Recently I started playing rugby union. I should stress, I have played the game before, at school plus a few games afterwards, when I was in further and higher 'education'. But it has been a long time since I picked up a rugby ball in anger.
I chose rugby union by the way, because, despite being a rugby league man to my core, playing league at the age of 38 is simply beyond me. The aerobic and anaerobic demands of the game are just too much. Being balding, overweight and having a bad knee does not preclude anyone from playing union, as I have discovered. The two occasions I've had pneumonia in the last 15 years don't seem to matter too much anyway. Nor the decade and a half spent indulging an obsessive passion for booze.This is a good thing, and shows that participating in sport is not actually as hard as it might appear.
It's worth writing about from a number of perspectives. Firstly, beginning a contact sport at my age is an interesting experience in itself. And the contact is not tickling and cuddling, despite what many 4th team games might look like to the uninitiated. My first game, an hour on the wing, saw me covered in bruises, from my shins to my shoulders. Soccer this wasn't.
Being Fit Enough
Of course, I have a reasonable amount of athletic ability to get me through, I have spent a lot of time playing soccer after all in the last two decades since I last played rugby seriously. I have run a reasonable amount and kept myself in reasonable shape, certainly after I stopped drinking some seven years ago. But thinking that you're fit is not the same as being fit, and being fit is not the same as being fit enough.
The training I've done with the club has been more interesting and more challenging than anything I've done physically in a while, and that includes running a half marathon. Originally, I just signed up to play touch rugby, but was talked into playing proper games too. The challenge of getting fit enough to cope with a game every week has been hard, but it gives some focus to my training and is something to strive for. The knocks and the bruises make it even harder, especially when my body is crying out for a rest. Taking a few days off from physical activity here and there has become crucial.
But my own personal physical battles are not necessarily the most interesting thing, important as they are to me. As a writer and journalist, the experience is also an interesting exercise in perspective. To be a participant, rather than an observer, is something which has not always been part of my life in recent years, as I've been paid to watch others doing things.
It may sound simplistic, but my empathy for professional sports people has increased massively. Not with the softies of professional football, for whom my respect has actually declined even further, but for people in contact sports, and sports which demand extreme fitness, it has increased massively. The endurance component in rugby is also huge; this is not a sport which is all about power and strength.
Heroes of Rugby
My heroes, in the sport of rugby league, produce some amazing feats of skill and strength each week. Playing rugby union has allowed me to see just how amazing some of these feats are. The pressure that a player comes under, in terms of fitness, aggression from the opposition and having limited time to make decisions and act, is something which I have really come to appreciate anew. Yelling at players from the terraces becomes a different experience, with me understanding once again just how difficult it is to give of your best all the time under extreme pressure.
As a novelist, rather than a journalist, the experience has also been interesting.I write a lot about group dynamics, about how people, especially men, act when they are together. In the past, my focus has been largely on how people work together and act in the workplace. Which is an environment which tends to make people into arseholes. If you want to see the very worst of people, go to work with them. That was one of the main themes of 'Stumbles and Half Slips'.
I have written a lot about people at play in the pub too, in 'Lescar', but again, if you want to see the very worst of someone, go and get pissed with them in a shithole pub. Negatives abound, so what has been interesting to me is how different a story it is when playing rugby.
I didn't know anyone at the club, Hallamshire RUFC, before I started going training with them, yet I've been welcomed without any reservations. This was something new for me, I'm used to having to make my way into groups of people on a wave of destructive negativity, a big gob and a sharp wit coming in handy.
This was different though. The whole thing was about encouraging people to do their best. There is also plenty of violence in rugby, league and union, so knowing that people are behind you is very encouraging. The extreme nature of the sport seems to bring the best out of people, in terms of heart, bravery, camaraderie and willingness to sacrifice self for team almost every time. Team talks have spoken of 'no blame, no whinging'. This is very different to football, a sport where blaming other people
for what happens is as much a part of the game as passing the ball.
