1984 aged 32 another autobiography extract by Dave Spencer

another extract, I was down on a British Gas pipeline in Somerset

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We were based down in Wells that delightful cathedral city in Somerset. Here we had our base for a pipeline project, the client British Gas; it ran from Ilchester to Pucklechurch, across beautiful countryside and served by a very rural population where industrial skills other than Clarke’s shoe factory were absent.

We were in a joint venture with a French company Entrepose and one of their directors had his young son as construction manager whilst Tony Parry the project manager was older and one of our own staff. The excitable French engineering staff were tempered by their ple4asant admin man who was my opposite number, he had already been up to our offices in the North West and could imitate a Geordie accent and had charmed all the ladies. Our young French manager didn’t manage any charm with his workforce but had more luck with the girl’s, such was the extent of his libido that we had a visit from an irate father of our young receptionist manning the switchboard in her summer holidays, we’d had a job finding someone who spoke fluent French and had to start our search again.

Next time round we had a slightly older but very affable young woman who celebrated her 21st whilst with us, everyone found this a great excuse to have a knees up away from the constant pressures of the project and drinks were flowing freely around the office from, lunchtime. Mid afternoon and she was pretty well pissed, Albert our French office manager volunteered to take her home but she left her handbag with house keys inside at the office. When they arrived Albert noticed that there was a small window ajar which he might be able to squeeze through. Yes you’ve guessed, the neighbourhood watch were twitching at the curtains, imagine the scenes one drunken young lady, a policeman and an embarrassed Frenchman trying to talk his way out of a burglary charge. All was well though and the party reconvened later and continued into the night. One of our young French managers finest moments was when he forgot to put his machine operators in for their weekly bonus payment, he’s just omitted to send a fax to the Paris office but rather than admit his mistake he told them, you have no bonus because you have not earnt it. They operators were at their machines ready to press the starter button at 8 am on the dot, as they did each morning, but this time they sat motionless and the minutes ticked by into hours, every second on this type of contract was vital, finally Jean had to apologise and cough up.

There was usually a shortage of unskilled labour, construction workers were thin on the ground in Somerset, if they had two arms and legs or thereabouts they’d do, pink hair, rings through the nose we had them all, one day I had to set up a trap in cahoots with the dole office. I ambushed each person coming in to sign on and offered them work, the rules said that if you refused you couldn’t get your money , there was to say the least some panic amongst them trying to avoid the recruiting team.

I had superb lodgings with a lady and her daughter, it was one of those cottages built into the walls of the city with brick work a couple of feet thick, I survived on a diet of take ways with the occasional binge of good food, there was a superb restaurant in Glastonbury at the hotel, supervised by a haragon who sat in a corner and directed the staff like a demented conductor. An American who had the temerity of complaining about his steak Dianne, it wasn’t cut like they did it in America was told in no uncertain terms that this was the French way and if he didn’t like it get out. It sounds awful but was actually an amusing evening when you were on your own, the staff would stop and chat a couple of minutes each time they passed and I’d have a paper to read between courses, it overlooked the famous Glastonbury mound or Tor.

The classic moment on this job came early when young Nicky was still one the switch board, one of the French engineers radioed in that he’d had an accident in his jeep ( actually Russian 4x4s that we hired cheap), your position please she asked, upside down in the ditch he replied in truth. The roads were bordered by what is known locally as hedges but in reality walls, they were narrow and unsuited to French driving, perhaps 2 CVs across the fields would have been more appropriate. Anyway unperturbed he continued to issue orders over his radio to the various gangs whilst remaining strapped in the jeep awaiting the breakdown truck.

Daily progress meetings were accompanied by supplies of wine an unusual addition to the canteen petty cash summary but expected by all the French side as much as our staff would want biscuits. At the end of the contract there was an almighty great booze up sponsored by one of the sub contractors, one of the gas board managers who had been less than friendly and had a taste for 70s shirts and flared trousers lay under a picnic table with alcohol dribbling into his mouth as he lay in a stupor on the grass below. Tables and parasols, wine and whiskey, Mandy arrived down that afternoon and couldn’t quite see why we had been moaning about all the hard work. The old wooden fencing and gates we’d used were sold to Michael Eaves who ran the Glastonbury festival; he planned to provide free timber to the festival goers to stop them wrecking his farm in the search for fire wood.

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I haven't forgotten the Malta bus photo I'll post it tonight.