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This is a question Child Labour

There is a special part of Hell I'd like to reserve for those arses that order every single Sunday paper. Do you know how heavy that makes the bundle of papers some poor kid (ie me) has to lug around? Funny how your papers always seemed to get mangled in your letterbox...

I loved my paper round, but, looking back, I was getting paid peanuts to ruin my back and cycle around in the cold and dark. How were you exploited as a child?

(, Fri 17 Feb 2006, 12:05)
Pages: Popular, 9, 8, 7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1

This question is now closed.

When I were a lad
back in the dim and distant early 1990s, three friends of mine said they were going to work in a farmer's field picking strawberries for his shop and getting paid £3 an hour cash in hand for it (at the time, when we were all 15, this was a small fortune) Sounded like too much hard work to a spoiled little brat like me, so I passed.

Next thing I knew, they had been paid £3 an hour between them not each, as they had previously believed. One of their dads went to have a word with the farmer, who insisted that he'd never seen any of them before in his life, kids were always trying to rob his farm or con money out of him in some way, and that if they didn't all get off his land immediately he'd call the police.

I felt smug, but have not trusted farmers ever since.
(, Fri 17 Feb 2006, 15:58, Reply)
I made a website for a band a couple of years back (14 or 15).
Happened to be my dad's band. I wouldn't have minded the lack of pay (I did get a new PC for it though...) if I hadn't been fucked around quite so much.
Made the website, and the band thought it was alright, made a few suggestions etc. Then the sort-of manager said it was all good but had a techie friend who would do it for them.

6 months later, still no new website. So I stuck mine online again. For a few months, the site went really well - looked rather professional for a beginner, and it was all in working order. I was even preparing some nifty features (forum, guestbook, etc).

So, website's looking good, band is getting successful, cue an interview on the Radio - and a mention of the website I slaved over for pretty much nothing. I was very proud, and so was my dad. All of a sudden, the night before the interview, the lead singer changes the spelling of her name. So, I have to edit every single page that had her name on.
Then, after the interview, she tells the radio station to cut the mention of the site, because "it's not finished". Not finished?!?!? I was furious - didn't do anything about it though, cause I didn't have the nerve. I left the website online and abandoned it. After taking off all the upcoming gigs.

Not long after, the band broke up. Shame, because it was a really good band, but that's the last time I write a website for someone without getting payed. (There are rumours of said band getting back together though - so I may keep working on the website, but this time they pay me.....)

(, Fri 17 Feb 2006, 15:50, Reply)
Dead stuff
My parents live in Australia, their house is built with a (child sized) cavity under the house.

Of course stuff would go under their to die which would make our house smell rank in the summer heat.

There were things like bush rats, mice, some cats and bunnies.

My parents always said that I was the only person small enough to get under there. They'd pay me $20 per dead thing.

That may seem like a good wage, but being Australia, you had to fight your way past all the not dead stuff like spidies and rats! Was always hilarious when my dad shut the door for a laugh. Bastard.
(, Fri 17 Feb 2006, 15:45, Reply)
When I was about sixteen I had the glory to work for the above "journalistic" web company. For a mere $250 a month I ran a website, managed staff, wrote articles and looked after hosted sites.

Mind you it avoided going outdoors or having to interact socially with girls. Wait... :(

Edit: Having to pay for it to be converted into proper money was an added bonus I could really of done without.
(, Fri 17 Feb 2006, 15:36, Reply)
I have had a grand total of two jobs - ever
First was when I was about 14/15, I worked Saturdays in my dad's friend's kitchen and bathroom showroom - mostly cleaning, but I also made plenty of cups of tea, and being the nice, polite young girl I was, I'd have a friendly chat with the customers and field some basic enquiries about worksurfaces, flooring etc. Not badly paid at £20 cash in hand for the day. Unfortunately I had to pack it in after I found I was allergic to pretty much every cleaning product I tried - even with gloves, masks, any sort of protective clothing you can think of. Since then, I've had serious eczema all over my body, hayfever... oddly also became allergic to furry animals, which had never bothered me in the slightest until then. Oh, and an aversion to mirror tiles and stainless steel/chrome surfaces - without fail, I'd get them nice and clean, then some little brat would come along and put their sticky little fingers all over them, it used to drive me nuts. I probably twitch when I see the damn things now.

