A Cockney's Journey (42 page)

What the fuck is going on?
I asked myself, while leaving the security point and making my way to the changing facilities in the south block. While I was getting changed for work in the locker room with the other guys, the managing director walked into the area with this rather large, overweight, red-cheeked guy. His eyes were dark and cold with no signs of emotion, his hands small and plump. He was introduced to the guys and me as our new supervisor. As he met us one by one, he shook hands saying he hoped we could all work well as a team. He then scuttled over to my locker and asked my name. When I told him, he held out his hand for me to shake. He grabbed my hand and stared icily into my eyes, making me feel uneasy. His grip was like a vice. His body language told me that he instantly didn’t like what was in front of him. I tried to pull my hand from his grip but he wouldn’t let go. He just stared deep into my eyes with what I can only describe as hatred. Why? I haven’t got a clue. All I knew was that my days here were numbered.
    The next two weeks were horrendous. Gordon made it perfectly clear he was hellbent on getting rid of me, making my life at work as miserable as he could. To this day I don’t understand why. I must admit to feeling something deep within him that was pure nasty and evil, and just being in his company made my blood run cold. Anyway, he made my life intolerable; stopping my overtime and weekend work. He waited and waited for me to make an error in my work so he could fuck me off. He even timed me at lunch and docked me half an hour out of my wages for coming back 5 minutes late from lunch. Everyone knew what he was up to; his arrogant and aggressive attitude towards everyone was there to be seen. He started making enemies in high places within the company; he even insulted one of the female staff, yet nothing was done about it. I got the impression that certain top managers were scared of him, and refused to listen to the vast complaints.
    Then it happened. Gordon stitched me up big time. Out the blue one Friday, he started being polite towards me and then a bit later he asked me to work on Saturday. I should have said no, but Saturdays were worth £180 to me, so I agreed. I grafted like a Trojan, and at 4 p.m. Gordon suggested we’d call it a day. I was in the security section, ready to sign out at 4 p.m. when he came over and informed me that I could put down 6:30, seeing as I didn’t have a lunchbreak, so I did and left to go home. What I didn’t realise was that the security cameras showed me leaving the site at 4 p.m. Now, normally that wasn’t a problem unless someone wanted proof for some reason or another. So, on Monday morning I returned to work as normal, I signed in and immediately notice the electrician had just signed in four minutes earlier. So there, on Monday’s page were two entries in the same bloody name, but it was impossible. Why I say it’s impossible is the fact that I stood outside the building’s entrance finishing my fag, chatting to one of the guys, for at least ten minutes, and during that time no one entered! That mystery has never been solved. Anyway, at about 11:30 that morning, I tried to use my security pass to get into one of the buildings, I stood in shock as I activated the security alarm system. Within moments, I was surrounded by security guards and frog-marched to the main security office. As I was dragged across the grounds protesting my innocence, I noticed Gordon standing watching from his office window, his arms folded and his face beaming with a large smirk. He got me sacked and evicted from the grounds for falsifying my time sheet. Bastard!
    Over the next few weeks, during yet another job hunt, I met and started dating a local woman called Julie. Amazingly what started out as just a fling ended up a serious relationship, which I hasten to add, is still going on nearly six years down the line. Over the next two years, my arm got really bad and I was forced several times to rest five or six weeks after I’d had cortisone injections. Consequently, I found it very difficult holding down a permanent position. I was constantly in and out of work and always skint. Every job I started only lasted a matter of weeks before my arm would refuse to do a day’s graft. I’ve never felt so frustrated, and bitterly disappointed. At one stage, I had my wrist in plaster again - for three bloody months this time. The hospital specialist recommended that I should change my job ASAP, otherwise the damage to my ligaments would end up permanent. I couldn’t even brush my teeth or wipe my arse without getting searing pains from my wrist to my shoulder. So I spent a fair time unemployed on incapacity benefit, staying off work for ten months, in the vain hope my arm would right itself with the rest.
