RELATED
Confessions Of A Minimum Wage Worker
Twenty years after leaving university I find myself doing soul-sappingly dull work in a warehouse clinging to one bit of wisdom: “Don’t think any further than your next brew".
Following a recent conversation about the Tories and their ludicrous ideas around work and benefits, one of the older fellas in work brought me in a weathered copy of Robert Tressel’s The Ragged Trousered Philanthropists.
“Exactly a hundred years ago that was written,” he told me. ”A hundred years and almost fuck all has changed.”
Before I go any further, the fact that I’ve actually found some paid work sets me apart as lucky compared to a lot of people. Still, I never expected to find myself back doing casual manual jobs 20 years after leaving university.
Then, when I worked in warehouses and cold stores to top up my student grant – ask your parents – you signed up with an agency and they almost always had you working before the end of the week. If you didn’t like it, you left, safe in the knowledge that there were endless caverns full of orange racking on industrial estates in the North West of England that needed constantly filling and emptying.
The full-time staff, the ones allowed to drive the forklift trucks, were reasonably well paid while the transient workers were generally students or women doing a bit because the part-time hours fit in around their family commitments. Everyone was there because they wanted to be.
Now though, it feels distinctly different. The agency staff are predominantly men. Grown men with families to support. The hi-vis vests they wear have the names of their former employers across the back – Taylor Woodrow, Bovis, Jarvis – faded reminders, ghosts of careers past. And they work for minimum wage, £5.93 an hour. They get out of bed at 5am and drive or cycle through the drizzly darkness to hump boxes and sacks about for eight hours. In return they pick up less than forty quid a day.
Early on I mention the hourly rate while unloading a wagon with a bloke who is in his late fifties, an electrician by trade – everyone has another trade – who tells me not to think about it or I will drive myself mad. “Don’t think any further than your next brew,” he tells me. It’s great advice when you are doing work that is endlessly repetitive and soul-sappingly dull – divide the day into the two or three hour chunks between breaks, don’t wear a watch and avoid looking at the clock for as long as possible. It’s amazing how quickly the hours, the days and then even the weeks begin to slip by in a blur of boxes, breakfasts and bullshit.
More…
After years of working at home or in offices I’d forgotten the petty indignities and tiny triumphs of this sort of work. One morning we are all told to turn around and head straight back home because there has been a mistake and there’s not enough for us to do; we’re not needed until the day after. There’s no real explanation, no apology, and certainly no compensation. Supervisors don’t bother to learn anyone’s name and make a point of giving the worst jobs to the agency staff.
In response, we delight in going for breaks a minute early and returning a couple of minutes late, and reading yesterday’s Daily Star while having a ten-minute shit feels like an act of outright rebellion. “I’m the Daniel Cohn-Bendit of dumps,” I certainly don’t say out loud.
The fact that anyone would want to spend any longer than they really have to in the khazi just underlines how dull the work is. You enter any given cublicle, or ‘trap’, like a scene from CSI – there’s no telling what you might face as that door creaks open, and I’ll never forget someone pulling back, ashen-faced and shouting, “Fuck me! It looks like a murdered monkey!”
As I said, it’s better than nothing. The money’s terrible but it’s more than the dole pay and the feeling of satisfaction when, with your feet aching in your safety boots, that first pint touches your lips after you’ve clocked off on a Friday is one of life’s genuine pleasures.
It’s these older fellas I work with, the former sparks, chippies and pipe fitters– good workers and genuinely honest, decent men – I really worry about in terms of what the future holds for them as this country becomes a more ruthless, mean-spirited place before our very eyes.
To keep spirits up, the old lags constantly reminisce about better days, when they did work that was hard but paid properly and their skills were valued - “We had digs just outside Kings Cross and the gaffer on this job was a Jock, a decent lad…” – while in the here and now they are spoken to like idiots by managers probably younger than their own kids. They say nothing but you can see the mixture of pain and contempt in their eyes – after all, when you bite your tongue and swallowed your pride for long enough you can’t help but develop a nasty taste in your mouth.
‘That could be my Dad’ I often think, disgusted. ‘Jesus, if I’m not careful, one day it could easily be me.’