Second job, a couple of years ago (so would have been... 17, I suppose), worked in a local garden centre. Massive place. Good pay, considering my age and lack of experience, skills etc - think it was just over £5 p/h. Mostly till work, which I was good at, and again, unfailingly polite to all the old biddies and posh types we used to get in there. If I wasn't needed on tills, I'd go into the warehouse and restock, or build some bird tables or something. Pretty good job actually - had to pack it in again... when I came down with glandular fever. Nice. Worst bits were doing my back in lugging massive bags of compost around, the smell of 4X chicken manure clinging to me for days after I'd just been in the same room as the stuff, and of course being so ill I practically passed out every day when I got home.

Now I need a job again. Hmmmm.
(, Fri 17 Feb 2006, 15:36, Reply)
Being shot at, getting excema and pea shovelling
Some good tales but I think I can top them. Quite a few people have been scarred but I almost got killed.
My dad is big into shooting. He used to therefore take me beating on a pheasant shoot so he could get the once-a-year "beaters day" where the beaters have a free days shooting.

Basically, clay pigeon shooters tend to be a good lot, kinda like golfers with guns, and are fairly competitive and capable. However, pheasant shoots are run on behalf of corporate cocks and inbreds, none of whom can really shoot well at all. Nor do they appreciate the destructive power of the penis substitute they aim at these poor creatures. Bear in mind that the beaters job is to put the birds into flight by walking towards these toffee-nosed twats making a noise and tapping the trees.

On more than one occasion I almost got shot, however the worst one was when I was about twenty feet (ie well within killing range) from one of these eejits and they took it upon themselves to take a pot shot at some poor bird about five feet above my head. I actually ended up with shot in my hair after that one. All this for fifteen pounds a (14 hour) day and lunch, in the company of the inbreds and a load of working class tories (the other beaters) who all thought Maggie Thatcher was a bit of a softy and once threatened to shoot some poor sod who'd happened upon the proceedings and tried to debate the ethics of such activity.

From this I then took a job in a chippy, peeling spuds and making chips. 3 nights a week for four quid a day, in a shitty, freezing extension with no roof with your hands in freezing water, which gave me masses of excema. However I did get free food and my dealer lived about 2 minutes up the road, perfect for paydays. I say my dealer - he was a wholesaler to the area for miles around and I used to go into his house for a sixteenth. They had no furniture in their front room apart from shelving units full of tupperware containing deals of different drugs in different weights - blatant as fuck - and the best garden on the estate by miles. When his brother OD'd, he moved one street away into a shop which suspiciously never had any real stock in...

Anyway, where was I? The last truly shitty job I did was at uni in the summer, when I worked in a pea factory, doing 12 hour shifts for £2.30 an hour. The first year we simply put together massive cardboard containers, which was great, but the next year I was on one of the machines. Hose - sweep - hose - sweep - hose - sweep - hose - sweep, for twelve hours, on a brutal shift system which alternated day/night in some strange way. The only good thing about it was the weekends (double time or time and a half) and the fact that because you didn't have any time or energy to do anything other than work, eat and sleep, you'd end up with a big bag of cash by the end of the summer. I bought a bass guitar the second year.

As for my best job - hopefully that'll be the next QOTW as I have a cracker.

First post - yay - no apologies for length or girth, you loved it you filthy slaaaaags.
(, Fri 17 Feb 2006, 15:34, Reply)
I though working for my
Dad was shit. 50p an hour to do painting, the lad who was with me who was the son of another employee got £1 for the same cocking job.
Not as bad a mate of mine who worked at the local pop factory. His job was to slash misformed bottles of the production line, pour the lemonade down the drain and put the empty bottle in a skip. During summer this attracted wasps, fucking millions of the cunts.
(, Fri 17 Feb 2006, 15:33, Reply)
My summer in the Garden
I think I was about 11 or 12 years old, and my mother (bless her soul, the easily led women she is) came home from her place of business with a proposition - Her boss also ran a 'market' garden , and needed an assistant for a couple of weeks. The pay would definitely be 'worth my while' - keep these words in mind....

For the next three weeks I did it all - picked tomatos, planted tomatos, hacked and weeded overgrown and neglected garden beds, painted obsolete doors and walls, stacked and packed tomatos (a bit of theme developing here), raked driveways, dug ditches, even to the point of removing the previous occupants of his rabbit/horse/chicken bowels on a daily basis for fertilizer. Seriously, I doubt a japanese beaver working under slave-like circumstances, would put in as many hours as I did.

