Always Read the Label Chapter 3 The Life of Reilly

There must be a switch someone at the Government hits, one that slows down time in the week and speeds it up at the weekend. After the rush of the weekend its time to drag through the week. I'm finally convinced by the nagging alarm to get out of a warm bed, drag on some dirty clothes lying about since last Friday and and go sit, or squat, depending on how many others have already been picked up, in a dirty van for an uncomfortable ride to a huge factory conversion in Radcliffe. The soundtrack to the journey was a mix of 'how was you're weekend?' (stock reply: 'not long enough') and out of tune singing to 60s crooners by Vinny.

I'd been introduced to Vinny Reilly, he of Vinny Reilly and Sons, General Builders, by his nephew, Baz. He'd given me his phone number and after a few tries I'd got in touch and been told to meet him outside a local pub at 7 in the morning. Not much of an interview process or a job description. I could tell by his voice I'd recognise him immediately. The job was general Labouring, but I wasn't afraid of it being hard work as Baz had told me Vinny was a big drinker: 'You'll spend more time in the pub than on the site'. Getting paid to go to a pub. It seemed a great career move. Where do I not have to sign?

I don't reckon Baz had seen his uncle in a while as he was now teetotal and always heavily hinting that this was a result of him finding God. So not too many afternoons had been passed in social clubs during the last couple of months. In fact none had. On the one occasion we all went to the pub at lunchtime, Vinny had given us a lecture when we returned outlining how although he had support from above to help him, he was only human and we had to help him avoid the temptation.

As we drive over the bumpy entrance to the site it fully dawns on everyone that it's yet another full week of dirty work for cash. You can see the deflation spread like a leak as we're waiting for someone to open the back doors of the van. As I get out, as usual there's a van parked next to us with the two Irish Plasterers and the much younger son of one of them who mixes the plaster. Another family business. But one that always has a happy note glowing from it despite their having to sit 50ft up in the air on a harness balancing a bucket. They're already halfway through their jumbo polystyrene tea, a stop-gap until they get to their individual flask after breakfast. I need some tea to get me going, so head off to the bakers round the corner with another of the guys from the van, Kenny.

Vinny has convinced Kenny that I'm called Duke, which is how he addresses me, despite having known my name all through school. I don't know why but its the name he's decided to rechristen me with. Whenever he needs a few more hands on deck he tells his foreman to 'get Duke to find some'. So I'm rechristened and expected to get him an endless supply of cheap unskilled labour to grind down. Its not actually too difficult as loads of people are scratching around for cash at the minute. Just like I am in the bakers as I've got next to nothing left from the weekend. Enough for a small tea and a straightforward, rather than fancy, cake. To be consumed alongside a realisation I have nothing left to buy dinner with. Its funny – no matter how many times I get into this situation I still can't get it together to make a packed lunch, like most of the others. Even with the humiliation of asking for a sub from Vinny lingering for half the week.

The site's noisy when we get back - a mix of, erm, mixers and barking from Vinny and the foreman, Pat. I've drunk the tea quickly while it was still melting the polystyrene so that it now melts my insides as I walk to where Pat is beckoning, to get my orders for the day.
'I need you to mix the concrete today. A good stiff mix that you need to take around the back to Vinny whenever he shouts'.
He shouts constantly anyway so this is going to be a difficult one to call.
'You get Maz to help you barrow it round'.
Maz is what you might call vertically and personality challenged. He doesn't talk and he's really small. He looks like a child has been let onto the site.

No point in attempting a conversation so I pick up a shovel and start throwing sand, then cement into the mixer. A hosepipe that leaks all over my trainers eventually wets the mix. In the noisy mechanical quiet it's just the rhythm of work to dance to. Scoop, count, mix, pour, push, tip, start all over again whenever you hear the shout 'more mix'. Maybe sneak a wet fag in between scoops until its time for dinner, which I'm trying not to think about.

'If I find out who it is that has been nicking my tools then I'll hit their hands with a club hammer.'
It's the first thing I hear when I go in the only room with four intact walls in the whole building, which serves as a gathering place for breaks. Vinny on the warpath is a lovely way to start the one communal break of the day.
'I know who it is', he throws hopefully but not convincingly, to everyone in the room as he departs.
I reckon I do. There's a really shady looking local guy who does the electrics or something. He's just that bit too skinny and always seems to have too much tinfoil in his bag. More than you find around a sandwich. Much more. Vinny might not know who has been thieving yet, but he's deadly serious about the punishment. I have to chase after Vinny to get a sub. I ask him as politely as I can for £20 quid and end up with a tenner, handed over as he mutters about an angle grinder going missing. A tenner is good as he never remembers them at the end of the week, just 20's. A ham muffin, tin of lilt and a bag of crisps are now both within reach and in order.

The afternoon starts with a new task, this time noisily instructed by Vinny himself. He wants some ceiling tiles and their frame taken down. It's a big room and along with Mouthy Maz I get to work with Kenny. I'm put in charge as I've brought both these two on-board in the last month. I've no memory of how Maz ended up here as I don't remember having a single conversation with him. Ever.

