A Bunch Of Stiff Records

 I gave up working at the cafeteria sometime in April ’77. Stiff put out a compilation, A Bunch Of Stiffs, with Whole Wide World on it. The release date was April 1^st. That’s right - my first record came out on April Fools day. I don’t know if I should stifle this information because it makes me look silly, or whether it’s part of the reason why I never received a record royalty cheque or even a statement until 1996. Anyway, one afternoon, a couple of days before the release when I was drudging my way round the cafeteria I said to myself ‘Fuck this, I’m a recording artist – what am I doing here?’ So I left my trolley, full of scraps of half eaten dinners, gravy-stained plates and tea slops, and walked out and headed off for Stiff.

There was a new girl I’d never seen before in what could laughingly be termed reception. I asked her if they’d got A Bunch Of Stiffs in yet and she explained, quite gently, that it wouldn’t be out for a couple of days yet. She didn’t know who I was, but when I told her she gave me a copy. I thanked her and tumbled out into the falling night without even looking at the cover in case I should appear vain. When I got round the corner my heart was thumping. I looked to make sure there was no one to witness my humiliation if for some reason I’d been excluded from the record. But there I was on the inner cover, stoned, immaculate, in the darkness next to a globe in Chris Gabrin’s studio last November. And next to it:

I decided to give up work and go on the dole like any other sensible person in my situation would. I’d paid enough national insurance contributions to be assured of full unemployment benefit but only if I could get the sack. The cafeteria was depressing, I never saw any daylight because it was on a mezzanine floor in the basement above menswear. It was a hangout for elderly, faded actresses and middle-aged gay men who kept asking me to meet them after work for a drink – I’m sure I could have made quite a good living as a rent boy and male prostitute.

People who hadn’t got the imagination to go and eat somewhere nice came along at lunchtime and ordered half a chicken with boiled rice and overcooked vegetables. I’d spot them from the other end of the cafeteria and lurk by the table while they pecked at what they couldn’t bring themselves to eat. When they realised they’d made a mistake I’d pounce on the barely dinner and carry it off like a vulture to the far end of the cafeteria and devour the almost untouched chicken. And that would be my lunch. If they weren’t quick enough at giving up on it I’d encourage them by wiping the table for them with one of my disgusting dishcloths.

I had various strategies for getting the sack. I arrived late every day, took long lunch breaks in the pub and came back very drunk. That didn’t work - they just stopped my pay for the time I wasn’t there. And they were used to drunks – they quite often employed casual labour recruited from the Charring Cross arches. As long as they looked clean. I was rude to the customers and rude to the management. I even tried lighting up a cigarette next to the No Smoking signs by the lift in Menswear. Smoking anywhere other than the staff canteen meant immediate dismissal so I did it in full view of the security guard. He took the cigarette off me, crushed it out and went and reported me for trying to get the sack.

One morning the manager asked me why I was late.

‘It’s none of your fucking business’ I replied.

‘I know that you’re trying to get the sack,’ he said. ‘You just want to claim unemployment benefit. But it won’t work.’

I did my best to look shocked at the suggestion – ‘Unemployment benefit? I’ve got a private income. I’m only here gathering material for my book.’

There was nothing I could do so I gave up and handed in my notice.

On my last day I spent all afternoon loading up the trolley. It was a big industrial thing with two large open containers, one for tea slops and other fluids, and the other for leftover food. It had trays underneath for cups and saucers and plenty of room on top for dinner plates. You were supposed to take it back to the kitchen at regular intervals and unload it, but I had other plans this afternoon.By four o’clock I could hardly push it and the slightest movement sent cascades of disgusting liquid lapping over the sides. The plates were piled so high that I couldn’t see over the top of them.

It was an easy mistake to make, a disaster just waiting to happen. Carefully checking to make sure there was nobody underneath, I misjudged a turn by the stairs. One wheel went over and that was it – the whole lot crashed and clattered down half a flight into menswear - broken china, rancid tea, chicken skin, cabbage, bones, milk, gravy, lemon meringue pie, teaspoons, liver, curry and rice and peas and chips and knives and forks in a lake of oozing liquid … It was a mess.

I had to spend the rest of my shift clearing it up – they said I wouldn’t get paid until it was done. But it was worth it. They had to admit that it could have happened to anybody, but why was the trolley so full? As if they couldn’t guess.