Of an evening, I would go home, sore, bruised, reeking of all things tomato related, my child spine cracking like an 1850's propsectors, but happy. Happy in the knowledge of the 'worth my while' pay packet that would be mine at the end of the month - I'd even started circling pics of the new mountain-bike I would aquire with my new found wealth, and dreamed of the envious looks and glances of the neighbourhood kids as I'd flash past in a blur, and the possible romantic misunderstandings that I could have with little Felicity (the cutie at the end of my street, that I was sure would succumb to my wealth-enhanced charms).

So the end of the month arrives, PAY DAY - the beginning of the rest of the soon to be Best-Summer-ever. I strolled down to my place of work, knowing full well I'd seen my last tomato of the season, shovelled my last load of shit, no longer a thrall to the man.

"Morning Tim, here for your pay?" was the smooth greeting that I received from my master, a strange glint in his eye, like a slave-master rethinking the recent deal to sell the mother-child combo to the heavy-buttocked camel merchant.

"Sir, yes sir", I may have replied - I have or never will be in the marines, but it just seemed to fit).

"Well, here you go son, you've done a great job, and just like I told your mother, it will be worth your while". I swear I heard drool drip from my flacid lips and smack onto the stone floor tiles of the verandah as those words penetrated my skull - I was RICH!!

Feeling it slightly odd that instead of reaching into a vault like chest, chained up similar to Pandorra's box, from which he would delicately remove my reward/pay, he dug a hand into his pocket, removing a slightly worn, brown-leather (thin!!) wallet. From the note section at the back, he removed a crinkled, stained, and ripped $20.00 note (this is Australian dollars).

At the average going rate, as I'd roughly calulated it (drawing comparisons between paper-round, helping around the house, and other forms of income I had thus received prior to the market garden scam), I was expecting about 10 to 15 times this much. Yet the evil, foul-smelling, crooked, child-labour supporting warlock of tomato torture, mistook the rapid downward charge of my facial expressions, as shock at the rich recompence I was receiving.

"Don't worry Tim, I can afford it, and after all, you've done a fine job around the place". Although I was neither of the age or weight group that usually qualifies for spontaneous heart failure, it felt my blood-pump had stalled - all my future hopes and dreams replaced with the fire of anger straight from the brimstone-lined gates of hell.

"$£%^&*&^^&(*()~@#@#'$£"&^**()((+_&*^$%$" or at least that's what I think I said. Whatever utterance was expelled, knocked the old todger back a few feet, the $20 slap-in-the-face note drifted silently to the floor. I picked that fucker up, and went down to the garden, and kicked the first thing I saw on my way out. Which happened to be Peter, the pride and joy rabbit of the garden. Ol' Pete flew about 10 feet forward, landing with a satisfying 'thunk' into the paling fence.

I mounted my rusty, pathetic excuse for a bike, rode home, and gave another mouthful to my mother - which resulted in the $20 confiscated, me grounded, and left bitter and twisted towards any work for the rest of my life. Hence, I'm writing this from 'work' right now.
(, Fri 17 Feb 2006, 15:28, Reply)
i work at Blackburn Rovers
selling pukka pies....say no more
(, Fri 17 Feb 2006, 15:26, Reply)
My worst childhood job was at 14 years old. I worked in a local pub for £1.75 an hour.

I was sorting bottles.

What this ment, is I sat out the back, up to my elbows in thousands and thousands of bottles worth of broken glass. I needed to sort it into barrels, one for clear glass, one for brown etc. What made it worse is the fact that this was one of towns busier pubs, and I was the only one doing it. It would take up to six hours a day. .... It sucked =(
(, Fri 17 Feb 2006, 15:26, Reply)
The Indoor Market!
When I was about 15 a friend of mine used to work in an indoor market on a fruit and veg stall

I was needing more funds so my friend had a word with the manager of the market who said for me to pop in on Saturday as he had some work that needed doing.

So turn up on Saturday, and I am met by this Fat greasy git who says can I do some weeding out the back of the store and if I did that for 4 hours I would be handsomely rewarded!

So donning some gardening gloves I set about the task at hand pulling up weeds and rubbish for 4 hours straight!

Absolutely knackered I go into the guys office sweating like mad and he delves into his magic purse of tricks! And..

About 1 pound fucking 60p he hands me, saying do that again at there’s plenty more where that came from! To which my retort was "Well give me it now you stingy fat cunt, before being escorted off the premises!

