
In between, I dodged the 2 very attractive girls in the office who had
intentions, if I could have my time again, I would not do so much running, well
not away.
It was in Norfolk that I used up the first of two of my lives, the
first one was when we was aircraft spraying a narrow field of potatoes with high
trees each side and a power line running through the middle, a slight wind was
blowing along the field so it had to be worked over the trees and under the
power line, with me marking under the cables. The idea was I would move as soon
as the plane came over the trees and I would run like hell for 14 strides to the
next position, we had just started the second load when I took one stride and
fell over the potato tops, I could take up courses teaching rabbits how to dig
holes.
The pilot would not fly without me after that, because he said that most
people would have tried to get up and run which would have killed both of us,
and he was ex-fleet air.
Which got us into the second life, we had several jobs
to do in Kent, so we flew down one morning (helicopter this time) and the route
took as across the Thames estuary at Southend, it was a hot day and the beach was already packed, the
pilot reckoned we ought to do a fly pass and review the local talent.
I wasn't
doing any arguing, so we went four times along the beach at about 30feet with
girls waving and chasing us.
When I later pointed out to the pilot that I
thought our flight permit had a min height of 200 feet except on operations, he
said "Boy, that operation was connected with the reason we was put on this
earth and the authorisation don't come no higher than that", the
air-ministry did not recognise the "authorisation" judging by the two
notices that were waiting our return.
The second notice concerned our return
flight across the Thames estuary. It was low tide and I noticed several people
around a wrecked barge, I tapped the pilot on the shoulder and pointed down to
them, just then they all ran away. The pilot shrugged, banked the chopper over
to get a closer look, premonition or what I don't know, put suddenly I wanted
out, I tapped his shoulder again and jabbed my finger up, up, up, he did, we were
followed by bits of everything that made a barge, they were blowing the damn
thing up.
Luckily none hit the rotor, or ???.
One day we had knocked of for a quick "bite" and were discussing
some matter of world shattering importance, when one of the crew commented
that no one would consider our opinions worth listen too, due to the fact that
people who sat on 240 gallons of high octane aviation spirit and smoking were
only fit for the loony-bin.
This led the pilot to comment that it was quite
safe, unscrewed the top of the barrel he was sitting on, and threw his lighted
cigarette in and screwed the top back on. Some of the crew started heading for
parts unknown at the speed of light, leaving the pilot and me wondering how far
they would go.
He asked why I did not run, and I said I would rather be blown up
then burnt to death and IF it was going to blow up, it would have done it on the
way in, not after, as you can't start a "flooded" car because there is
not enough air, but how did you know that THAT barrel was not the one I'd half
emptied this morning?
A very sun-burnt Aussie took on the look of a
"pale-face".
When I say "hard working", I mean
when we could, one time we spent three days waiting for the wind to drop in order
to spray field beans for black-aphids, three days from "can see" to
"can't see", three days drinking in bars, cellars or sheds.
On the
third evening, I went out to cope with one of the essentials of life "what
goes in, must come out" and I was walking back to the bar when I stopped,
thought for a moment, listened, everyone watching me, suddenly I realised
what had changed "the wind has dropped" I yelled and run for the
door, closely followed by a stampede, we sprayed 187 acres of fields from 5 to
20 acres in size, in three hours.
You try running across a pub car-park after
three hours drinking, let alone three days, and we had to run through crops 7-8
ft tall with a pole with a flag on it.
To say we collapsed after is an
under-statement, someone had rung the manager up and he came out and shoveled us
into the van and drove us back, "can see" the next morning we were at
it again, spraying I mean.
I had 2 spells in the eastern counties, everyone said come back next year, but the next year saw me as
a Senior Operator and the manager would not let me go.
I tackled the job like
everything else, someone writes the rules, you work to them, but for your benefit,
we had an acreage to do and then you got bonus, some said bonus was to make you
work harder, so they never did more than the base amount, I said nothing, went
out to find the best way of doing the job, and earned more in bonus than
wages.
The manager put me down for a tractor fitters course at Fords, and I had to
be booked in by 9pm on the Sunday night.
On the Saturday evening I had been out
with a friend and we called in at a garage to get some petrol, we were fooling
about and he chased me across the fore-court which was very broken, and my ankle
twisted under me. We went out for the evening and my ankle swelled up like a
football, eventually a crowd of them ganged up on me and took me to hospital.
You
can always rely on your "friends" to drop you in it, my mate told the
nurses I'd done it kicking in a door, now as it was past mid-night it was
believable, they most likely saw the same every Saturday night, did they give me
hell, much to the amusement of the bastards in the corridor.
