Somerfield
when it used to be the mighty Gateway (to nowhere), opened a store not too far from where I lived. In the midst of our A'Levels as we were, my friends and I all applied to work there on Saturdays. We all got jobs. Much fucking fun was to be had from then on, because we were all simply arsing around all day, barely earning our miniscule pay, so we could all head over to Newquay in the evening and piss it all up the wall (in a manner of speaking).

I performed various functions; yes even that sort, as cherries popping were not only to be found in the greengrocery aisle. However, I digress...

I worked mainly on the tills: chewing gum, chatting to the girls on the adjacent tills, whizzing tins through at high speed in order to crush all the fruit, basically performing all the duties you look for in your checkout wench. But I also managed to wangle a stint in the butchery section.

Wangle may not sound like the right word; you might think 'be lumbered with' to be a more appropriate description. But when one of the butchers is a lunatic with a determined propensity for fun and the other one you're shagging, there is much potential for enjoyment. And blood. (Fortunately not during the shagging.)

Daily tasks included scraping the block (loved doing that!) and chopping things up (why didn't I stay in butchery, I wonder?). We also had to save any blood we could in a large bucket which was stored in the chiller. I never questioned this, just added the mortal liquids of various unfortunate animals to said bucket and headed off to join in The Great Warehouse Toilet Roll Fight, or whatever (for instigator of said fights, see Hugh G. Rection who lurketh here somewhere).

The day came when I found out what the blood was for. One of the assistant managers was due to leave and a lovely surprise had been arranged for him. At the end of his last day, he was dragged from the shop floor to the loading bay, where he himself was loaded into a cage and subjected to a pelting. Sadly for him, though this pelting began with flour and eggs, someone threw a tin and it went downhill from there.

And there, at the end of it all, stood the lunatic butcher with his bucket, to which had been added entrails and eyes and other pieces of animal that not even Gateway would try to sell, and which had been allowed to stand outside the chiller for the last few days. The butcher called to the assistant manager, who blinded by most of the contents of the last delivery turned to face the direction of the voice. Seconds later, the contents of the bucket were in his face, eyes, ears and mouth.

How proud I felt to have contributed to such fun. For the record, once he'd finished being violently sick and been home and showered, we did take him out and get him truly wrecked.

Footnote:
The butcher had a bit of blood left over; the next day he made a small hole in the base of a polystyrene tray and stuck his thumb through, so it looked like it was lying on it. Then he dripped blood all over it and went running to the hapless first-aider, claiming it belonged to the other butcher. She fainted, so it was handy to find out she couldn't be relied upon if any genuine chopping- related emergencies arose.
( thealternativefact, Thu 7 Aug 2008, 18:14, 4 replies)

Click
for just the footnote!
(JohabMorelli is spenging merrily away, Thu 7 Aug 2008, 18:25, closed)

Clendrix, Clendrix
You is a very bad lady!!

but 'click'
(Che Grimsdale Best before:, Fri 8 Aug 2008, 10:07, closed)

*click*
for the literal bloodbath so many other posts have merely aspired to.
(bazmorningstar efil4nat3b, Fri 8 Aug 2008, 15:10, closed)

*click*
For the sheer goriness of your farewell procedure, and for a footnote that brings back the memory of when me and my mates made matchbox thumbs to scare our parents with (or, more usually, to have them exclaim "ooh, how clever!")
(LLamaBoy skived off work on, Fri 8 Aug 2008, 15:16, closed)