Oh happy days!
(, Fri 17 Feb 2006, 15:04, Reply)
Longest paperound in coventry
I had the longest paperound in Coventry. FACT.

At one point I was taking home £110 a week.
(, Fri 17 Feb 2006, 14:56, Reply)
white gold
I spent most of my childhood in Canada, where it snows - a lot. My dad would pimp out my younger brothers and I around the neighbourhood as snow shovellers. Blizzards would drop thick wet dumps over a foot deep onto giant double driveways. Our backs would ache, we'd lose the feeling in our hands and feet, our noses would start to run and the snot would freeze inside them. Then go red and fall off. After a couple hours, just before we'd finish, the plough would come down the road and leave a thick wall of slush and ice at the end of the drive. I still associate blue flashing lights with heartbreak and despair. And for all our efforts, we got about $5 each.

But afterwards, the hot chocolate tasted like sweet heaven.
(, Fri 17 Feb 2006, 14:55, Reply)
Waitrose = Cunts
Everyone who is everyone knows I have a love hate relationship with Waitrose.

On one hand they use selfish wage tactics which exploits young workers by forcing them to stay for several years before they are even close to a decent wage while keeping the middle-aged ladies happy. This was done because they knew that after a few years, most young employees would move on to further education making future employment impossible. One year I got a 5p payrise!!!!!

Secondly I had to deal with the MOST stuck up, right wing, racist, know-it-all, abusive customers I have EVER had the misfortune to serve.

On the other had tho, all we ever did was make fun of the customers, get each other in trouble and come up with various games including ice sculpture curling and fillet steak sword fights.
(, Fri 17 Feb 2006, 14:44, Reply)
Production Work
Has anybody seen the children's miracle network? neither have I, but I did work for them every spring break of my highschool career. They would come down to disney world in orlando and hire me as a production assistant. basically that meant get the coffee, photocopy and correlate these scripts, move this platform.

I actually got yelled at by marie osmond and cool and the gang. wouldn't have been so bad if they actually paid me. all io got was lousy community service hours (which didn't even get officiated).
(, Fri 17 Feb 2006, 14:42, Reply)
Looking back, i was always so smug about the paperboys working at those hours outside for a tenner a week ish
I used to do what is called Sticking Up, where in my area, people play skittles, not the kind with the ball on a string, but like ten pin bowling on a wooden alley. No machines to pick the pins up and return the balls, but the Sticker Up. 2 1/2 hours of work in a pub during the week picking up skittles for the same money as a week's paper round. And i used to get a couple of pints of shandy as well. By the time i was 16, i was doing this work 5 nights a week , doing all of my homework in pubs, and was for a schoolboy at the time, fucking loaded. Only now do i realise that my parents allowed me to spend most of my teenage evenings in the pub breathing in fag smoke and as i got older coming home more and more pissed. It was the perfect training ground for drinking and pubettiquette.
(, Fri 17 Feb 2006, 14:40, Reply)
Got wood
In an effort to drive down costs at the hardware/garden supplies/petrol station where I worked as a lad (whipping boy), I was given the princely task of bagging firewood (rotten logs). It was cheaper to employ me than to get the logs delivered already bagged. Now it was my annual task, from early November to mid February, y'know the best time of the year to be out side freezing your nuts off.

Oh yeah the job also entailed painting a hell hole of a staff toilet, having those metal dustbins thrown at my head and clearing out a centuries worth of shit from an asbestos covered storage shed. Ohhhh good job.
(, Fri 17 Feb 2006, 14:39, Reply)
Child Labour
At the age of 15 or so I was working in Maplin Electronics in Bristol. I was earning the earth-shatteringly huge wage of £2.25 an hour. I can't believe I stood in that sweaty, baking hot shop for hours and at the end of the day only took home about £60 a month.

The worst bit was the customers. In it's current state Maplins has turned into a kind of mini-Argos selling cheap Chinese tat, so you get all sorts in there (mainly people who don't know any better). However when I worked there it was far more focused on obscure little electronic components - which attracted three very distinct types of customers - the Spod, the Granddad, and the Rudebwoy. The rudebwoy was after neons for his car and 18" subs for his stereo and was probably the least offensive. The Granddad normally wanted a new fuse for his kettle or a doorbell battery and apart from his hand shaking far too much when counting out the pennies ("*sigh*, give it here, for fucks sake, I'll do it") wasn't that bad.