I drove home
(30miles) using one foot, and drove 80 miles the next day to the course venue
the same way. I hobbled round the courses and workshops all week in agony, contrary
to popular belief, sitting down with a sprained ankle is not good news, the only
time I felt half human is after a walk in the evening.
Mind you, the course had
it's high point's, like when one of the fitters got an instructor stirred up
over a technical point, and the instructor, to prove his point, fired up an
engine hanging on a hoist, it was only supposed to be a half a minute demo, but
the engine had other ideas, with no air cleaner fitted the engine went berserk,
it took off at about 4000 revs on the end of the chain and circled the workshop,
everyone ran, I couldn't, so I squatted in the middle of the room and waited for
it to run out diesel, working on theory that if chain broke, the ones outside
would be in more danger than me.
Up to that time, diesel tractors had been
governed by vacuum (more about that later), at the course they proudly announced
the new system, which would eliminate the use of the excess fuel device except
for starting.
I listened to the explanation and said it will not work, asked for
chance to prove it, this was granted for the last day when the design people
would be coming. On the Friday I got someone else driving (my foot couldn't
operate the clutch), I sat on the mud-guard with a broom, much to the amusement
of the experts, we drove off, into top gear, throttle full open, and I whacked the
excess fuel device with the broom, the drive disappeared in a cloud of black
smoke.
Our returned was greeted by cheers from the fitters and glares by the
experts whose opinion of me went lower when I said that they should try
repairing their tractors in a foot of mud, they might design them a bit better,
more cheers from the fitters.
On the last night (thur) there was a booze up, the
previous week there had been a party of Canadian lumber-jacks there, they had
dismantled a tractor, carried across the artificial lake, re-assembled it on the
island, and left it running.
Not to be out done, the crowd dismantled a tractor,
carried them down the spiral stair case into the bar, rebuilt it and left it
running.
Having some time left before breakfast they removed one of the stone
eagles from the roof and stood it in the middle of the dining room floor. Two
things upset the principle, leaving the engine running had fumigated half the
mansion (including his office) and how the hell were they going to get the eagle
back on the roof.
Contracting is time and money, some of us pushed hard, often to extremes, one
bloke got booked for doing 46mph uphill, with a tractor that had a rated speed
of 20mph at 2400rpm, he did the same a couple of days later and blew the engine
to pieces. I nearly got caught doing 50mph, free-wheeling down a hill through a
radar trap, luckily I saw it, applied the brakes and back into gear before I got
to the coppers pulling the cars in, I managed to get the grin off my face as I
saw the radio exchange, "50? you got to joking", they didn't pull me
in. Manipulating the governors and excess fuel devices was a daily occurrence,
uphill, extra speed, you name it we used it, very often long distances were
involved and knocking half an hour of the journey made a difference.
Journey's
of 70 miles was normal, 200 miles we used to do in 1 hour stretches and then a
driver change, with other driver going ahead in the van, not that anyone worried
about a 12 hour stint at the wheel, it's just you had to be careful when you got
out, or you would fall over.
We had a contract bean harvesting with a day and night shift.
I was one of the night gang leaders, we had to collect the crew and take them
home after the 12 hr shift. There was no work Sat night so Sat morning after
taking the crew home the gang leader returned to service his machinery. I had nearly
finished at 2pm when I noticed a crack in the front axle, it was needed for a
Sun 7am start, so I removed the axle (3.5 cwt) some how got it in the van, drove
30 miles to get it repaired, drove back, fitted it, drove home at 9pm, had a
bath and went to see my mates up the town. I'd worked 29hrs straight through
with only 1 break, but when you're young you have go out sometime, I hadn't been
out for 3 weeks.
The company supplied a small motor cycle to get to and from jobs, it was
tied on the back of the tackle when you moved site, those bikes claimed at least
six of my lives, nothing to do with the mad rider of course. I finished up in
the back of a milk-float because I returned the wave from a pretty girl in a
village street, how was I to know the milkman was a lazy sod and only moving up one
house?
Like the time I was exchanging blowing kisses with a girl who was on the
back of a bus in Maidstone High Street, the bus stopped and I didn't.
It was stunts like that that led to meeting my future wife, my
younger brother had bought a motor-mike, he reckoned it wouldn't corner very
well, would I try it out, next day I used it to picked up a mate, as I took off,
my mate slipped off the seat on to the rear number plate, pulling me backwards
until only my finger tips were on the handle bars which wound the throttle full
open in second.