    Yet again I was dealt a blow that ultimately caused me such grief with credit card companies and the worst system ever: the council tax. For years, I paid card protection and repayment cover. What a con! Every time I tried to claim, I got a knockback from all the companies being told that my protection didn’t cover self-employed or yearly contracted workers. What a load of bollocks! You sign up to these wankers, fill the form in with your employment details and then they ask you if you want protection. So like a mug you do, just in case things go pear-shaped. So yes, I was ramped up to the eyeballs, with non-claimable insurances. The biggest stitch-up is the council tax system, where you pay monthly instalments from April till March. If you lose your job and you sign on in, let’s say September, by the time you’ve gone through all the rigmarole of filling out
War and Peace
and get your Mickey Mouse £56 bar a week the Government reckons you need to live on, you somehow end up owing council tax, because they never backdate it to the bloody day you lost your job.
    After a long rest, my arm and elbow seemed to be OK, so I signed off the dole after finding a job in Charlton. After a couple of months, I started to get reasonably straight, so Julie and I had a week’s holiday in Spain in November. Luckily Spain had an Indian summer, with temperatures hitting the 80s, which was totally unexpected. Anyway after the holiday, a new guy called Rob started on site, and his love of golf soon rubbed of on me. He gave me one of his old 7-irons and talked me into going three times a week to the local driving range. Well, at first I couldn’t even hit a barn door; it’s so difficult trying to hit and direct a golf ball, you just wouldn’t believe it. However, I refused to be beaten by this extremely hard sport and persevered during the winter. It was during this time that I met Phil in my local boozer. We had so much in common that we just hit it off and we’ve been pals ever since. Now my task was to get Edward and Phil into golf and, surprisingly, they were both up for it. So every week the three of us, and occasionally Rob, would spend hours down the range. Rob’s sudden lack of interest was down to his new bird and eventually he stopped coming, which was sad really.
    The three of us had quite a hectic schedule, playing badminton, golf and watching QPR. My life had turned around, so I thought. Then unexpectedly, I got laid off yet again. I was now seriously getting totally pissed off with my life; every time I thought I was on the right track, fate would deal me yet another hammer-blow. It took me two months to find another job; this time I started working for a firm in Catford. The first year was brilliant, I was informed I had a job till I retire. Well, I was ecstatic. At bloody last I thought. I decided to buy my flat from the council and get ramped up with a new Golf GTI. During that year, QPR reached the Division Two play-off final, so me, Edward and Phil booked our tickets for the Millennium Stadium showdown against Cardiff City in Cardiff!! What a day; we started at 6:30 in the morning, making sure we arrived at Loftus Road by 7:45. On arriving, we were told the coaches were being boarded in the BBC’s car park, which was a short walk from the ground. Anyway, by the time we arrived in Cardiff, it was eleven o’clock; four hours before kick-off! So we jazzed around, had lunch in BurgerKing and just stood in awe of all the blue and white hooped shirts mingling around the city centre. Every shop was full to the brim with QPR supporters, absolutely awesome sight!
    Now, if you love football you just got to go to Cardiff. The stadium is simply astonishing and breathtaking. The only downside is the way you get conned outside. Rangers’ supporters, including us, bought air-horns for £7 a throw, only for them to be confiscated when we entered the stadium. Apart from that and the result - Cardiff beat us 1-0 - it was an extremely entertaining experience, which I thoroughly recommend to any football fan.
    Near the end of the year, my problem with my arm recurred, but luckily it was not as severe as before. However, it still needed another cortisone injection, so I took two weeks holiday over the Christmas period, which gave my arm a month to right itself. When I went back to work I found the yard locked up. There was no answer from the office and all the company’s vans had vanished. I hung around for hours, not knowing what was happening or what to do. I sat in my car waiting. I mean, not only did I need my job, I also needed my month’s money to pay my bills. While staring through my windscreen at the locked gates, a small van pulled up and a rather smart guy dressed in a suit got out and unlocked the gates. He held a clipboard full of papers and started walking around the yard taking notes; it looked to me as if he was itemising everything. When I questioned him on what was going on, his answer floored me. The company had gone bankrupt and the Inland Revenue had seized everything for non-payment of taxes. I couldn’t believe it, not again, this just can’t keep happening to me.
What the fuck is going on?
My boss must have known and he just blagged everyone, including me.
    So yet again I’d taken ten paces forward and nine paces backward, ending up in the shit. So I did what I’ve always done since childhood; dust myself down, chin up and carry on. Three weeks later, I found another job; absolute pony firm, but I needed the dosh. What I was asked to do nearly killed me: laying concrete blocks all day, and tacking ceilings on my jack. It wasn’t long before my wrist and elbow were in such a state that I lived on painkillers for three months, until I had to jack the job. In August more cortisone injections followed, along with advice from my doctor to give the building game up before it killed my arm completely. It’s all right everyone telling me to give up the tools, but how the hell am I going to live? I remember sitting in my flat, feeling depressed and desperate.