Grist to Society's Mill
This is all grist to the mill as a writer. In my current fictional projects I'm sketching out ideas for a western and a novel based on the differences between the rugby codes, probably set in England just before World War Two. Playing rugby again has not only provided great insight in terms of how people behave in a 'battle' situation, but also re-connected my senses to the physical. The smell of mud, how the grass feels when you fall over, the strangely evocative sound of a shoulder connecting with someone's face, pain, surprise, sudden fear overcome by action, the sting of a blow to the shin, the instant defeats and tiny victories which occur in their hundreds throughout a game, and the sense of all pulling together for an intangible sort of success.
The game also places you in a ready-made community, where what we have in common with each other is more important than our differences. Class differences, as everywhere in England, are easily perceived, if you want to look for them, but they actually do not matter in this environment, certainly not on the pitch. Beyond disparaging and humorous references to countries like Australia and South Africa, where some of our players come from, nationality, race and religion are rarely, if ever, mentioned. Helping hands are frequently offered, whether for the benefit of the club or for each other. It looks very much like the kind of society I'd like to live in, to be honest.
If that sounds profound, it's meant to. As we live in an increasingly atomised society, with the communal ethic continually being eroded by those who prefer profit to people, it's something to seriously consider.
Zack Wilson is the author of 'Stumbles and Half Slips' from Epic Rites Press. Also available from Amazon.com.
Showing posts with label stumbles and half slips. Show all posts
Showing posts with label stumbles and half slips. Show all posts
Monday, 25 March 2013
Friday, 21 December 2012
The Best Christmas Ever
This is a reading from 'Lescar 2', which Blackheath Books were going to publish, and then didn't. Oh well. It's a good story anyway...
Zack Wilson is the author of 'Stumbles and Half Slips' from Epic Rites Press. Also available from Amazon.com.
It should provide some Christmas cheer...
Zack Wilson is the author of 'Stumbles and Half Slips' from Epic Rites Press. Also available from Amazon.com.
Zack Wilson is the author of 'Stumbles and Half Slips' from Epic Rites Press. Also available from Amazon.com.
It should provide some Christmas cheer...
Zack Wilson is the author of 'Stumbles and Half Slips' from Epic Rites Press. Also available from Amazon.com.
Friday, 14 December 2012
My Next Big Thing
Thanks to Steven Porter for tagging me for this, which is a promotional device which hopefully gets some writers some decent publicity for free. It works like a chain letter, with me tagging the next three people to take part. It's all about what I am working on currently, fiction-wise...
Zack Wilson is the author of 'Stumbles and Half Slips' from Epic Rites Press. Also available from Amazon.com.
What is the working title of your book?
I haven't decided yet. The first chapter is called 'The Big Meet Up', I can tell you that though. I tend to wait for titles to jump at me from the text, to be honest. When a line seems to work well, that's what I'll build a title around. It will be something over-dramatic, slightly baroque and bloody though. Like the best spaghetti westerns.
Where did the idea come from for the book?
It's been brewing for years. I've wanted to write a western ever since I can remember, so the idea has come from years of watching western films and TV shows, and reading about the frontier days of America. My interest in the frontier was the main reason I chose an American Studies degree, actually, 20 years ago. I've had a lifelong obsession with the West and this is a logical step for me to take. I wanted to combine my knowledge of the real West with the European mentality found in spaghetti westerns, where the tone is brutal and often overtly political. There's often a more realistic tone in spaghetti westerns than there is in American westerns, certainly about greed, venality, violence and oppression, and I wanted to get that into the work too. I'm also fascinated by the idea of scum rising to the top in the melting pot, which is why the characters will have a diverse set of national and ethnic backgrounds.
What genre does your book fall into?
Western. Post-modern, spaghetti, anti-western, whatever. It's a western.
Which actors would you choose to play your characters in a movie rendition?