How we got round 3 T junctions, one the main road, without
hitting anyone/thing I'll never know. To get round corners I could only lean the
bike over and bounce it off the kerb on the other side of the road. There was the
usual crowd at the bus stop (they always stared when we came down the
road), my future wife was one of them, they did more than stare that morning.
Lost count of the times
I picked my self out of the road through cornering too fast and hooking the
footrest up on a service cover in the road.
One morning I was passing a load of
girls on their way to the local Technical College, I put my foot on to the stand
to push it down on to the road, this created a stream of sparks which got the
girls screaming, unfortunately there was a 90o left bend in the road
and as I laid the bike over the footrest hooked up in a service cover, spun the
bike round, shot me and the bike straight across the road into a banana
warehouse.
I was buried under a pile of boxes with a crowd of girls trying to
dig me out. Now I was not daft enough to turn down the attentions of 20 odd
girls all trying to make a fuss of me, I was doing a fair job of dying in
comfort until some silly sod suggested calling for an ambulance, I made the
fastest recovery known to man, recovered the bike, started it and drove off,
leaving the girls laughing and waving.
One dark rainy night I finished up riding on the bonnet
(hood) hanging on to the screen-wipers of car that turned across a junction in front of me
,
there was a car behind him so I tried to beat him round the corner, and lost.
I
scraped 6inches of meat off both shins on the bonnet, when I slid off (both legs
were numb) I saw 2 black shadows emerging out of the car, I asked
"what the **** were you trying to do, kill me?" the shadows appeared in
front of the headlights, a vicar and a nun.
Who do you think the police gave the
fourth degree too?, the ambulance staff wanted to take me to hospital, but I
refused, I needed my dinner, mind you it did not improve the longevity prospects
of my marriage when my wife walk into the kitchen to find me emptying blood out
of my boots into the sink.
My wife was expecting our first child, and getting things sorted for her
made me late leaving for work one morning. I went down the dual-carriage way flat
out, at the roundabout I moved over to the right side of the road, laid the bike
hard over to take the first turning off (on the left), took the bend, still flat
out, passed a man on a bicycle with my head under his handle-bars, what he
thought I don't know, but two traffic policemen on Norton SS600's caught up
with me at the next junction.
One pulled along side, the other behind me,
perhaps they thought I was going to race them on a Honda 90.
It turned out to be
the truth, although I did not find that out till the next day.
The first copper
wanted to see my driving licence and insurance, which I had with me because it
was due for renewal. He looked at the address (which was still as my parents)
and asked where the fire was.
I told him that I was late and why, much to my
surprise he let me go.
The next day I called in to see my parents and my dad
told me the other side of the story (he worked at the police traffic depot). Apparently the cops were behind me when I approached the
roundabout, and I caught them out when I turned left, they had to go right round
the roundabout before they could follow me. The one who let me go had a
reputation of being a hard nut and had booked the chief constables son a couple
of days previous because he started mouthing off who is dad was.
Everyone at the
depot was laughing because they reckoned that neither of them wanted to stand in
court and tell how a Honda 90 had beaten them at a roundabout.
Another time I was driving round a bend to find a large artic
(semi) coming out of a side turning, completely blocking the road. I knew I
could not stop in time, so I dropped the bike, the bike hit lorry and bounced
back, I hit the bike, took off, missed the unit, hit something with my head and
finished up alongside the rear trailer wheel, what ever my head had hit knocked
me out for a few seconds.
Having picked my self off the road numerous times, I
knew there was nothing major wrong with me, but everyone was panicking for some
reason.
In the hospital I was pushed in and out of X-ray like a fiddlers elbow,
I was getting annoyed and tackled one of doctors after the third trip, who said
"We have a slight problem, we cannot find anything wrong, but we had
to take precautions because of this" he reached under the trolley and took
out my crash helmet, it had a 4 inch hole punched right through the front.
They
had contacted the police at the site and apparently I had hit the front corner
of trailer (a 9 inch RSJ) head on, I had wondered why they X-rayed me with my
helmet on.
A large proportion of contracting in those days was doing jobs
nobody else would do, some were hairy to but it mildly, a three ton spreader
trying to over-take the tractor on a steep grass bank was not unusual, it
usually entailed dipping the clutch to race the trailer hoping you could slow
down and turn it before you hit the bank, hedge, ditch at the bottom.
If I could
not see all of the field, I used to ride the bike round to check it, but it did not
cover all eventualities, like the job on fairly steep slope with a good flat at
the bottom, I started the job but was called away for a more urgent job. When I
returned I filled up and started, to find the farmer had put a fence across the
field half way down, I hit it broadside on.
When he put the fence back it was 5 yards longer.
