A little colour in our lives

When I started work in the meat works (aka abattoirs aka slaughterhouse) as a meat inspector, I was 17 years old and wet behind the ears. I had led a very sheltered life in a low income middle class area of Melbourne, the capital city of Victoria.

As you might imagine, the meat works was not a highly sought after place of work, so I was working among many eastern European migrants, and people from the poorer segments of Australian society. Please, don't get me wrong here - I did not think myself superior to any of them - just different - trust me, I was the odd one out.

Like most strange places, your survival depends on shutting up, listening and adapting. And by doing that, I found that many of these people were "characters" - not someones who would be welcomed into polite society, but perfectly at home where they were.

One such guy was Alf McGrotty, whom I had the dubious pleasure of working with at the Anglis meat works in Footscray. The mutton processing chain was a long distance from the main amenities block, so walking back and forward to get a cup of tea or go to the loo was time consuming. So the meat inspectors (of which I was one) had their own amenities close to the mutton chain. Now, remember , I am going back nearly 35 years when I relate these tales, and don't judge us too harshly. Alf was designated "cook" for the meat inspectors, and it was his job to serve up a full meal to the 6 inspectors working on the mutton chains - and I do mean a full meal - roast leg of lamb (or roast beef occasionally) with roast potatoes, pumpkin, peas, mashed potatoes, gravy and mint sauce. Not bad for a week day (every week day!). We all used to contribute a few dollars for the trimmings, but the meat came straight from the processing floor.

So, now you have the background, here a couple of "Alf" tales that show what type of character Alf was...

My first day on the mutton chain they put me on the lamb chain where Alf was supposed to be working (of course he was off preparing the veg for the meal). Now I was keeping up OK and everything was going along fine when Alf arrived at my side. Thankful for the breather, I slowed down a bit. Imagine my surprise when Alf grabs a lamb off the processing line, says "hold that!", giving it to me and then proceeded to cut the leg of the lamb, stuff it under his shirt and make his way rapidly back into the amenity room. There I was, standing with this mutilated lamb carcass, the rest of the lambs whizzing by, and my chin on the floor! I recovered as best I could, and enjoyed the lamb for lunch.

One time when there was a petrol strike on, the meat works allowed meat inspectors to purchase petrol from the on-site pumps at the price they paid for it - this was so they would not lose production if the the meat inspectors could not get in to work. As I had to travel across the city, I was very grateful and was careful to only use the petrol for work. However, one day when I went to fill up I was told that "there would be no more petrol for meat inspectors" - one inspector had been filling up his tank, going home, siphoning it off, and then filling up the next day. Likely this could have gone on for a while, but the stupid bugger started selling it at inflated prices to the rest of the workers in the meat works (who were not privileged enough to have the option to buy it!). Yep, you guessed it - Alf was that man.

Also at the Anglis meat works was a labourer known to me as "Millie" - well that's how everyone addressed him, so I did too. I was working on the beef cradles this particular day when I heard a foreman ask Millie:" Hey, Millie, when did you get your last fuck?". Quick as a flash Millie replied "You've got a short memory!" The foreman disappeared in a hurry to the sound of some very loud laughter...

So here I am, thirty-five years later, and I look around for a "character" or two to help me realise that world is not really deadly dull and grey, it just seems that way. And what do I find? Politicians with the charisma of a dead fish, overtly unfunny people in whom nasty passes for humour, workmates who are so scared of the PC police that they dare not utter anything that may be construed as "not PC", everybody in "head down, arse up" mode with no time for the lighter side of life, no "conspiracy theorists" to feed lines about "them" to, nobody wearing tinfoil hats, just no colour to be seen.

How sad.

So, I have decided that I will speak my mind, I will utter "not PC" thoughts as they occur to me, and not censor everything I think in case I offend someone.

I predict my life will be a little more colourful from now on.....