For the Irish former British Army cavalry officer, Stephen Butler, who also fought for the North in the American Civil War, it has to be Pierce Brosnan, although he might well be a bit too old once it's finished. Naylor, the ex-Royal Marine from Hull, would need to be played by someone who can do a proper Hull accent, which should limit the search a bit. I'd like some hungry unknowns in there, and I reckon American actor James Tropeano could probably handle the part of John Slaughter, the half-Cheyenne, half-Boston Yankee knife fighter. It'd be nice to get Robert Carlyle in there somewhere too, perhaps as the old Texas Ranger in the gang. And as for the women in the book, well, it would be nice to get Sherilyn Fenn and Wendy Robie from Twin Peaks in there. If Kris Kristofferson or Willie Nelson are still alive by then, it would be nice to fit them in somewhere too. Wes Studi would be great as the Kiowa warrior character.
What is a one sentence synopsis of your book?
Bunch of trained misfits fall together and make a reluctant living as hired thugs and gunmen, dealing out extreme violence and learning about what makes America in the process.
Will your book be self-published or represented by an agency?
The whole idea of agents is a load of bourgeois shit. Just another gate to stop characters like me from getting our foot in the door. I'll be looking for an independent publisher like Epic Rites to take a chance with it. But it's going to take a while to write this, so we'll see what happens. If anyone wants to offer me a huge advance on it, I'm open to offers.
How long did it take you to write the first draft of your manuscript?
I'm still writing it. It might take years. It all depends on what happens this year really.
What other books would you compare the story to within your genre?
Well, it would be nice if someone compared it to Cormac McCarthy, but I think it'll be a lot funnier than him. To be honest, I don't care much for comparisons, they're often very misleading. One writer I would love it to be compared to is Bernard Cornwell, who wrote the 'Sharpe' series. I do read quite a lot of historical fiction, and this is what this is to me, really, so I'll say Patrick O'Brian too.
Who or what inspired you to write this book?
The fascination with the American West and spaghetti western movies I referred to above really. But it was also motivated by a desire to do something entirely different to Stumbles and Half Slips. And, indeed, to do something vastly different to my previous work, which was very rooted in the North and Midlands of England, in the last decade.
What else about your book might pique the reader’s interest?
Well, I would hope that the fact I'd written it might appeal to a few people. The characters are really what I'm all abut as a writer, and I hope that it would be them that would really grab people's attention. I've got two former African-American slaves who might or might not be gay, a celibate lesbian Irish Catholic brothel keeper, an ex-Royal Marine from Hull who has emigrated, a Cheyenne knife fighter who quotes Keats, an anti-slavery Texas Ranger, plus Kiowa warriors, whores, miners, thugs, gunmen and preachers. I might even put a drover called Doyle in there, as a little sly reference to Stumbles and Half Slips. He won't like the West too much and probably wants to go back home as soon as possible...
My Next Big Thing nominees are:
John Crosbie is a writer from Scotland. His blog, Chaserjay, is a good way to see what John writes. When he can find the time with all his martial arts, running and dancing...
Zarina Zabrisky is the author of 'Iron', also published by Epic Rites Press. A Russian now living in the United States. A review of 'Iron' will appear at Lone Striker soon. It had probably better be good, as she used to be a kickboxing instructor...
Erin Reardon is an Irish-American poet from Boston. A review of her collection 'Meat' can be read HERE. Like me, she is an expert on television, drinking and Ian McShane.
Zack Wilson is the author of 'Stumbles and Half Slips' from Epic Rites Press. Also available from Amazon.com.
Zack Wilson is the author of 'Stumbles and Half Slips' from Epic Rites Press. Also available from Amazon.com.
What is the working title of your book?
I haven't decided yet. The first chapter is called 'The Big Meet Up', I can tell you that though. I tend to wait for titles to jump at me from the text, to be honest. When a line seems to work well, that's what I'll build a title around. It will be something over-dramatic, slightly baroque and bloody though. Like the best spaghetti westerns.
Where did the idea come from for the book?
