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)
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)
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The horror of earning £2 per hour in deepest darkest Somerset.
In 1992 when I was 14 my overprotective sMother thought it would be a good idea to get a job in a war zone. Well ok, it was the local Clay Pigeon Shooting club. I would be a "trapper" operating a "trap" that fired "clays" into the air so that the "inbred gun-toting carrot crunchers" could blast them to smithereens.
The trap is a menacing piece of equipment, basically consisting of a steel arm attached to a tripod by an industrial spring that you have to heave back, insert a clay and when the shooter shouts “Pull!” or “Trap!” you release it keeping all body parts away from the deadly swinging arm.
On my first day I was in for a treat. I was to operate the “Rabbit”. The rabbit was a bigger kind of trap that sent a special clay rolling down a long rubber mat to be obliterated a few meters away. I was replacing Simon who was undergoing facial reconstruction because he had caught his face in the rabbits swinging arm (they got through more trappers that way).
A short list of incidents in the next 2 months:
Hands & gloves ripped to shreds on the sharp swinging arm of the trap.
The protective hay-bale wall collapsing on me.
Spent lead shot raining down on me.
No ear protection because I “might not hear instructions”.
Receiving a shrapnel wound on the hand from a disintegrating clay from a nearby trap. Obviously no first aid kit, so the wound was eventually bound with a paper towel and electrical tape.
Gun fire control that makes Dick Cheyney look like he has an exemplary health & safety record.
The crunch came when I had been sat in a hedge for 2 hours, shivering in the pouring rain operating a trap that was desperately trying to take my head off because the trajectory bolt was loose and nobody could (or would) find a spanner to tighten it. The ghost of Simons missing front teeth & nose cartilage appeared to me and told me to get a Sunday morning paper round, and ‘yes’ chthonic, those Sunday papers are a bitch to carry.
( , Wed 22 Feb 2006, 10:40, Reply)
In 1992 when I was 14 my overprotective sMother thought it would be a good idea to get a job in a war zone. Well ok, it was the local Clay Pigeon Shooting club. I would be a "trapper" operating a "trap" that fired "clays" into the air so that the "inbred gun-toting carrot crunchers" could blast them to smithereens.
The trap is a menacing piece of equipment, basically consisting of a steel arm attached to a tripod by an industrial spring that you have to heave back, insert a clay and when the shooter shouts “Pull!” or “Trap!” you release it keeping all body parts away from the deadly swinging arm.
On my first day I was in for a treat. I was to operate the “Rabbit”. The rabbit was a bigger kind of trap that sent a special clay rolling down a long rubber mat to be obliterated a few meters away. I was replacing Simon who was undergoing facial reconstruction because he had caught his face in the rabbits swinging arm (they got through more trappers that way).
A short list of incidents in the next 2 months:
Hands & gloves ripped to shreds on the sharp swinging arm of the trap.
The protective hay-bale wall collapsing on me.
Spent lead shot raining down on me.
No ear protection because I “might not hear instructions”.
Receiving a shrapnel wound on the hand from a disintegrating clay from a nearby trap. Obviously no first aid kit, so the wound was eventually bound with a paper towel and electrical tape.
Gun fire control that makes Dick Cheyney look like he has an exemplary health & safety record.
The crunch came when I had been sat in a hedge for 2 hours, shivering in the pouring rain operating a trap that was desperately trying to take my head off because the trajectory bolt was loose and nobody could (or would) find a spanner to tighten it. The ghost of Simons missing front teeth & nose cartilage appeared to me and told me to get a Sunday morning paper round, and ‘yes’ chthonic, those Sunday papers are a bitch to carry.
( , Wed 22 Feb 2006, 10:40, Reply)
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