What am I going to do now?
I asked myself.
I need to take another direction, but where and with what. I’ve got nothing that a prospective employer would be interested in, no qualifications, and my age will definitely go against me; I’m no spring chicken anymore at forty-seven!
    Then, for some unknown reason, someone from somewhere put the unthinkable in my head; go to college and get a degree in construction management.
What me?
I thought, laughing to myself.
You must be joking, Eddie boy. Mr. Thicko at school, can’t spell, can’t write and you want to go to college?
So, like a plum, I phoned Bromley College to get some info on doing a course in construction management. Well, I was told the new term started in ten days and that only this morning a student dropped out, leaving a vacant space if I wanted it. Now I’m a great believer in Karma; in my mind this was meant to be. Why? I just don’t know. I accepted, and that afternoon enrolled with the college. The next ten days flew by and before I knew it, my two year course got underway.
    I recall the first day vividly. I stood outside the classroom feeling really nervous and unsure of myself. I had this gnawing feeling in my gut that I was going to make myself look a complete dumbo. On entering the classroom I glanced around and noticed I was the oldest by at least twenty-odd years. That in itself didn’t do my confidence any good at all. While we sat waiting for the class to begin, to my delight a guy called David rushed in and sat down next to me. He was in his early forties. Anyway, in walked George, our first tutor of the day. After introducing himself, he went on to explain about our course. He reckoned that over the next two years we would be completing twelve units, along with group projects and a serious amount of homework and essays each week.
    The first unit got underway and my brain couldn’t comprehend a thing; it was like trying to learn Chinese backwards. Analytical methods, which comprised of algebra, pie charts, plotting straight and curved graphs, square roots and cube roots, cumulative frequency curves, Pythagoras’ theorem, geometry and trigonometry, sin, cos and tan! They were just a mere tip of the iceberg. After three hours of that, my head was pounding. I’ve never had a stress headache like it. After my first day at college, I returned home completely disillusioned and dejected. I phoned Edward and told him that I didn’t think I could cut it, and that I was going to knock it on the head. He went ballistic, demanding that I should stick it out and that he would help me with the algebra; so the thicko from the Old Kent Road reluctantly carried on with the course and tried to get his head around analytical methods, which was easier said than done, believe me. During the first few months of college I realised I needed a computer as all the other students presented their work typed up with diagrams and pie charts done by their computer. Me, on the other hand, just wrote on notepaper and drew with a pencil. My writing was abominable; I’ve always printed when I write, ever since I was child. My spelling was pathetic and my presentation of homework was diabolical, but being unemployed I had no dosh to buy a computer, so I had to accept that I probably would fail the course. Then one Saturday morning, I received in the post a confirmation letter on my application for a credit card. They actually gave me £1,500 credit limit. I was gobsmacked. Why? I’d been blacklisted for years.
    That afternoon I bought a laptop from Dixons, with a printer, digital camera and floppy disc drive. Edward came round and set everything up for me and showed me the basic workings of the computer. Bloody amazing! The remainder of my first year in college proved successful, and I gradually learned how to format my essays and most important of all, my spelling and handwriting looked as if performed by someone else. During half term, Edward suggested I compile my CV and send it off to all the major building contractors in London and the southeast. So I did: forty-two, to be precise; my plan was to find a job as a site agent or assistant site manager. Over the next few weeks I started to do a few private jobs, fitting kitchens. My arm held up well because in between jobs, I had at least two or three weeks rest. Me, Edward and Phil played golf every weekend and started going to see QPR again, seeing as I could now afford to. We had a blinding golfing holiday, staying three days at the Selsdon Park Hotel Golf Club, something I would love one day to repeat; Edward and I are more like best mates rather than father and son. I just adore his company. Since my divorce he’s been a rock. It’s because of him that I kept going, enduring all the heartaches and disappointments that life has thrown at me. Mind you, I’ve tried not to tell him most of the crap I’ve had to deal with; he’s got his own life to worry about, so I keep schtum, not wanting to worry him.