The job I'll never forget, was a spreading job on a wheat field drilled
on the banks above the Romney marsh, from the gate it looked OK, but I'd been
caught out before, so I put in 1 ton instead of 3 and started up hill, as I went
up the field appeared to get narrower, until when I got to the top, it was only about 10
yards wide, looking over the edge I could see 3 flat steps with steep slopes
down to each one, a total of about 80 feet to the bottom.
I could not back down
the hill, so I went over the edge, by the time I hit the first step the trailer
was coming along side of me, I dipped the clutch, by the time I hit the second
the trailer was even further along side, so I took out of gear and let it go. I
must have been doing 40 when I hit the bottom, I was 50 yards up the opposite
bank before I got it back in gear, another 10 yards and I got wheel spin. I
stopped, and manage to back down to the bottom.
I went down to the farm to
ring the rep who had taken the job, for him to come and have a look at it. On the
way back I met one of the farm workers and asked him who drilled the field, he
laughed and said a contractor had done it with a 100hp tracklayer, because nobody
else would touch it.
When the rep arrived he said he would ride round with me on
the trailer, I said "You sure" he said "Yes", OK he asked for
it, he got it, I thought afterwards it was a dumb thing to do, I could have
given him a heart attack.
I took him through the same performance, half way down
the bank I checked on where the spreader was, the rep was upside down with the
top of his head buried in the fertilizer. He told that story for years, and
every body gained, he never took a job after that without checking it first. I finished the
job with a Land-Rover and knocked out a half-shaft every 3 hrs.
For spraying we used tractors with saddle tanks which held 240
gallons, if you worked across banks the fluid ran out of the tank on the high
side into the lower tank, not an ideal situation, more than once I had hung out
the door just in case the tractor rolled over.
If you went up hill you had good
grip, if you went down hill all the weight was on the front wheels, none on the
back, NOT good news for stopping.
We used to burn-off potato tops
with Sulphuric-Acid, nobody liked it for the obvious reasons, apart from the
fact it burnt you, it was done in late July - Sept, protective clothing in hot
weather was like being in a hot house, so we did not bother, and it burnt your
clothes.
One hot day I stopped at the local village to get a drink, leapt out of
the cab, over the spray-booms and hit the ground from about 7 feet up, the stitches
gave up and I was standing in the street in my under-pants and damn all else.
Where did all those women come from?
I decided thirst was fairly low on my list
of priorities.
Acid-spraying had the best bonus so I made "hay while the
sun shone", the others worked from 7:30-5 doing the 20 acre base figure, I worked from
"can-see" to "can't see", I reckoned to be on bonus by 7,
the other 12 hrs was money in the bank, plus the overtime. One year I clocked up
60 acres a day over a three week period of seven days a week.
I was in our local yard changing the rear wheel of the sprayer from water
ballasted large wheels to narrow row-crop, the wheel nuts had seized and I had
to use a length of scaffold pipe for added leverage, eventually I had them all
loose and laid the pipe down, when I started to remove the wheel, I put one foot
back to brace my self against the weight of the wheel (about 600lbs) right on
top of the pipe, which rolled.
The wheel came down across my left leg, luckily I
had managed to twist it so that landed on the inside of the leg. Well I was
stuck, I could not reach the piece of pipe to get some leverage, so I started
shouting.
After a couple of shouts I gave up, my best chance was to wait and
hope to hear someone. I looked at my watch and it was 9am, something to eat, not
that I felt like it because the pain was getting worse, but I knew my best
chance would be about 11 when the owner went to the pub, I tried getting
something to lever the wheel up to relieve the weight, but it was no go. I could
not pass out or I would be laying there until I was missed that night and with
the hours I worked they would not start looking until 11 or 12, and where would
they look? (I knew a chap who died under a rolled tractor, they did not find him
till about 4am, they reckoned he had spent at least 3hrs under it alive).
Anyway,
the owner, Ted was true to form, he came out the house coughing (he was a 60
cig's a day man), I started yelling, hoping he would have a break in the
coughing to hear me, he did, he tried to lift the wheel, no go.
He went back to
get his daughters boyfriend, and between them they managed to lift it enough for
me to get out. Meanwhile his daughter had rung for an ambulance, and come out
to help, she sat in the dirt with my head in her lap making a fuss of me.
I was
enjoying it, she was enjoying it, her boy friend was working up a storm, and Ted
stood back laughing.
Why is it that the "do-gooders" are always in a
rush, the ambulance only took about 10min's. The hospital wanted to keep me in
for "observation", they were worried about blood clot's getting to the
brain, I said "No way, I haven't got one and people die in these
places", and leg it, well as fast as I could on one leg. I went back to
work next morning, luckily someone had finished changing the wheels.