If you like it, Pass it on
COMMENTS
oh i've been there man! i worked in a warehouse in the north west aged 24-28. i went as an agency, supposedly for a couple of days. the thing about breaks is right. the work was so dull i started to develop a slight stammer - my brain was turning to mush. i sometimes think about the old boys who i worked with, probably a few are dead now. but not many of them had trades, they'd been working there for years and i think that was always what they did. we got £200 before tax for a flat week, with ovies we'd take home about £200, which at the time for me was ace - i was going the match, buying records, going out with me mates, playing in a group - whatever i wanted really. but even then i wondered how the lads with families to support were making it. i still dream about that place - although not those people - probably because it's still the longest i've ever worked at a place.
I worked in a warehouse before going to uni and I know what you're talking about. I used to avoid finding out what time it was. But then I would think it must be time for my break and see it's an hour earlier than what I thought. We used to finish at 9 so we didn't want to work a second more than what we were being paid for. Sometimes there wasn't much to do at the end of the day so at about quarter to some guys would go on a long tour of the warehouse checking everything! They'd make sure they got round to the exit by 9! It was the boredom that made it the worst.
Christ, the clock watching and timed 'toilet breaks'... that takes me right back . Good piece.
I remember working at a call centre after leaving school for a government campaign. Nobody ever rang; there were 40 of us up at any one time and we'd get about one call every half hour. To begin with it was great because we could lounge around reading books and magazines drinking tea. Then one fateful day the directive came from on high: we must look 'call ready' at all times: sitting up straight, hands clasped, no recreational materials outside break times. Biff you're right about boredom turning brains to mush: when a call finally came through, my brain was atrophied through inactivity and I had no idea what I was supposed to be doing. Remember that when you ring a call centre; the guy on the line isn't stupid, just bored stupid.
I do remember: the feeling of satisfaction when, with your feet aching in your safety boots, that first pint touches your lips after you’ve clocked off on a Friday is one of life’s genuine pleasures. We used to get paid in cash on a Friday, have half hour lunches all week so we could finish at 2.30 on a Friday in a picture framers in Ancoats. It does sadden me to read advice like: “Don’t think any further than your next brew,” he tells me. It doesn't create any progress or momentum to do something different. It just compounds the problem. I say that and yet my Bury upbringing always creates more self-doubt that I could so easily be back there than the uni education should bolster my confidence. Good article.
That is my Dad and it is a crying shame considering his education and intelligence. He used to be in IT but he became surplus to requirements. I take my hat off to him; he will always keep working - it's his nature and thankfully we're all grown up with our own careers now so the pressure is off if he turns up and is sent back home.
You made this up, you have never worked with these people or you can not write well no soul and soul is truth so this is BS. Cheap trick ... busted!
A great piece. Well done.
Nice piece. I lasted two days in a factory weighing and counting microswitches, soul destroying didn't cover it. The look on the old girls faces was enough to make me never want to work on a faceless trading estate ever again.
Nice article - I nearly wet myself when I got to "murdered monkey". I've had far too many soul destroying jobs but fortunately always had the option to leave. I feel sad for the poor sods who have no choice but to stay in these places.
i'd sooner beg for change for eight hours than punch the clock in some factory or warehouse.
Wot indigo Zero said, you ponce.
Spot on this article as I worked in a factory before and during y time as a mature student. Although the 'lads' were a great bunch I used the boredom to motivate me and had to leave. After 25 years in a good job I face redundancy again and the prospect of a return cept the factory closed down ( is this the only good thing to come out of Thatcherism?). It's the sharp end of petty bourgeoisie attitudes or unemployment for me now i fear - do similar practices still prevail?
Been there. So accurately portrayed. 18 months in a clothing warehouse after uni. Certainly made me appreciate and value getting a good job. Won't forget those early morning starts and 15 minute toilet breaks.
An agency once sent me to a job on a trading estate, in a factory making electrical components. It was the most miserable, depressing place I've ever seen, everyone there had died inside long ago, the days would stretch on and on and on. A few days into it I was on my way home and the agency phoned me and said the company didn't want me back, because I "hadn't seemed very enthusiastic.". No Sh*t.
Great piece. One of my brain numbing experiences started aged fifteen in a wallpaper pasting table factory for £9 a week, lasted three days, foreman wouldn't let us have tea or lunch breaks so me and my mate Terry (elder brother of Micky Flanagan the Comedian) air gunned a pasting table to the ceiling and nailed the workshop door shut and left the building through the window...You didn't hand your cards in for the first week in ANY job just in case it was shit. so walked away clean from that one. didn't get paid though...but the tools I nicked did pay for a new Ben Sherman shirt.
