Always Read the Label Chapter 8 Work/Life Balance

My first time at one of the venues I've spent the past 5 years reading about in NME and Melody Maker. The Powerhaus in Islington is a lot smaller than I imagined, long and thin and currently heatedly stuffed. The support act are on, but I've no idea who they are. I'll ask Simon when he comes back from the bar, if he ever comes back, looking at the size of the queue. It's a bit of a racket coming from the stage, but something to focus on while I'm alone in the crowd. It's weird knowing no one here. I'm used to seeing the same faces at the Boardwalk, Internationals and The Gallery. Same kind of people I'm sure, just a different setting. Cos I don't know any of them I don't get to hear their tales and dreams of getting their band noticed or, as has been the story more recently, where they're DJing.

Simon prods me a little bit too hard with a plastic pint glass on his return, making a bit of the liquid spill on me and the guy next to me, who he immediately starts apologising to. It starts a conversation with the guy, who turns out to be called Chris. He's with a girl with bright red hair who he introduces as his girlfriend, Miki. They seem friendly enough and chat away about the band who are due on soon now the support band has finally given up trying, saying they're hoping to support them soon with their own band. I ask them about the band and it turns out Chris is the drummer while Miki plays guitar and sings, along with another girl, Emma. I ask about the bass player but get no response beyond he's called Steve. Chris tells me he's been playing about 7 years and seems genuinely interested when I tell him I learned to play when I was 12, but never managed to get anywhere beyond playing local church halls with the teenager bands I was in and out of. He says he started the same way and we laugh at the names and songs that seemed like such a good idea back then. We eventually agree the outright winner for crapness is a a song called Jumble Sale that included the lines 'the women are fighting to buy jumpers for 5p. Forget the jumble sale this is World War 3' A beautifully observed slice of life from a band I was in at 14. I'm still singing it when the lights go down and the band come on stage to meet the growing cheer.

When you can play an instrument, watching someone else play makes you an instant critic who's almost willing them to fail. Or at least give up, leading to an announcement over the PA: 'is there a drummer in the house who can step in?'. The band weren't quite in that league of wish-making, but it looked pretty appealing how all the rooms' focus was on them and them alone. After all the dancey stuff of the past few years it was strange to hear a straight forward band play songs not grooves. All the songs seem to jump really quickly from quiet, almost whispered verses to loud shouty choruses. I might not be instantly transformed into their biggest fan, but they went down well and earned them 2 encores. During the second one some little blond bloke who was absolutely bladdered was bouncing his way to the exit while oblivious to how near he came to getting a good kicking at each bump as he spilt his drink on everyone and everything, apologising constantly with a really loud posh voice.

Chris was shooting off to some party afterwards but I had to head off with Simon as the last train was due soon. The taxi fare, or lack of it, decided when our night had to end. I promised to get along to his next gig in a weeks time or so and wrote the details on a fag packet before watching him head off in the other direction. On the train we chatted about the gig and Simon told me who the support act were. A name that meant nothing to me. He also told me about Chris's band, how they had a bit of a name for themselves. Wow - I know a real live superstar.

I wake up remembering it had been a good night, like they always are when you don't expect much. I made some friends and had got an excuse to become an amateur groupie. The prospect of this upcoming fun briefly holds back the realisation that I have to be up, dressed and on the train to a building site in the city in 15 minutes. I rush about in the semi-dark and give up on trying to attempt any breakfast before I leave. Fags, lighter, key and money. Out the door and into the lift as it drops me back to earth with a jolt. A quick jog to the train station to stand beside everyone else forced to get up too early.

I hate this more than anything - the pointless work that wears you out. If I was doing it to buy a palace or another Rolls Royce it might be different. But it's a wasted, dirty day, swimming to avoid drowning. Earnings that cover just the basics. At the end of it I'll be back sleeping on a mattress and wishing I wasn't alone. Oh well, one of those attacks of regrets you get whenever you're not quite settled and need to lash out at the nearest dislike. It'll pass; things'll get better eventually.

Not if this train doesn't get moving again though. We've been stuck here for a good ten minutes now in silence. Much longer and I might as well head back home rather than turn up late and not get picked. There'll be plenty in the queue to make up the numbers. From the train window I can see a block of flats a bit shorter than ours with lights coming on in random patterns as individual flats wake up. I start trying to guess which room has just had the light switched on – kitchen? bedroom? As I start making stories up about what's going on in each flat, the train pulls away, leaving the stories untold and soon forgotten, as they always are.