One day I had a puncture in one of the row-crop tyres and called the tyre
fitter out. He repaired the puncture and was pumping the tyre up with the valve
at the lowest point. There was an horrendous explosion and the learn-to and yard
disappear in dust. The fitter emerged from the dust like a demented Pop-eye,
teeth missing, glasses gone, bolt eyed, covered in dust and swearing a blue
streak.
Well, I couldn't help it, I was rolling on the ground creased up with
laughing when Ted came galloping round the corner and thought I'd been injured
again, the fitter had disappeared back into the dust looking for his teeth and
glasses. When the dust cleared, we found the tyre had split at the bead, about
18 inches from his face, and with 60 psi in the tyre it's a miracle it did not
kill him.
I was doing a spraying job one hot day and I was stripped to the waist, it
was on some grass marshes and I had noticed some
cattle over in the distance. I had finished the marshes close to the tanker, and
I started working further away, when I suddenly noticed the cattle all round the
tanker.
I drove back as quickly as I could, with the horn blowing, did they
move? no way. I jumped out and ran up to them shouting and waving.
I should have
known better, they did not move, so I kept running closer. Suddenly, one of them
up's with both back feet and lashed out, hit me right in the stomach (we later measured
it had kicked me thirty feet).
I managed to get up, close the chemical box, and
get to the farm, about a mile away. The manager was a friend of mine and he took
me into hospital expecting the worst, the doctor checked me over and said that
they is no damage and I must have the constitution of a horse.
I told him if a
horse feels like this, I am glad I'm not a horse. It proved one thing to me, if
you're hit hard enough in one place, the next morning you ache all over. The
next morning I dragged myself out of bed and went to work, although I did cry
off tractor driving for 2 days, and went marking for another driver. It took 3
years to lose the scars (cattle raised on marshes do not wear off the edges of
their hooves), but those scars came in useful later.
It was about that time when I got poisoned taking a few too many liberties
with a highly toxic chemical - familiarity breeds contempt - anyway it floored
me, doctor was called and treated me for ....... Yellow Jaundice. I was off this
planet for two weeks, weak as a kitten for another week before I struggled back
to work.
I often wonder how I survived being treated for Yellow Jaundice when I was
overdosed on a toxic chemical which has long since been banned.
During the spring I rarely got the main depot, when I did that year, it was
to find a new lorry driver had been taken on. He was a big bloke, a hard-case
with an attitude, and a union member, I had hardly stopped the tractor before he
was there telling me that it was going to be a closed shop (100% union).
Now
anyone who has driven a tractor for three hours with a tin cab, is practical deaf, so
I told him to see me later, he kept on and gradually I managed to make out what
he was on about. All this was getting me mad, so I told him there is only one
person who can tell me what I can and can't do, and that's the bloke who pays my
wages.
He started flinging his arms a round and shouting which drew an audience,
now this bloke had at least 12inches and 50lbs over me and I'm no fighter, so I
had to bluff, I pulled my shirt out and said if you reckon you can hit harder than that, then start swinging, he stared at the ugly scar's of two hoof prints,
six inches apart, covering most of my stomach.
It never did become a closed
shop.
One time, myself and another, had to go on a training course,
our transport was an artic tractor-unit, collect a trailer from one depot,
collect and drop of bits of machinery at three other depots, then be at the
course the following day.
My mate had a temper, and that day was one of them, he
would not drive, so I drove from 5am to till we arrived at the last depot about
9pm. I was knackered, so I said you can drive the last 20 miles, he did, still
in a mood, too fast, we went round a bend, jack-knifed, just missed a crowd of
kids, through a hedge, across a lawn, straight at a building with offices with the
lights still on, we hit a second floor support.
Visibility went to nearly zero,
you do not sniff to detect smoke or steam, you hit the floor running and do your
sniffing later. As I baled out, I was surrounded by a load of men jumping out
the broken window with blue shirts on, my first reaction was "Christ, it's
the bloody police station", it wasn't, it was the Fire station, not that
the Police were far behind them.
The local rep came and collected us, and took
us back to his place for a cup of tea while we sorted out what to do, damn me,
his wife was one of the girls from the Essex office, one look and I knew she hadn't
changed her mind, I had to get out of there, she was gorgeous, and we were both
married, not that I did not regret not doing something about her 6 years
earlier.
I was not running from her, I was running from me. We had to go back
for the court case, but I kept well away, there are something's it pays to leave
alone.
Bloody fool.
This chaps temper had us in more than one scrape. His attitude was
"never volunteer for anything", mine was the opposite, anyway the boss
made me up to ganger, which made him mad.
