Whilst working with a pair of White Van Men, I've come to realise a fact so tragic that it has shocked the very core of my (quite unstable at times, and always rather upside down and warped) world. There are two types of people in this world. The first is those who would rather go to work every day in a suit, brylcreemed to the nines in their rep-mobile and rectify the admin of the world, one messed up thing at a time. Then there are those who drive a van, trudging from one instituion to the next, fixing pipes and installing boilers, perving on mothers and muttering language so profound, disgusting and neanderthallic that it truly does only belong in the boilers room to which it is confined. And you know what? I respect the neanderthals more. Although only in one regard, and I shall, as always, elaborate.
I graduated from one of the countries finest Upper Schools, The Royal Grammar School to be precise, with a set of grades to be proud of. A set that quite a few delinquents congealing in the parks and gutters of this pauper-ridden blot on the ass of life country. With those grades, I gained admission into Portsmouth University to study Journalism. No question a fine establishment for what I want to do, but in terms of "league tables" it weighs in at forty-something. Not too bad. Humble, is what you'd call it. In a playground of mothers waiting to pick their children up from school you have the waif-like Oxbridge mothers, with their manicured hands, waving their Porsche keys around, very loudly telling anyone who will (or can) listen how much money their husband have made that day. Then, at the other end of the spectrum you have the Thames Valley University mothers, wearing Lonsdale from head to foot, hair pulled back so they wear a permanent look of surprise and breasts so far to the floor they are an instant give away as to the amount of children they've had. Usually around 7. And they usually are like a fucking Benetton advert (multicultural to you and me. Well, to you.). Portsmouth is the mother who wears jeans, checked shirt and has flour on her face from cooking. Not thin, but not fat either. She's as humble as you can get. Shit, I'm off on a tangent...
Yes, in the world of education I am up there. Not exactly rocket science material, but up there nonetheless. So imagine my horror when I went to work with the men and found myself out of my depth entirely. Ask me to change a wheel on a car, or an exhaust. No problem. Ask me to wire a plug, or change RAM on a PC. Sure thing, bash that out in 2 minutes. But ask me to pass a "3/4 length with an upright valve" and you may as well be asking me to perform heart surgery. Whilst on fire. Whilst eating a cracker. Whilst speaking Indian. I will not understand you, and I sure as hell didn't then. It came as second nature to these men, piping the boiler room quickly and without any problems whilst a "typically" learn-ed person looked on in shock, truly put in his place.
So where does it all go wrong? These men bring children warmth in their schools during the coldest winters. They allow us to take hot showers, and wash the grime of a hard day off of ourselves when we get home. They make sure our dishes are able to be cleaned. So why do they have a reputation as being knuckle dragging apes who bury their fingers knuckle deep in their ass and then sniff them, just to see what they've been eating? The reason is simple. Entertaining banter to them is hideous to us. And it harks back to the "two types of people" argument. Those who drive BMW's and are Brylcreemed just find their type of humour gauche and callous, whereas they find it hilarious.
Where a journalist, for example, might find a good laugh at an editing mistake, or an entertaining picture taken, a manual labourer might find humour at a crudely drawn penis on a wall, like a cave drawing to early man. I personally tend to overstep the line A LOT, and those who know me know that I do this, but these guys take it to a whole new level. They swear to a whole new level, punctuating every other word with an explitive swear word, having to up the ante with everything they see. An example would be that instead of simply stating that that woman had a cracking pair of breasts to a co-worker, the labourer finds it necessary to make sure she knows that she has a fine pair, and he appreciates them. His way of doing it is to yell at her, even if she is with a child, and quite simply stating, "Fuck me love, show me those tits. Jiggle 'em about, wayyyyyy." Yes. Quite. Good luck to you fella.
Another form of entertainment is to bring outsiders into their line of work and watch them struggle. They certainly did with me. Giving me tasks that they knew I would struggle with, purely because I had no training and didnt know a clip valve from a 45 degree bend. But, I kept going, endured the endless insults and taunts before finally telling them to fuck off and let me get on with it. So yeah, another form of entertainment from them is to simply mock those above them. And you know what? I am all for it.
They provide a service that I sure as hell couldn't do. If they went ahead with a bit more grace and class then the stereotype would disappear, and we'd all come to respect them a damn sight more than we do now. So go ahead labourers of the world, mock me, make sure I know that I cant do your job, because I cant. But know this simple fact. You do the jobs for me not because I cant, but because I don't have to. For people like me are signing your cheques, and running this world. You're simply making sure it doesnt rust over.
No comments:
Post a Comment