Chicken Payback

Twenty eight years ago I began life in the working world.

What I mean was that I began my forst ‘proper’ job, working in a chicken factory deep in the Suffolk countryside at Flixton near Bungay. I had had jobs before that, an odd job guy at a garage, a short order chef (for four hours), working on the electrical counter at Boots and a six month sceme at an electrical shop through most of 1983.

1985 began with the funerals of two of my friends (look at one of my Christmas blogs from either 2009 or 2010), and then more time on the dole. I did manage to talk my way into a job selling double glazing. Hasn’t everybody tried it at one time? Anyway I did the training course, a week on expenses at Hedley House, then the next Monday out on the doorstep. I realised after the first knock was answered this was going to be a thankless job, and one which would involve me trekking road after road of getting nothing but abuse.

I answered a job ad for process workers at a chicken factory and got it; and like most others in north Suffolk I spent time working at Buxted. I drove all the way there, and waited in reception, and then along with all the other new-starters was taken on that day to get our work gear.

I was taken into the factory, past the Busted whole bird room, the frozen bird line, from there you could see the E-line where the chickens were essentially turned inside out so their organs could be removed. And then nto to the whole bird room where for the next two weeks I would sit there and turn chicken wings under themselves. By the end of the week I had RSI, but went back for the second week and on Friday got my first pay packet.

That made it worthwhile.

So, I progressed onto one of the trussing tables, and did that for months. Or so it seems. Trussing is OK, certainly when they were fresh, but once they were a few hours old could be tough as old boots and really hard on your arms. After a few months, despite hating it, I was moved into the chiller, on an extra £4.20 a week, so I could pack the finished products ready for dispatch.

It wasn’t hard, and I could listen to the radio being broadcast over the factory tannoy, or on occasion sneak a radio in so I could keep everyone updated with the Ashes cricket scores.

At the end of 87, I applied and got a job in the QA department, and traded in my blue boiler suit for a white coat, a clipboard and a set of pens. I thrived, and loved the job. But, I fell out with my boss and resigned the QA job to back on the line. It was a matter of principle and was happy to go on the line, this time in the portion room cutting up chicken breasts for eight hours a day.

The QA thing did broaden my horizons, and I got some training done. So, I was marked for promotion. Only, there had to be more than the chicken factory, wasn’t there? I had got friendly with a guy on the line, James, and he was joining the RAF after his friend had already taken the Queen’s shilling.

So, I started the process, and the day I was offered a salaried position was the day after I received confirmation from the MOD I had been offered a job in the RAF. So, I turned down the promotion and upset the factory manager, and that would have made my last summer at the factory uncomfortable to say the least. But, I managed to crash my car on June 20th 1990 and broke my thumb, which resulted in my entry to the RAF being delayed and having the whole summer on the sick. And the World Cup was on, and I was getting paid.

I stayed on the sick until the week before I was due to join the RAF, I handed in my weeks’ notice and another doctor’s note and left the factory forever. And walked into a world of marching, cammo, compo, beer calls, postings to Germany, dets to Vegas and indirectly to two marriages and divorces. And a job that set me up for life.

IYAAYAS.