One day one of the crew asked if we
could go straight home (instead of having a cup of tea in the cafe) as it was
his wedding anniversary, the rest of the crew were OK, so when we picked up
trouble (D), I updated him, he flipped, as we were approaching the cafe, he
tried to pull me backwards out of the driving seat, (we were doing about 60 on a
busy main road) I yelled at the one in the passenger seat to take the wheel,
whist I tried to relax to give (D) the idea he had won.
It worked, when he
calmed down a bit and let me go, the others confirmed what I had told him.
Another time was when we were collecting cinders for the boss's tennis court.
There were three of us collecting the cinders in a artic with a 12 ton trailer,
one morning we collected the 12ton, only they were wet, we must have had a 16ton
load. The third man (R) was sitting in the middle with (D) driving, (R) kept on
about how fast he used to drive lorries in his previous job, I kept nudging him
and telling him to shut it, you ever tried shutting a rent-a-mouth.
Anyway we
had struggled up hill, and going over the top (D) changed up into top, flicked
the 2-speed axle into high and kept his foot on the floor. (D) yelled at (R) you
want speed, you can have speed.
He managed to get round 2 bends still with his
foot on the floor, we were doing 70 when he threw it out of gear, down hill with
16ton pushing it was not long before we were doing a 100, (R) was screaming
you're mad, I was trying to shut him up because it would only make (D) worse.
I
was reminded of this 30 years later when I read that (D) was in court for killing
5 people when his lorry ran into their car. I wonder??
By 1968 I was married with two children who were growing up
without me seeing them awake, it was alright for paying the mortgage, but?
Anyway, I got a job on farm, sold the house and moved into a farm cottage. The
different circumstance didn't change me or my approach to work, but at least I
saw them at lunch time and when I finished I did not have to drive home.
The
boss was a hard one, but that had never bothered me, the turnover of staff was
quite high and it was not long before the spray-operator left, so I took that
over and was back to "can see" to "can't see" if it was
spraying weather .
One day the boss gave me instructions to a job which I
knew were wrong, so I told him it was wrong, everyone held their breath because
he had sacked people for less, he sent me to get the chemical instruction
leaflet, which I did, after reading it he changed my instructions.
Everyone said
"don't do that again if you want to keep your job", I replied that I
reckoned he was paying me to do a good job, if he didn't like it he could sack
me, he didn't.
The next time it happened was when a rep had advised spraying a
winter crop, I said it would ruin the crop, but if he wanted it done I would do
it.
He did, I did it, it ruined the crop, the rep then advised under sowing
with a spring crop, I said you'll never harvest it, again he went ahead. Harvest
time they struggled for hours but could not harvest it. They finished up desiccating
it so that the combine could cut it.
We never saw that rep
again.
I acquired a dog, a Red Setter cross Pointer and we called him
Bruce, and dogs being dogs, he liked chasing cats, the cat he liked chasing the
most had a habit of running at a five-bar gate, jumping through one of the gaps
and leaving the dog plastered on the gate. One day, with the dog closer than
usual, the cat run up the gate, did a loop and landed on the dogs back with his
claws dug in, they went round the yard about five times in true rodeo style
before the dog decided that he had enough, he ran at the gate, slid underneath
leaving the cat plastered to the other side.
After that they were the best of
friends.
It was at the end of the Cherry era for East-Kent, but the
farm still had a couple of orchards, during the picking season, one of the
tractor drivers had the job of driving round and putting a scoop of Lime in each
of the orchard toilets.
He developed a technique of hitting the corner of the
toilet with the front wheel, which popped the door open, chucking the scoop in,
the door slams shut and driving off to the next one.
It was alright until one
day one of the toilets was occupied, can you imagine calmly sitting there
minding your own business, when suddenly a tractor hits the loo, the door flies
open and someone lobs a scoop full of lime at you, the door slams shut, leaving
you sitting in the dark, spitting lime and wondering what the hell happened?
You ever tried bollocking
somebody for a stunt like that? the boss tried, I think the best he managed was
to wag his finger before we all curled up laughing, him included.
Tough boss or
not, it was not going stop me having a bit of fun, work hard, play hard, and I
was not short of play mates.
We had a fitter who was always running to the boss
with tales, so when the boss was away for a couple of days and the fitter was
working on the building next to three of us who were sorting seed potatoes. We
drove him nuts for two days, and as soon as the bosses car turned in the drive
he was over there giving him a complete run down.
The boss came in, his face
working up a storm, he looked at us, looked at what we done, walked round
checking it, and walked out and chewed the fitter up. We had done more in two
days than he expected in a week, and it certainly did not tie up with what he
had been told.