The worst people by far were the Spods, who would quiz you for about half an hour about a single component before deciding whether to pay 47p for it (in hindsight, I'm beginning to understand the reasoning behind the £2.25ph wage) and come in telling us about their project to connect their toaster to their PC.

We did have a variety of mad customers including "Crow", who never wore a shirt and insisted his name was just "Crow", no Mr., "Angry Man" - who I think is fairly common in Bristol and would get hassled by stock ("Damn PUSSY-claart TV!") and Richard, who would buy anything so long as it had lots of flashing lights.

But come on, £2.25 an hour?

First post, so no apologies for length I'm afraid.
(, Fri 17 Feb 2006, 14:27, Reply)
Just getting it in here...
Blah blah blah Sunday Times blah blah cnuts blah ripped their paper in some petty revenge. Blah.

Hmm, ice cream van anyone?
(, Fri 17 Feb 2006, 14:27, Reply)
ALWAYS negotiate up front! (aka - Never trust your parents)
I must have been about 10 or 11.

And my Mother had been chatting to the half-mad old lady up the road (as you do) - and returned home with a proposition for me...Apparently the council had been round half-mad lady's place and told her she had to clear her - rather massive - block of land of lantana ASAP - or they were going to fine her.

So my Mum had volunteered my services to half-mad lady in removing said lantana...And that half-mad lady would pay me for my help. Now figuring that my Mum - being my Mum and looking out for her only son - would have negotiated me some kind of good deal here - and figuring that as I currently mowed the neighbour's lawn every couple of weeks for 5 bucks - that this would be worth a GOOD 10 to 20!...Serious wodgah for a 10 year old in them days!

So off I went...About half a day later I emerged from the wilds - Just about every exposed bit of skin bleeding profusely from lantana scratches. To knock on half-mad lady's back door for my due reward.

Which turned out to be two dollars. TWO DOLLARS!...And a decrepit old toffee-apple that looked like it had been out of the fridge for at least a month.

Throwing the toffee apple away, I returned home in indignant tears, displaying bloody hands and bits - only for my Mother to take pity (Yeah - Feel bloody GUILTY more like!!) and give me 5 more dollars.

To this very day I fucking hate lantana with a fucking passion.

Got half-mad lady back though - Pals and I forevermore went out of our way to pinch mangoes and mandarins from her trees - even when we didn't really want any...and would regularly rattle her front gates and bolt - causing her half-mad dog to go off its half-mad 'nana, and her to have to come out to calm it down & see what all the fuss was about. But we were always long gone.

Sorry - it's rather long. Oo-er. *Insert other penis joke here*
(, Fri 17 Feb 2006, 14:27, Reply)
frozen hell
A mate was unfortunate enough to work in a frozen food factory and - for a few paltry pennies- he had to don a white coat and hairnet and use a syringe to pipe garlic oil into the slits of a frozen baguette. For 8 hours. Smell didn’t go down well with the ladies when hanging out in the park after work.

He was eventually promoted and had to put toppings on frozen pizzas. Ever bought a pizza and thought the positioning of pepperoni resembled a face? That’ll be the boredom kicking in. (apparently there weren’t enough slices per pizza to spell out the obvious profanities).

Think he was replaced by a machine.
(, Fri 17 Feb 2006, 14:27, Reply)
I remember once...
The payment was a spanking new Game Boy game. The job? Learn to ride my bike.

Damn, I had it hard.
(, Fri 17 Feb 2006, 14:26, Reply)
Mister bloody Pound
Worst ever job: working for £15 a day in the everything-for-a-pound-and-now-thankfully-bust-shop Mister Pound (later Poundworld). I would come in of a Saturday morning, mop up the chunder outside the door (we were next to a horrible 'nitespot') and then spend the rest of my day trying to duck when my friends walked by, and selling bleach, hideous mugs and outdated Pot Noodles to Merthyr Tydfil's great unwashed. People really *do* come into these places and ask ''ow much is this'? Especially the ones from the local loony bin, which was two hundred yards away.