Nice piece and great to see Tressell's work referenced. I don't remember Housing Benefit, Tax Credits, Child Benefit or Job Seekers Allowance being mentioned in his work though.
I just feel thankful my Dad has a skill and his work will never run out (he's a stone mason) I can't imagine him dealing with some little shit bossing him about for minimum wage! As for me, we'll just have to see what I'm doing in twenty years or so...
Great article- so very true! I remember back in the late 90's when I was working in a chicken factory before heading to uni. Thee most boring work of my life and what made it worse was knowing people were doing this job for life. Its true what you said when you have to stop thinking when your doing the job or you will go mad! However, I have to admit we were paid really well at that time compared to all our other mates.
I thought a little more about this article today and thank my lucky stars that I have a way of earning a living that allows me to the toilet when I want, lunch when I want and no one watching a clock on me ... I once worked in an aerosol factory where we'd watch for Norma on the end of the line putting her teeth seconds before the next break blower sounds. It was only a summer job, but puts a lot into perspective.
Scott, the difference in when you worked in the chicken factory and now is that unions no longer have any real power and wages are poor. Just so Tesco's can say here's your chicken for £4.
I just stumbled upon your blog, and at first i just wanted to post a comment in order to promote the website i am working at. I usually read the articles, and before that i check if i can putt my name - the keyword and the link to the website. In this case, i didn't check before because i was too deep into the article. The story is captivating and said, and ohh..so real. I myself before working as a SEo , i was thinking of working in a factory assembling phones, as i just finished university and there were no work places on the market. I am so happy i am ok now and i have e decent place of work, and i am so sorry that a lot of people go trough that. :(
”A hundred years and almost fuck all has changed.” Er, how ludicrous is that?
After working in production based employment for years I can relate to this. Everyone is part-time and on 'zero hours contracts' meaning that anyone eligible is being subsidized by government hand outs (tax credits/housing benefit etc) or like one girl I know doing shifts in other factories most nights whilst the company's 'COGs' are kept low by skimping on staffing.
Have been there many times mate. I feel your pain, well written interesting and accurate.
....yet he has time to write this piece (no doubt on a 300 quid laptop made in a sweat factory). Am I the only one here thinking 'Get back to work you lazy get!!!' Only messing! A boss article. Been there done that, and recognise every picture you paint mate. As always though the British working man and woman refuse to organise and get rid of such conditions. Compare us to the heavily unionised French and Germans, we're absolute masochists. I mean FFS we're still lorded over by aristocrats, who make is subsidise a monarch!
Fuck me I remember those days in my nightmares. Grim night shifts in bearing factories, muddy building sites in February, soul crushing warehouse shifts with pick rates a robot would struggle with, arrogant/autistic supervisors, and bitch from hell call centre managers. But I had a few ace drinking buddies over the years and beer still tastes best at tea time on a Friday. Lucky for me I eventually got a degree and haven't had to go there since finishing Uni - not that a profession is necessarily more fulfilling. Interesting that most of the comments sound slightly wistful and are mostly from blokes.
I had jobs like this, but in offices, not industrial places... Jobs where I'd deliberately call public phone boxes whose numbers I'd memorised so that I could look busy. But to be honest, I grafted to the point where now, 15 years on, I run my own company with around 10 staff. So unless I'm some kind of super-genius (I'm not) then if I could make the switch anyone could. Another thing, these old ex-tradesmen - man I could do with hiring some cheap, skilled staff like that in London, but they're not around! :o(
Great piece. If you cannot draw relative parallels between today and the problems faced in the era of Tressell's book then you are living in some dream world. The poverty trap won't go away under this system.
Ridiculously accuracte depiction of warehouse working, as an agency worker i once did 3 days in a cardboard box factory..it really was as interesting as it sounds, I lasted 3 days then moved town.
I am in South Africa and I can still relate. I worked in a clothes factory, it was terrible. Talk about managers who degrade you for no reason other than the fun. It was hard not to look at the clock, but on the successful days that you didn't look at it, it would feel great. You had to take strategic breaks in order to kill the time. Great piece, makes you wonder about footballers who get paid thousands per week and still are ungrateful.
Good stuff, never believed in wishing away 5 days of your week for hardly any money unless you absolutely have to. Nothing wrong with these jobs but nothing wrong with wanting more either
SABOTAGE