It did not cure the fitter, but it made him more careful of what
he said.
One of the tractor drivers was a very quiet slow moving
Norfolk strong man, when I say strong I mean it, one day the potato planter was
in front of the implement that he needed, the planter weighed over a ton, but he
just picked up one side and walked it round in a half circle so that was out the
way.
Four of us, one was his son, tried it and could not get it off the ground,
and I always reckoned to move anything that I laid my hands on.
We used to bait
him, trying to ruffle his fur, but he wouldn't have any of it, when I asked him
why, he said "I realised years ago that if I got mad and hit someone, I
would kill them", I believed it, not that it stopped us.
One day we was all
down on the beach with our families, and he fell asleep, his son said if we
can't get him awake, then we get him asleep. Two of us took an arm each, his son
(the heaviest) took his legs, the women had seen what we were up to, and moved
the kids out the way, do you know the bastard didn't even have courtesy to open
an eye, he flung one arm up, then the other, then his legs, and went back to
sleep, leaving us plastered all over the beach with everyone on the beach
laughing.
We only see him get close to losing his "rag", the first
time was when we was on an irrigation course in Wiltshire, we was all in a pub
one evening, when someone noticed a bloke standing close to "bull" at
the bar, this bloke kept moving close to "bull" who kept moving along,
when they got to the end of the bar and there was nowhere to go,
"bull" turned round and the bloke gave him a lovely smile.
He was a
queer, "bull" picked him up by his collar, marched to the door, threw
him in to the middle of the main street, and shut the door. The rest of us were
rolling on the floor crying, nobody looked to see if he had been run over.
The
second time was when a crowd of us were in a tea room, the younger ones were
sitting separate when some of the local yob's came in and started making crude
remarks to "bull's" daughter.
When I see "bull's" frown get
more pronounced, I went over and held the door open, glass is terrible messy
when kid's are about, he did the collar job again, straight into the middle of
the street, when I asked if he was worried about them getting run over, he said
they bought the ticket, they are entitled to the ride, where they get off is
their problem.
I had a flaming row with the foreman one day for telling a
"bull's" son to tow out
a bogged down water bowser with a chain hooked on the top-link pin, which would
have killed him, the boss heard about it and had the pair of us in the office.
I
was still angry and I said I would not stand by and watch a kid kill himself
regardless of who gave the order.
Shortly after the foreman left and a manager
started, that foreman was a good bloke and I liked him, but he did not know "safe" from a hole in a fence, and that is dangerous to everyone.
It
set me thinking when others said I should be manager, and I was already
wondering whether I wanted to sit on a tractor seat for the rest of my life, so
I started looking at the job sit's again.
Applied for a foreman's job on a farm about 5 miles away and
got it.
When I gave my notice in, the boss brought the manager in and asked if
we had a problem? I said No, and told him about the 'tractor seat'. I didn't know
he thought that much about me.
Everyone advised against the move because the
farm was run down and the farmer was a woman who drank a lot, she was known as
"bubbles" for good reason.
It suited me because if I could not make my
mark in six months I would find another occupation, and "chewing rubber
tyres" never bothered me.
Friday was a scream when we collected our wages,
the boss would hold out a wage packet in your general direction, when you tried
to collect it, she would wobble off in the other direction, it was not unusual
to cover the whole yard before we all got a wage packet.
When we had, we used to
go round the nearest corner and find out who had who's packet. I liked the job,
there was no money to spend so every thing had to be done by hard work and
"grey cells", the boss gave me instructions and I went and did what I
was going to do anyway.
After about a month she left it to me, apart from a
general discussion occasionally.
There is a trouble maker in every bunch, this
one was the housekeeper who used to work on the fields when she had done the
work indoors.
One variety of spring cauliflower was showing a few seed heads
which "trouble" reported to the boss, who called the seed rep in to
complain about it without saying anything to me.
I was called into the office completely
in the dark to explain why I had not informed the boss, I said "why, we
have 1% seeding and a seed tolerance of 5%, tell what?".
The rep had a
right go at the boss, "you have a foreman that knows what he doing and a
housekeeper that knows how to use a duster, leave your foreman to do his
job", I left them to it.
It slowed "trouble" up for a while but
did not stop her.
The farm had about two dozen cats, inter-bred, mangy, wild as
hawks, sores and god knows what else.
One day I had to climb a ladder to get
some parts down from above the dairy, when just as my head cleared the top,
"grandma", the matriarch of the brood, went for me, teeth and claws, I
grabbed the nearest thing to hand, which was an old frying pan handle, and
whacked her one in the face, talk about "Tom and Jerry". I swear there
was a dent in the bottom of the frying pan.