It's been brewing for years. I've wanted to write a western ever since I can remember, so the idea has come from years of watching western films and TV shows, and reading about the frontier days of America. My interest in the frontier was the main reason I chose an American Studies degree, actually, 20 years ago. I've had a lifelong obsession with the West and this is a logical step for me to take. I wanted to combine my knowledge of the real West with the European mentality found in spaghetti westerns, where the tone is brutal and often overtly political. There's often a more realistic tone in spaghetti westerns than there is in American westerns, certainly about greed, venality, violence and oppression, and I wanted to get that into the work too. I'm also fascinated by the idea of scum rising to the top in the melting pot, which is why the characters will have a diverse set of national and ethnic backgrounds.
What genre does your book fall into?
Western. Post-modern, spaghetti, anti-western, whatever. It's a western.
Which actors would you choose to play your characters in a movie rendition?
For the Irish former British Army cavalry officer, Stephen Butler, who also fought for the North in the American Civil War, it has to be Pierce Brosnan, although he might well be a bit too old once it's finished. Naylor, the ex-Royal Marine from Hull, would need to be played by someone who can do a proper Hull accent, which should limit the search a bit. I'd like some hungry unknowns in there, and I reckon American actor James Tropeano could probably handle the part of John Slaughter, the half-Cheyenne, half-Boston Yankee knife fighter. It'd be nice to get Robert Carlyle in there somewhere too, perhaps as the old Texas Ranger in the gang. And as for the women in the book, well, it would be nice to get Sherilyn Fenn and Wendy Robie from Twin Peaks in there. If Kris Kristofferson or Willie Nelson are still alive by then, it would be nice to fit them in somewhere too. Wes Studi would be great as the Kiowa warrior character.
What is a one sentence synopsis of your book?
Bunch of trained misfits fall together and make a reluctant living as hired thugs and gunmen, dealing out extreme violence and learning about what makes America in the process.
Will your book be self-published or represented by an agency?
The whole idea of agents is a load of bourgeois shit. Just another gate to stop characters like me from getting our foot in the door. I'll be looking for an independent publisher like Epic Rites to take a chance with it. But it's going to take a while to write this, so we'll see what happens. If anyone wants to offer me a huge advance on it, I'm open to offers.
How long did it take you to write the first draft of your manuscript?
I'm still writing it. It might take years. It all depends on what happens this year really.
What other books would you compare the story to within your genre?
Well, it would be nice if someone compared it to Cormac McCarthy, but I think it'll be a lot funnier than him. To be honest, I don't care much for comparisons, they're often very misleading. One writer I would love it to be compared to is Bernard Cornwell, who wrote the 'Sharpe' series. I do read quite a lot of historical fiction, and this is what this is to me, really, so I'll say Patrick O'Brian too.
Who or what inspired you to write this book?
The fascination with the American West and spaghetti western movies I referred to above really. But it was also motivated by a desire to do something entirely different to Stumbles and Half Slips. And, indeed, to do something vastly different to my previous work, which was very rooted in the North and Midlands of England, in the last decade.
What else about your book might pique the reader’s interest?
Well, I would hope that the fact I'd written it might appeal to a few people. The characters are really what I'm all abut as a writer, and I hope that it would be them that would really grab people's attention. I've got two former African-American slaves who might or might not be gay, a celibate lesbian Irish Catholic brothel keeper, an ex-Royal Marine from Hull who has emigrated, a Cheyenne knife fighter who quotes Keats, an anti-slavery Texas Ranger, plus Kiowa warriors, whores, miners, thugs, gunmen and preachers. I might even put a drover called Doyle in there, as a little sly reference to Stumbles and Half Slips. He won't like the West too much and probably wants to go back home as soon as possible...
My Next Big Thing nominees are:
John Crosbie is a writer from Scotland. His blog, Chaserjay, is a good way to see what John writes. When he can find the time with all his martial arts, running and dancing...
