The
Seadog's Magic Winkle - Part 4
By
Dominic Horton
In
the last three episodes of Lowlife I have illuminated you
about the secret, inner life of working in a petrol station (called
PMG Forecourts) in the West Midlands when I was a teenager in the
1980's. This week the story concludes ...............
On
Saturdays in the summertime I would start work at 0700 hours and work
right through until the place shut at 2100 hours, so it was a long
and tedious old day. The Seadog used to work until 1130 hours
(oddly) for a bit of overtime and after that a part-timer would
replace him for the duration of the shift. So after the Seadog had
toddled off home I was in charge and it was a case of 'what I say
goes' but I was never dictatorial or Draconian in my approach to the
part-time staff, on the contrary, I adopted a very laissez faire
philosophy, or to put it more crudely I didn't give a fiddler's fart.
My relaxed attitude meant that the part-time staff were content to
work with me and as they are all of a similar age to me, friendships
developed with all of them that have lasted to this day, nearly a
quarter of a century later.
 |
A
picnic set, not dissimilar to the one I describe in this edition.
|
On
Saturdays my partner in crime was Still-in-Fjord, who was a bit
alternative in appearance at the time and he sported peroxide blond
hair that was long on one side and shaved on the other. It soon
became clear that Still-in-Fjord was not exactly a stickler for the
rules and regulations of PMG Forecourts so in order to facilitate the
passage of the long hours in a more convivial fashion I suggested
that a little drinkie poops might be a good idea. Still-in-Fjord
had no objections to my proposal so he set off up the road to
purchase some tinnies from Global Wines, which was close to his
parents' house.
As
I was not totally reckless and oblivious to my responsibilities as a
Forecourt Cashier I suggested that we stick to a beer that is not too
strong so we opted for Tennent's Talon Lager, which only weighted in
at a negligible 2% ABV. Still-in-Fjord decided to buy a crate of
Talon to give us an ample stock of the stuff but as he sauntered back
to the forecourt with the slab resting on his shoulder he bumped into
his Mother, who queried what he was doing with a crate of beer when
he was supposed to be at work. “Oh, it's not for me Mom, it's for
Dom who I work with,” Still-in-Fjord's hastily blurted out, which
must have created a shoddy impression of me to his Mother, which has
most likely endured over the years. First impressions and all that.
 |
A
can of Aston Manor lager
by request of Toby In-Tents.
|
The
Talon lager was so insubstantial in terms of alcohol content that we
were only effectively drinking it for moral worth as it was
impossible to drink enough of the stuff to even get tipsy, as after a
few cans it would make you so bloated that it was impossible to force
any more of the insipid liquid down your gullet. A switch in
drinking tactics was needed and quick. The failure of the Talon
experiment lead to me panicking and devising a stratagem, which in
hindsight was frankly ridiculous. The following Saturday I asked
Still-in-Fjord to get eight cans of Guinness and a bottle of
Bulgarian Country Wine, which I knew was the cheapest bottle in stock
at the off licence and it tasted even worse that the price alluded
to. For reasons that I cannot begin to explain my judgement was that
clouded that I decided to mix the Guinness with the bottle of wine to
form a kind of dark and unappetising punch.
The
punch packed a far greater punch than the Talon lager so on that
basis alone we deemed it a success and it started a routine that we
adopted for the Saturdays to follow. We used to mix the punch in the
picnic set, which was an item of stock that was for sale in the shop.
The plates and cups etc. that constituted the set were housed in a
large plastic container that was ideal (or at least adequate) as a
punch bowl. But the picnic set had other more conventional uses as
we used it when we treated ourselves to a Chinese takeaway. We
would clean the set after use and put it back on the shelf in the
shop but over time its condition deteriorated and it became worn and
dog eared. The picnic set would also usually contain encrusted
remnants of Singapore Chow Mein as we didn't employ a high level of
diligence when washing up the plates. We didn't even have any
washing up liquid.
One
day the unthinkable happened and a customer actually wanted to
purchase the picnic set. Realising the dilapidated state of the
product and it's strategic importance to ongoing operations at the
forecourt I tried in vain to discourage the punter from purchasing
it, stating that he could pick one up for half of the price at B&Q
down the road. Sorry, I meant he was adamant, and he bought the set
and as we had no other suitable vessel to use the days of the vile
but potent stout and vino punch were at an end. After that we
switched to just drinking the cheap red wine as it came.
One
day I got wind of the fact that the Seadog had found out that we had
been drinking on site and that he was displeased about the matter. I
was not looking forward to seeing the Seadog on the Sunday, when we
were to work together for the day, as I thought I was in for the
chop. The Seadog confronted me about the drinking rumour and I
thought that there was no point in denying it so I admitted that it
was true. The Seadog let me know his thoughts in no uncertain terms:
“We have worked all these hours together and you have never once
mentioned anything about boozing. I have to say that I am extremely
disappointed.” I thought the Seadog's next words would be the
punchline of me getting the sack, but he continued, “We have wasted
all these Sundays together not drinking, if only you had suggested it
earlier. Pop up the offie will you and get three litres of Aston
Manor lager and three litres of their bitter as well. That should
keep us going until closing time.” So thereafter every Sunday
the Seadog and I grimaced our way through bottles of the cheap and
less than delectable Aston Manor beer in the name of leisure.
 |
The
site where PMG Forecourts used to be as it is now
(the petrol
station was housed in the building on the right).
|
Once
the football season started I didn't want to work Saturdays as I
wanted to play my part in destroying the beautiful game on the
playing fields of the West Midlands and bordering counties. To start
with the Seadog used to cover my Saturday shifts but a message came
from Head Office stating that I had to work them if I wanted to stay
in the job as they didn't want to incur the expense of paying the
Seadog overtime. I still steadfastly refused Saturday shifts so
word came through that the besuited big boss Walker had been
despatched from Head Office to have a meeting with me. This was most
irregular as we didn't have meetings at PMG as we just used to go
about our business. There is a lot to be said for just getting on
with things and to my mind a lot of workplaces would benefit from
banning meetings altogether.
Walker
seemed nervous and he treated me with kid gloves and in the back room
he explained to me in soft tones that unless I agreed to work
Saturdays they would regrettably have to “let me go.” “Fine”
I replied. A surprised and relieved Walker said, “Oh, you have
taken that better than I expected, I thought that you would hit me”
which I found mildly insulting being a devout pacifist. I was paid
two weeks wages and my tenure at PMG was at an abrupt but relatively
dignified end. Walker explained that they were not obliged to pay
me anything as I had refused to work my contracted hours but the
payment was a goodwill gesture for being a decent employee. If only
he had known the half of it.
Because
of an increasing lack of custom the petrol station itself didn't last
too long after I left and it shut down for good. They kept the
Seadog on for a week after closure for him to tie up loose ends so I
popped to see him to pay my respects. I found him sitting dolefully
on his stool smoking a fag like Hitler in his bunker waiting for
Berlin to fall.
I
stayed in touch with the Seadog for quite a while and we would
occasionally go for a pint but eventually we lost contact. A couple
of Christmases ago I decided to try and re-establish connection with
the Seadog so I visited his house. I rang the doorbell and through
the frosted glass in the front door I saw a child bolt up the stairs
but no one answered the door, so I surmised that the kid was home
alone and that as the Seadog has no young children he must have moved
house. There is no chance of tracking the Seadog down on Facebook
as he is not the type to use social media so I am left to hope and
dream that he has returned to his beloved Lyme Bay to sail the high
seas once again.
©
Dominic Horton, July 2014.
*EMAIL:
lordhofr@gmail.com.
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