There's no scaffold, just a set of step-ladders each and a hammer. The tiles are easy – just push each square up with a hammer held above your head and they fall down the gap, while you take a quick step sideways. We have to reach off the top of the steps to get to the metal framework though and use the claw on the hammer to drag this down. It's not long before we realise that hanging from the metal strips is much more fun. We look like monkeys in a riot. The wires that come down with the frame look like they used to carry the electrics to the strip lights, but as all the switches have been taken off, there's no way to check. The monkey theme starts to extend to realistic noises and we get the odd face at the door frame laughing at the carnage. Vinny and Pat appear and laugh at us, but then suddenly Vinny tells us to stop and says something to Pat who scuttles off.
We wait for him to return, when he tells Vinny ' it's off now.'
So if we had tested the lights they would have come on. It's not just us who are monkeys then. Takes a bit of fun out of the rest of the afternoon knowing that we'd have been dead if the wrong wires had been touched.

On the way back in the van, the mood lifts a tiny bit as another cross on the calendar appears, bringing us another step closer to the weekend. Just a gap before the next round of repetition but still, it's a gap. I'm not planning anything beyond catch-up sleep tonight, a choice determined mainly by the fact I've got less than a tenner to last till Friday. It's doable, but only just. For once a decent record comes on crooner FM. Frankie Valli singing 'The Night'. Vinny doesn't know this one so I get to hear it almost uninterrupted. It helps me decide what I'm gonna do tonight. Make a tape. It couldn't get more exciting.

Tuesday is just the same shape, can't get up, can't get into it, the hours drag until we get the uncomfortable lift home. Wednesday has a bit of variety – I have to sign on, so tell Vinny this as I jump out of the van that morning. Nearly every day he has to take someone to sign-on. As he takes great pains to tell you, he doesn't approve and would rather not know. What he means is he's already been caught and warned for dropping people outside the DHSS office and now has to wait a few streets away while you sign the book. It goes in one ear and out the other. The only thing I had to remember was a clean change of clothes. Or at least some without cement on them.

At 11 I go off to find Vinny to remind him I need a lift to sign-on. He makes the usual fuss as I go and change in the portaloo. I catch site of myself and wipe some dust from my face with the trickle of cold water, using the inside of my jacket to get dry.

Off to declare no work we go then. I get dropped a few streets away. As I jog there, at Vinny's insistence, I see another guy getting exactly the same treatment round the next corner. He's not taken quite as many precautions though and has cement dust puffing out at every step. He goes up the stairs ahead of me and stands in front of me as we join the queue to be humiliated. He goes off to the counter on the right and I get called a few minutes later to the left. I hand over my card and await the question.
'Have you done any work in the past 2 weeks?'.
'No’.
Have you? Power is a funny thing. Some spend their life chasing it, others running away from it. I’m willing to let the fool with the clip on tie believe he has me in my place, quaking in my (work) boots. I cant afford to take any more time off to answer questions untruthfully.

He accepts my smiling answer for now and I scarper through the door, just as the dusty guy I saw earlier is being taken, still puffing slightly, to a room near the exit. There's taking the piss and taking the piss. It just reminds me to be even more cautious.

Down the stairs, in the van and back to the site. A quick change and it's back to the cement mixer. I have to pretend to work through lunch today cos I've been gone nearly an hour, so start the mixer. Today it's concrete rather than cement, so those sharp little stones go in the mix. Kenny is helping me, which is a relief after Mouthy Maz giving me earache with his stunning non-stop banter. We get a load sloshing around and I ask Kenny to check it's thick enough by having a look in the slowly rotating barrel. He puts his face right into the gap and I spin the wheel slightly to lower it. This throws the wet concrete into his face, making a grey mess all along the middle of his face, like a concrete coloured Ziggy Stardust. I hear him yelp above my laughing, which soon brings Vinny over. He thinks it's the funniest thing ever and takes a protesting Kenny around all the nearest workers to show off his now-drying Bowie mask. When he's allowed to escape he spits a sarcy 'thanks' which immediately makes me feel bad. I tell him he should wash his face before the cement starts to burn. When he comes back its all gone except a faint red patch down his cheek.

I spend the afternoon waiting for revenge to come, but it doesn't. It will though, I can tell by the mood in the van on the way home. Any chance of a truce is not helped by Vinny keep laughing and asking everyone if they saw his face. 'Covered it was, covered.Eh Ziggy?'

Thursday is just a slight variation of this theme that nothing really happens. Perhaps I'm overplaying it, cos there was obviously some sort of conversation and jobs being done, maybe even a few laughs. And there must have been some sort of exchange, at the very least when we went to get lunch at the bakers. But nothing joining the grey dots of the week, except developing dreams of the weekend as it drags itself to within reach.

Friday always brings a whiff of hope with it. Mainly because we all get our little envelope, lovingly filled by Vinnys invisible wife. Not enough to retire, but enough to retire from the fray for a few days. And Vinny has forgotten that tenner he subbed me. It doesn't get any better than that – until I remember I can expect the fortnightly giro to top it all up beyond the stretching point of the planned weekend. Everyone's talk of these plans fills the now unnoticed discomfort of the van on the way home. I won't see any of the other passengers until the Monday when we'll have had all the hope whittled away again in a variety of unique ways.