Zarina Zabrisky is the author of 'Iron', also published by Epic Rites Press. A Russian now living in the United States. A review of 'Iron' will appear at Lone Striker soon. It had probably better be good, as she used to be a kickboxing instructor...
Erin Reardon is an Irish-American poet from Boston. A review of her collection 'Meat' can be read HERE. Like me, she is an expert on television, drinking and Ian McShane.
Zack Wilson is the author of 'Stumbles and Half Slips' from Epic Rites Press. Also available from Amazon.com.
Thursday, 13 December 2012
Stumbles and Half Slips: VISIBILITY
Here's another reading from my novel, 'Stumbles and Half Slips' (Epic Rites Press, 2012, available from Amazon.com). This is where Ray meets some people who jealously protect their coffee and health and safety...
Zack Wilson, the author of 'Stumbles and Half Slips' from Epic Rites Press. Also available from Amazon.com.
Zack Wilson, the author of 'Stumbles and Half Slips' from Epic Rites Press. Also available from Amazon.com.
Sunday, 4 November 2012
The Abyss Also Gazes
I went on radio for the first time in the early hours of Saturday morning, with Canadian publisher Wolf Carstens, whose Epic Rites Press recently published by debut novel 'Stumbles and Half Slips'.
It was great to chat to Wolf about various things which went into making Stumbles and Half Slips what it is, and we touched on matters as diverse as The High Chaparral, Trainspotting and Rob Plath, and the vile Jeremy Kyle even got a mention!
Listen here, and hopefully you'll be able to understand what I'm on about...
Buy 'Stumbles and Half Slips' from Epic Rites Press. Also available from Amazon.com.
It was great to chat to Wolf about various things which went into making Stumbles and Half Slips what it is, and we touched on matters as diverse as The High Chaparral, Trainspotting and Rob Plath, and the vile Jeremy Kyle even got a mention!
Listen here, and hopefully you'll be able to understand what I'm on about...
Listen to internet radio with SHORT FUSE RADIO on Blog Talk Radio
Buy 'Stumbles and Half Slips' from Epic Rites Press. Also available from Amazon.com.
Wednesday, 17 October 2012
Ray's Days 2: Stankevitch
Another short prose piece, dealing with some old exploits of Ray Doyle, the narrator of my debut novel 'Stumbles and Half Slips', published by Epic Rites Press available from Amazon.com.
Stankevitch was probably the most xenophobic man I had ever met. Many people might have found that strange, given his name. He didn't know what ethnic origin he was though when I asked. He just said his name was "foreign, which is funny, 'cause I 'ate foreigners!" Then laugh with an exaggerated wheeziness, as if to demonstrate just how unhealthy he was and how proud he was of it.
He was probably no more stupid than anyone else in the place. Certainly, when it came to doing his job, which was making sure that all work was allocated properly, he was excellent. No one could complain about unfair treatment either, even the foreign workers.
Of course, there wasn't quite the same fuss about Muslims that there is now, not back then. All that kind of thing had settled down a bit, what with the E and that. Everyone seemed to get on in the yard, and Stankevitch probably contributed to that. He was good for morale, if not for improving conversation. He wore a vest in most weathers, showing off a badly inked and faded Union Jack tattoo on wiry, pale brown arms, tanned from years of unloading and loading trucks in all weathers.
And he never missed an opportunity to point out how stupid foreigners were, viewing the arrival of a shipment from abroad as a chance to laugh and mock at people who were not there. His wheezy delivery and simian face made him funny though, so everyone laughed.
But Stankevitch, though capable and competent, perhaps even kind, could never really be described as clever. He followed the rules and enforced them capably. He found thinking beyond the strictures placed on him by his worshipful boss comforting, they gave him safety and a kind of comfortable joy.
Anything out of the ordinary though tended to confuse him, as long as it was completely unrelated to work. Science in particular was a baffling thing he did not believe in. His fear and mistrust echoed the kind of thing parents feel when they learn that their adult daughter has joined a religious cult.
