Thought of this over lunch.
I made a list once of all the jobs I'd had over the years it took me a couple of days to remember them all (well, that includes all the places I was sent as a general dogsbody temp) but thinking back, I can only remember a couple that ended prematurely - one of those was truly on mutual agreement between me and the gaffer, the other...

[wavey lines]

Let me take you back to 1991, the year when Mrs G and I, plus a 3-yr old sprog emigrated from Hounslow to York, well it felt like a foreign country for the first few years. We'd fled the over-priced capital city in search of a better and cheaper life in which to bring up a child and find happiness. I'd failed to make it as a self-employed cabinetmaker and we were broke, so a day or two after moving in, I got a job through an agency. Being still a youngster (well looking back now, mid to late 20s seems very young to me) I failed to grasp the full significance of the job description: food preparation operative (or somesuch). I also had little grasp of the local geography, still the woman in the agency seemed to think it was OK and asked if I'd mind giving a couple of other of their temps a lift to the place. 'Fine' I said, 'no problem.'

The factory was near Northallerton, which I now know to be about as far as I'd drive for a job I enjoyed, if the pay was good. Being a food factory, shift started fairly early and it was a good 45 minute drive up the A19. The other guys I picked up seemed alright and we arrived in good time. Early enough to have to stand about outside while a delivery truck came and unloaded a load of turkeys. Live turkeys. One made a mad dash for freedom somehow and flapped around the side of the lorry, it was soon followed by the delivery man. If you've seen 'Texas Chainsaw Massacre' you'll have an idea of what the guy looked like - I swear he had a chainsaw in one hand as he sauntered over, grabbed the turkey by the feet with one massive gloved hand and threw it back into the back of the truck.

When the supervisor came out he showed us where to get changed: white overalls, white plastic apron, hairnet, white wellies; yep, we looked great. Then into the factory; I was put in the packing room: a cold room with long stainless steel tables where people were doing things to turkeys which arrived in huge, square white plastic bins, about a metre cubed. I was shown what to do: take a turkey out of the bin, check to see if it's got nasty discoloured bruising anywhere, if it has, put it in another big plastic bin (these would be chopped up for bits, i.e. turkey drumsticks, breasts etc and the nasty bits probably went for pet food...or turkey twizzlers). If it was OK, then grab a tray and a nappie, put turkey on nappie on tray and place on the table. People stood at the other side of the table would then do the skilled bit, i.e. put the elastic band thing on to keep it together. Doesn't sound too bad does it? It wasn't, except the turkeys were chilled so after roughly two minutes, so were my hands.

An hour an a half in, coffee break, or for 90% of us, fag break. Then back in until lunch...fag break...home. A long, tough day, 8 hours on your feet except for 30 minutes at lunch and two 20 minute fag breaks. Then 45 minutes to drive home. 'See you tomorrow lads'.

Day two. Similar, but when I was taken in to the factory, it was to the plucking area. A conveyer belt about six foot off the floor, from which dead turkeys dangled by their feet, fresh from the dunking vat of boiling water which removed most of their feathers. My job? To remove the rest, by hand, and most of the awkward ones that hadn't come off were located between the birds' legs. These birds hadn't been gutted yet and they still had their heads. They were hot from the dunking and residual body heat as they were only just dead. As I reached up to give the dead birds their Brazilians, shit squirted from their anuses and other liquids squirted from other orafices. These liquids squirted onto my nice plastic apron and my lovely white overalls and some onto my face, hands and arms. Water from the dunking ran down my sleeves as I plucked, as the birds were up at face height. The belt was moving quite fast, so I had to pluck fast; the room was noisy and hot, my arm ached my feet hurt as the wellies were too big and heavy and they hadn't recovered from yesterday.

An hour and a half in, fag break. I headed straight to the changing room, took off my shitty clothing, put my own shoes on, grabbed my jacket, headed for the carpark, got in my car and drove home. I had a cup of tea and a fag in the back yard as I described my morning to Mrs G, then I rang the agency - they'd already heard that I'd disappeared. I told them that I'd felt ill and couldn't go back. I also said I was sorry for marooning the two other lads out there. My first job in Yorkshire had lasted one day and one and a half hours.
(Che Grimsdale Best before:, Thu 22 May 2008, 15:48, 3 replies)

Bloody hell Che
i've read a lot of your posts before and nodded knowingly to myself as I had had very similar experiences, but I have never had to pluck dead shitting turkeys! I'm sure there's an analogy with the financial services though...
( Colonel Dracula Two manky hookers and a racist dwarf, Thu 22 May 2008, 16:11, closed)

Hi Colonel [salutes]
I'm sure you're right there, I'll work on some new form of the 'dead cat bounce' perhaps... "Well, I know it's a dead turkey, but it's still pretty warm".

Strange but true, I won't eat turkey to this day, but I love chicken.
(Che Grimsdale Best before:, Thu 22 May 2008, 16:42, closed)

@Che
if you'd ever chatted with someone who works in a chicken processing plant, you'd never touch the stuff again.

A bloke who used to date my friend's sister (bit tenuous) got sacked from Marshall's for "cruelty to chickens". They go there to die, ffs. How much more cruel can you be? I ended the conversation rather swiftly to avoid hearing the gory details.

*click*
(TheWeeWitch hasn't been here much recently .., Thu 22 May 2008, 17:17, closed)