Two more stops and I'm through the barriers, pretending to flash a ticket from the middle of the covering herd. It works only because the ticket guy really doesn't want the hassle of looking too closely and being forced to react. Up to the street and it's time to add to the daily parade of casual workers who already line the street. Some have tools and hats, some have just a t shirt on in the chill air and one is so desperate to make an impression he has a suit on. I can't see any bag, so reckon he intends to work like that. Even if it's mixing cement or digging holes. The guy who does the picking looks like all the horrible cockneys you see on TV or more recently, in the away end at the football. Big thick shiny leather jacket that partly manages to hide how fat he really is and greased black hair. I'd love to let him know I hate him, if I didn't need him to pick me for some underpaid work I don't want, but really need. He asks the guy next to me, who's stood with a really straight back like he's on parade in the army, what he can do. He doesn't understand the question which was asked pretty quick and sounded more like 'whatyoudoson?' I didn't get it at first and this is my language. He says 'sorry' again hoping to get it repeated, but he's missed his chance and the question moves to me.
'First fix carpentry, maybe second, or any sort of general stuff'. I'm chancing it here as I don't have any tools with me, which he'd see if he wasn't in such a rush to be superior to the next person in line.
'Tower Bridge. Van 3 over there. Ask for the head chippie, Paul, jockey cunt, when you get there.'
Nice one. I'm off to the van before he changes his mind. I'm joined by 3 others before we set off in the snail of traffic accompanied by the annoying sing song of the junior cockney caricature who's driving us there.
'Where you from then lads?'
He gets the reply of Manchester, Watford, Birmingham and Nigeria.
The last one throws him a bit and he can only cope with it by repeating it back like a question.
'I'm from Ilford. Been doing this for a few years now. Nearly ready to set up my own firm'.
He tells us this unprompted, sounding like he expects us to all beg him to let us join him when he gets set up. He either doesn't notice the lack of replies or intends to keep telling us about himself anyway.
'The missus is on my back. What you doing wasting all your time working for Charlie when you could have your own little business. So I thought, she's right you know – there's nothing stopping me. Best not to tell Charlie just yet though. Until I'm good and ready. Be blinding when I get it going. Plenty of work around here and up Docklands. Enough to go round for everyone.'
And on and on his business plans go. Only the guy from Nigeria offers any input by saying he will be happy to work for Bill, or Billy, as we find out the guy is called. He's still no nearer to actually setting up his business when we arrive, which is surprising as it took 40 minutes and two wrong turns before we got waved through by the site guard, who apparently is also a blinding geezer in Bill's books.

I don't know about a blinding geezer, but a dazzling geezer is definitely what trots over and introduces itself as 'Paul. Scottish Paul. SP'. Covered in sawdust and all other sorts of cloud making stuff on his t shirt and tracksuit bottoms outfit, the first thing you look at with Paul is his teeth. Perfect teeth, but made to fit someone much bigger. Which means he can never hide them; they remain on show permanently, like only a nose should. I'm surprised they've not been worn down by Paul's non-stop talking that strolls noisily alongside as we get put to work. Where you from, how long you been here, where do you live, what do you do, and when its my turn, where are your tools? I knew it was coming so have a pathetic 'didn't know I was on this site today' answer ready. I get a roll of eyes before a 'you can work with me today then' from Paul.

And he means work. I'm soon stripped of my sweatshirt and wishing I had more to take off. Inside it's like being in a sauna, not helped by the plastic sheets covering the newly fitted windows to keep the dust off them. And all-over me. My only hope is that they run out of materials, which looks unlikely as there's a pile along each wall. Every time I try to slip into a darker corner for a break the searchlights in Paul's mouth find me. Relief comes in the shape of another chippie popping along and signalling over the noise that it's time to eat.

Outside on the way to the café or 'caff' it's cold so I get hastily re-dressed as we walk along. The guy who called us to breakfast is called Mini and there's two other's sharing the chipped formica when we sit down. I guess correctly that no one orders starters and tea gets brought over to fill the wait for the main course. I get asked all the questions Paul's already made me answer and find out Mini is from the North West too, and has been here just over 2 years. One of the other guys introduces himself as Mark, which quickly gets corrected to Baby Mark by Paul and Mini, for no reason I can see. All seem to be into clubbing and start reeling off names of places I'm pretending to have heard off. When they ask if I'm into House and I say no, it goes down like I've ordered the vegetarian breakfast. Which I obviously haven't as 5 identical plates are slid onto the table. As Baby Mark talks through his chewing it becomes more obvious why he gets called Baby with his constant references to his mum who he clearly still lives with. Throughout the meal or on the journey back there's not a word from the fifth guy, so before the machines go back on I ask Paul who he is.
'Dee. He's like that with everyone so don't think it's just you. What you really mean is how did he get those scars on his face? Bit disturbing, eh? Took me ages to get used to them and look without staring. Don't ask him about them though, he's a handy guy'.
He's right – I couldn't help myself trying to steal a good look at them whenever I could, despite thinking I'd get caught. It's really unsettling and I can't blank out how they look. The only way to avoid thinking about it is to keep cutting away at an endlessly demanded amount of wood.

In the pub at 4.30 things seem a lot brighter and I get told constantly that I'll soon be converted into a house devotee and am offered the chance to take the first lesson at the weekend when all of the little gang, including strangely, Dee, will be out and about. I promise to come along then pretend to be disappointed when they say its Saturday not Friday night, claiming to have unchangeable plans already made. Truth is I can't afford to go along until I have a bit more of a regular income. I think Paul senses this and says as he finishes his pint and grabs his jacket, 'see you same time tomorrow, yeah?' Which is as good an unexpected guarantee as I'm gonna get at the moment.