He was reading The Sun one day when he came across a report of an Unidentified Flying Object. There had been a series of lights in the sky over Somerset, and some cider drinkers were yakking in the paper about how they'd thought it was aliens.
Stankevitch's first reaction was, "How the bloody hell do they know it's UFOs. They can't prove that it's the aliens!"
Raj put him right.
"No mate, UFO just means Unidentified Flying Object. It means that they don't know what it is. Not that it's spacemen."
Stankevitch's tiny brown eyes looked up and down several times. He said,"Well, they can't be much good then if they don't even know that it's a UFO or not."
"But they have said it's a UFO," Raj replied. "But the fact that's Unidentified means that they can't classify it yet according to known phenomena."
There was a pause for several seconds. "Stupid pricks," said Stankevitch, "can't even work that out. What the fuck do we pay them for?"
Raj looked blank, his lips moving as he sought for words that weren't there. He genuinely didn't know what to say. Stankevitch slapped the paper shut and barked some commands. We got on with unloading two trucks that had pulled in that morning.
A couple of days later Stankevitch was doing some further research on the mysterious lights over Somerset. By reading The Sun again, he found that scientists had decided that they were caused by space debris. He announced this with great sarcasm and harshness of tone, his wheeze almost becoming a smoky bray as laughed.
"Ha ha fucking ha!" he said, "they call it space debris. That's just bloody shorthand for they don't what to call it. They don't know anything these scientists. I could have looked at the sky and said that. All that and they can't even identify it as a proper UFO. What do we pay them for?"
Then he slapped Raj matily on the back, as though he had just won an important but friendly debate. There was no answer any of us wanted to give him anyway. We all had work to do.
Stankevitch was probably the most xenophobic man I had ever met. Many people might have found that strange, given his name. He didn't know what ethnic origin he was though when I asked. He just said his name was "foreign, which is funny, 'cause I 'ate foreigners!" Then laugh with an exaggerated wheeziness, as if to demonstrate just how unhealthy he was and how proud he was of it.
He was probably no more stupid than anyone else in the place. Certainly, when it came to doing his job, which was making sure that all work was allocated properly, he was excellent. No one could complain about unfair treatment either, even the foreign workers.
Of course, there wasn't quite the same fuss about Muslims that there is now, not back then. All that kind of thing had settled down a bit, what with the E and that. Everyone seemed to get on in the yard, and Stankevitch probably contributed to that. He was good for morale, if not for improving conversation. He wore a vest in most weathers, showing off a badly inked and faded Union Jack tattoo on wiry, pale brown arms, tanned from years of unloading and loading trucks in all weathers.
And he never missed an opportunity to point out how stupid foreigners were, viewing the arrival of a shipment from abroad as a chance to laugh and mock at people who were not there. His wheezy delivery and simian face made him funny though, so everyone laughed.
But Stankevitch, though capable and competent, perhaps even kind, could never really be described as clever. He followed the rules and enforced them capably. He found thinking beyond the strictures placed on him by his worshipful boss comforting, they gave him safety and a kind of comfortable joy.
Anything out of the ordinary though tended to confuse him, as long as it was completely unrelated to work. Science in particular was a baffling thing he did not believe in. His fear and mistrust echoed the kind of thing parents feel when they learn that their adult daughter has joined a religious cult.
He was reading The Sun one day when he came across a report of an Unidentified Flying Object. There had been a series of lights in the sky over Somerset, and some cider drinkers were yakking in the paper about how they'd thought it was aliens.
Stankevitch's first reaction was, "How the bloody hell do they know it's UFOs. They can't prove that it's the aliens!"
Raj put him right.
"No mate, UFO just means Unidentified Flying Object. It means that they don't know what it is. Not that it's spacemen."
Stankevitch's tiny brown eyes looked up and down several times. He said,"Well, they can't be much good then if they don't even know that it's a UFO or not."
"But they have said it's a UFO," Raj replied. "But the fact that's Unidentified means that they can't classify it yet according to known phenomena."