I had a word with the vet and he
said "shoot the bloody lot". I did not have gun then, but my brother
had an air-rifle, so the following Sunday we thinned them down to the only
decent two, one young male which I had doctored, and one young female.
Oh Boy,
did I get raked over coals over that, I just said ring the vet, who later told
me of some of the conversation which included saving the cost of being taken to
court for keeping animals in such a state. I would have liked to have had a tape
of that exchange, because that vet did not pull any punches.
We lost the female
to poison, the male, "Tommy", gradually tamed down and moved in the
house with us.
One of jobs we had was the raising of about two hundred young
beef cattle for another farmer, as I have said, the farm was run-down, the
fences were in a bad state of repair, we spent as much time putting the cattle
back as doing anything else, but we did as much laughing as swearing, people do
not realise how much fun they miss if they work on a properly maintained modern
farm.
Christmas day we spent at my parents, it started snowing in the evening so
we went home about 9pm
As usual on my return, I checked the cattle in the
yards, by this time there was about 6 inches of snow, and more coming down, even
if it was falling horizontally with the wind, no cattle, not one left.
How the
hell do you find 200 cattle on your own in the dark with visibility down to 10yards
and no fences on the uplands and no chance of help?
Grey cells. Have a cig and
think.
You have no chance driving cattle on your own, even less if it against
the wind, so engineer it so they want to go where you want them.
How? with this
weather they will have found shelter, so why will they want to move?
Basics. Shelter, food. Food! Nuts. Cattle nuts. in a bucket, a tin bucket, walk
out from the farm, shaking the bucket and calling.
Yes, but where are they? Run
though the likely options and go for it.
Right first time, what I did not evaluate
was how to keep in front of 200 animals in 8 inches of snow with their minds set
on getting another dinner.
Very single minded is a bullock. I just made the
nearest tree before they caught up, once the herd was stationary, all I had to
do is get out to lead them home.
All? you try getting out of a herd of young
bullocks packed round a tree. They all went in one yard that night, by the time
I had repaired the damage they had done when breaking out, fed them to keep them
quiet, it was passed midnight.
Christmas?, Bah, Humbug.
It was about this time that the word was going round that I
was a Moslem.
We had a lot of problems with Couch-grass, one field was so bad
that it nailed the chisel-plough to ground every time we tried to break it up.
So we disc-harrowed it, I used to walk it twice a week, getting down on my knees
looking for fresh growth. Hence, "Bernard's praying to Mecca again this
morning".
We disced every sign of fresh growth, and ploughed it with
snow laying on it, I wanted get as much cold into the ground as possible to keep
it until we had the other spring work out of the way. It worked. It completely
cleared the field.
Chemicals? No. Grey cells? Yes.
When we turned the stock out in the spring, we then had to
clear the dung out of the yards and barn. The yards were done with a dung
fork on a front-loader, the barn had always been done by hand fork, I was short
of staff with too many jobs to do, so I decided to tackle it with the
fore-loader in the evenings.
I had cleared about 90% of it, when I decided to
clear some of the awkward bits. I was shunting the tractor round when my foot slipped
off the clutch, the tractor leapt forwards and the forks hit the one of the barn
main uprights, I went over the steering wheel (which tried to remove two
essential bits of male anatomy) and landed on the bonnet.
That barn was 400
years old, made of seasoned Oak (they knew how to season wood then), when I
looked at the timber, it had not even marked it, yet four of the six hardened
steel forks had bent double.
The boss called me into the office after six months said
she was giving up the tenancy in the autumn. She was very pleased with the work
I had done and apologised that the employment would be so short. I told her that
I had given myself six months to prove whether I could do the job or not, she
said "I don't know whether you have proved to yourself or not, but you have
to me, and practically every farmer in Thanet, you will not be short of
offers", as it turned out everyone who bid for the tenancy offered me a
job.
It was a condition of the tenancy that the farmer had to
live on the farm, so that cut the contenders down a bit.
As I said the place was run down, the ditches were so badly maintained that
you had a job to find them. After harvest, with no stock to feed or bed for the
next winter, I decided to have a big burn-up. We did a bit of cultivating around
the marsh-land perimeter, then a bit of back-burning, then waited for the
ideal conditions.
It came one Sunday, we had a go at driving out any wild-life
and then lit up and let it go, two lighting on the windward side, and two walking the sides
knocking out any side fires.
We wrapped it up in two hours and found ditch bottoms
that nobody could remember seeing before.
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