Best childhood job: post A-levels summer, sitting on the roof of my house with a six pack, keeping cats out of the back garden with a Black Widow catapult and a bag of BBs, for a tenner a day from my stepfather. Bliss.
(, Fri 17 Feb 2006, 14:25, Reply)
Worth it?
When i was 16 i got a job doing filing for peoplesphone. I got paid £3.10 an hour to spend all day filing in an office where people were doing telesales all day so no-one spoke to each other and i'd get around 10 papercuts a day. It took me 1 hour to get to the office and my travel cost £9 a day. So the first 4 hours a day covered my travel cost and lunch and then the next three hours were mine to keep! Wow - I used to leave the house at 7am and get back at 17:30 all for the princely sum of £9 a day!! Then after a week, there was two much to do so they employed a 21 year old who got £6.50 an hour!!! I couldn't f**King believe it. Quit the next day - the silver lining was that i got a job with one2one where they paid me £21 an hour to build computers on a sunday!! That's twice what i get now 10 years later!
(, Fri 17 Feb 2006, 14:23, Reply)
other than digging coal down t'pit...
My dad used to pay me a pound for every rat i shot with an air rifle, down the wood mill he wasrunning for my uncle.

My father's access rights were taken away pretty soon after i'd told my mum...
(, Fri 17 Feb 2006, 14:18, Reply)
Posh child labour
It is a well known fact that all young girls are into either horses or ballet or both. Lack of willpower with regard to eating disorders meant that I was firmly in the horse camp, which is how I managed to end up as a polo groom for a summer when I was 15.

We worked from 7 - 5 every day, shovelling shit, cleaning tack and fending off the advances of middle aged, fat blokes, all for the princely sum of - nothing. Just the chance to have a go on a horsey and maybe get a few free lessons (I think I managed 2 total in a 3 month period). Oh, and I broke my wrist and had a horse fall backwards into a river on top of me. Yay!

It did however allow me to segue into goal judging at polo when I was 16 - 5 quid for 45 minutes of standing at one end of a pitch wearing a hard hat and carrying a bucket of balls. Sounds easy. Until 8 people on horses who can't really ride and don't really notice that you are there thunder towards you waving big sticks around their heads. And then swear at you when you don't run with the speed of Linford Christie to replace balls for penalties and the like. However, I can now swear like a sailor in a variety of languages, which provides hours of entertainment.

I'm trying to sound bitter, but really I had a great time. Damn.
(, Fri 17 Feb 2006, 14:08, Reply)
Bastard Sunday Times Cnuts
I rember on my paper round (twas a morning round) we had to be out of the paper shop by 06:00! Also there was a family of cnuts who insisted on having the Times on Sunday Behemoth Edition but had a letter box half the size of everyone else and yes the paper would not fit, being resourcefull I tried:
Jamming it half way : Complained about not knowing it was delivered
Knocking on the door : Complained about being woken up
posting each section separately : Complained about having to put it together

Finaly I just told the newsagent I didn't care and the next sunday I raped the letter box with the nespaper till I was mangled (the papaer not the letter box), told them!
(, Fri 17 Feb 2006, 14:05, Reply)
mmm, penicillin...
As a young (and quite frankly foolish) teenager wanting vodka money, I got a job in the local greengrocers, having being seduced with the idea of free strawberries (or something like that anyway). However, the wage was £2.50 p/h, bearing in mind that this was only about 5 years ago and therefore still worth, well NOTHING. The worst part was at christmas, when satsumas and all those other godawful miniature orange wannabe fruits are in fashion and out of every crate that came in, about 15 would have gone completely mouldy. We're talking grey balls of fluff that disintegrate into blobs of grossness and slime as soon as you touch them. So anyway, myself and all the other underage underpaid workers would don a plastic bag on each hand (no gloves, oh no, just those RUBBISH see through bags you get in supermarkets etc) and pick out the bloody rank fruit. If we did it particularly quickly or well we would get as a little bonus...a FRICKING SATSUMA! probably from the crate we just cleaned. grr.
(S.K Fruits in Trowbridge if you're wondering. Named and shamed.)
(, Fri 17 Feb 2006, 13:54, Reply)
For the princely sum of £2 a week
I delivered 3 papers a day, Mon to Fri. 2 of the papers were delivered almost next door to the newsagents, the 3rd one was about 2 miles away, up a steep bastard hill. This was around 1988 and was just as shitty and underpaid as it sounds.

When it was raining my boss took me on the paper round in one of his flash cars, which was nice. What wasn't nice was that he'd let me spend my wages in advance on slush-puppies and sweets, so come payday, I'd be lucky to get 50p. Tosser.
(, Fri 17 Feb 2006, 13:53, Reply)

This question is now closed.

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