There was a pause for several seconds. "Stupid pricks," said Stankevitch, "can't even work that out. What the fuck do we pay them for?"
Raj looked blank, his lips moving as he sought for words that weren't there. He genuinely didn't know what to say. Stankevitch slapped the paper shut and barked some commands. We got on with unloading two trucks that had pulled in that morning.
A couple of days later Stankevitch was doing some further research on the mysterious lights over Somerset. By reading The Sun again, he found that scientists had decided that they were caused by space debris. He announced this with great sarcasm and harshness of tone, his wheeze almost becoming a smoky bray as laughed.
"Ha ha fucking ha!" he said, "they call it space debris. That's just bloody shorthand for they don't what to call it. They don't know anything these scientists. I could have looked at the sky and said that. All that and they can't even identify it as a proper UFO. What do we pay them for?"
Then he slapped Raj matily on the back, as though he had just won an important but friendly debate. There was no answer any of us wanted to give him anyway. We all had work to do.
Read about Ray Doyle in 'Stumbles and Half Slips' from Epic Rites Press. Also available from Amazon.com.
Friday, 12 October 2012
Stumbles and Half Slips: Ambition
As it's Friday here's a video of me reading a story from my new book 'Stumbles and Half Slips'. This is the first story in the book, and serves to introduce one or two recurring characters...
Buy 'Stumbles and Half Slips' from Epic Rites Press. Also available from Amazon.com.
Thursday, 4 October 2012
Ray's Days 1: Zip
Ray Doyle is the narrator of my debut novel, 'Stumbles and Half Slips'. In a new series of short pieces, I'll be giving him some new tales to tell, mainly about being at work. Along the way, you may well pick up some new details about his life...
I knew that the job was going to go to shit when the zip broke on the jacket that they'd given me. This only happened a week or so after I'd started, and I somehow knew then that it was not going to last.
Not that the job was anything special. Anything special at all, actually. It was meant to be security, but all we were doing in fact was car park attending. We were all working for an independent scrap metal merchant, who seemed to think he was a bigger businessman than he actually was. This was somewhere on the edge of the East Midlands, where it becomes the west, Burton I think.
There were two of us, and what we had to do, in a series of bizarrely organised shifts, was to stand at the gates to the company 'car park'. We had two deckchairs to sit on, which didn't really strike me as giving off the right impression. I hadn't asked about this, but Sean, the other bloke, did. The boss - some fella who's name I forget right now, this was back in 1993, 94 possibly, a long time back, but I do remember his jacket and trousers never seemed to come from the same suit -he just said that it was something he was working on.
The deck chairs didn't really bother me. Things like that never really do. It felt quite good to be sitting in a deck chair by what passed for a car park. It was actually one of those areas of what look like waste ground, turned into a temporary car park. The surface consisted of several different shades and kinds of gravel, washed with a thin grey sludge of rain, tiny pebbles and what could have been ashes. Puddles of varying depths, breadths and colours of water dotted the expanse like the spots on a damp dalmatian.
The weather did bother me though. This was autumn, about October, and the weather was not kind. I had a very nice jacket though.
What we had to do was basically stop every vehicle who came to the gate in the fence and take some details. All we did was ask their name and what they wanted. Then we'd tell where to park in the great space of the car park, which was never full, and often entirely empty. It was big enough to play five-a-side football in, but we never had enough people for a game.
Once we had taken the details we would completely forget them. There was no procedure for writing anything down, and no reception desk to take the details too, from our outpost by the gate. Instead, the visitors would just drive over to the space we'd indicated and park there. Then walk over the dirt and water to the small, single storey brick building that contained the two offices. The actual scrap yard was about two hundred metres away, down the road. When visitors wanted that, we would point at it for them.
But it was the jacket that made the job for me. It was one of those top quality hiking jackets, something that was still relatively rare back then. It was like the parka I'd worn at primary school, only cool looking, with layers and zips that made me impregnable to the cold. I loved that jacket. There was no company logo on it either.
