Ondura Remoulds
I still remember with pride the buff brown clocking in card with my name and number on it. A deft slide into the slot,a firm press of the brass handle and at 7.29 AM I was in. Pushing open the dirty cream swing doors with my foot I once again entered another world; a world of hissing steam,fiery furnaces and the pungent smell of rubber. I trudged past half naked blackened men, crouching over the row of grey porcelain sinks, smattering Swarfega all over their faces,arms and chests.The night shift.
Pops and loud bangs filled the smoky air as I passed other half naked men fighting with long, iron tyre levers and truck tyres. Their sweaty torsos glistened in the orange light as though melting in the fierce heat from the open furnaces.
Almost overcome by the intensity of the heat, I was relieved to feel the waft of cooler hot air as I pushed through the rubber doors and into my work area. Alf had my grubby mug of tea ready and I sat down to enjoy the bacon and egg sandwich mum had risen early to make me.
The factory nestled in the smog of the once proud and dying textile town. A former mill, the new tyre remoulding set up was seen as a saviour for the unemployed and was also handy for students like myself labouring for tax free booze and drugs money.
The idea was that old truck tyres could have a new tread moulded onto them and then resold cheaply. The business boomed in the early stages and before long our work could be seen everywhere ... scattered on the hard shoulder of every motorway in the country.
Anyway, my job was to cut off the inch long spikes of rubber left on the 'new' tyre by the moulding process. I then had to coat both tyre walls with black, sticky rubbery paint to complete the illusion of newness.
On the morning in question Alf asked me to stack the tyres at the far end of the shed after painting them. Those tyres were trucking heavy and the only way to manoeuvre them successfully was to get them rolling at a decent speed, otherwise they would wobble and topple over. I can still feel the heat of the bastards as I write.
I had mastered the technique by the fifth tyre and with flushed face and a wet brow I heaved number six upright and pushed off for the 50 metre roll down the long passageway bordered by piles of tyres. It was just after hitting maximum speed that I noticed them. The civic dignitaries. Invited to inspect the saviour of the dying town. The mayor didn't look too dissimilar to the columns of fat black tyres but his wife, resplendent in a powder blue two piece with matching hat,shone out through the gloom.
I leave you with me, a skinny 18 year old chasing a huge, sticky black runaway tyre and a menopausal mayoress losing her race to a place of safety.
(mallyjoe, Wed 8 Oct 2014, 12:49, 5 replies)

Well done

(the other guy not the one that gave you coochie warts, Wed 8 Oct 2014, 13:42, closed)

So you had a cold bacon and egg sandwich?
Eeuuw
(The Magic Number is neither magic nor a number, Wed 8 Oct 2014, 14:26, closed)

WTF?
Marks and Spencer sell an absolutely delicious Bacon and Egg sandwich. Cold.
It is almost always sold out when I go to get one.
(eViLegion Chief Commissioner of the Scottish Lunacy Board, Wed 8 Oct 2014, 15:32, closed)

I can't quite work out why your mum would be there.
Was it the lure of all those glistening, naked men?
( monster munch person, man, woman... camera... TV?, Wed 8 Oct 2014, 16:29, closed)

click

(zebideedoodah likes florence but prefers venice, Wed 8 Oct 2014, 23:43, closed)