Which was why I'd actually cried when the zip broke. It just seemed so typical. This was not long after my step-father had tried to kill me in a drunken rage, and then cried like a child the next day as he said sorry over the phone.
I was staying with a friend in his flat. I had few things to call my own. This coat, although on loan, was one of them. Something that defined me in this short period. But the zip broke when night when I was taking it off. I told the boss the next day but he said that there was nothing he could do.
Sitting at the deck chairs with Sean was still okay though. But later that in the day the boss returned and told us he didn't need us any more. He took the coats off us and we had to walk home. Sean told me that the agency that had got him the work was crap, and I agreed. I didn't know what agency he was with.
I still think of that coat though. It was the best I'd ever owned, until the zip broke.
To find out more about Ray Doyle and his life as a van driver, buy 'Stumbles and Half Slips' from Epic Rites Press.
I knew that the job was going to go to shit when the zip broke on the jacket that they'd given me. This only happened a week or so after I'd started, and I somehow knew then that it was not going to last.
Not that the job was anything special. Anything special at all, actually. It was meant to be security, but all we were doing in fact was car park attending. We were all working for an independent scrap metal merchant, who seemed to think he was a bigger businessman than he actually was. This was somewhere on the edge of the East Midlands, where it becomes the west, Burton I think.
There were two of us, and what we had to do, in a series of bizarrely organised shifts, was to stand at the gates to the company 'car park'. We had two deckchairs to sit on, which didn't really strike me as giving off the right impression. I hadn't asked about this, but Sean, the other bloke, did. The boss - some fella who's name I forget right now, this was back in 1993, 94 possibly, a long time back, but I do remember his jacket and trousers never seemed to come from the same suit -he just said that it was something he was working on.
The deck chairs didn't really bother me. Things like that never really do. It felt quite good to be sitting in a deck chair by what passed for a car park. It was actually one of those areas of what look like waste ground, turned into a temporary car park. The surface consisted of several different shades and kinds of gravel, washed with a thin grey sludge of rain, tiny pebbles and what could have been ashes. Puddles of varying depths, breadths and colours of water dotted the expanse like the spots on a damp dalmatian.
The weather did bother me though. This was autumn, about October, and the weather was not kind. I had a very nice jacket though.
What we had to do was basically stop every vehicle who came to the gate in the fence and take some details. All we did was ask their name and what they wanted. Then we'd tell where to park in the great space of the car park, which was never full, and often entirely empty. It was big enough to play five-a-side football in, but we never had enough people for a game.
Once we had taken the details we would completely forget them. There was no procedure for writing anything down, and no reception desk to take the details too, from our outpost by the gate. Instead, the visitors would just drive over to the space we'd indicated and park there. Then walk over the dirt and water to the small, single storey brick building that contained the two offices. The actual scrap yard was about two hundred metres away, down the road. When visitors wanted that, we would point at it for them.
But it was the jacket that made the job for me. It was one of those top quality hiking jackets, something that was still relatively rare back then. It was like the parka I'd worn at primary school, only cool looking, with layers and zips that made me impregnable to the cold. I loved that jacket. There was no company logo on it either.
Which was why I'd actually cried when the zip broke. It just seemed so typical. This was not long after my step-father had tried to kill me in a drunken rage, and then cried like a child the next day as he said sorry over the phone.
I was staying with a friend in his flat. I had few things to call my own. This coat, although on loan, was one of them. Something that defined me in this short period. But the zip broke when night when I was taking it off. I told the boss the next day but he said that there was nothing he could do.
Sitting at the deck chairs with Sean was still okay though. But later that in the day the boss returned and told us he didn't need us any more. He took the coats off us and we had to walk home. Sean told me that the agency that had got him the work was crap, and I agreed. I didn't know what agency he was with.
I still think of that coat though. It was the best I'd ever owned, until the zip broke.
To find out more about Ray Doyle and his life as a van driver, buy 'Stumbles and Half Slips' from Epic Rites Press.
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