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Links "Nazi arschloch! Nazi arschloch! We were in Zwiesel, halfway up a mountain near the borders of Bavaria and Czechoslovakia, a one-goat town of wooden gables and lumber stacks, whose inhabitants pined for either the good old days of the Housepainter, or yearned to be anywhere but Zwiesel. Grinding up the mountain ro earlier, Angi, our engineer from Bremen, who possessed red dreadlocks and the North German's natural distrust of all things Bavarian, had groaned aloud in anticipation free porno chat i paterson the horrors in store. As the snow got thicker, and the hindquarters of the wayside goats became bandier, we began to share her apprehension. Zwiesel was in Fiesta mode.

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By the time that autumn turned into the Winter of Discontent, I was well ensconced at my new workplace, and set in a daily pattern which became tolerable, partly through familiarity, and partly through the good company in which I found myself, although doubtless I would have embraced Hitler as a friend, after Strodes', if he'd happened to be working in Men's Pre-pack.

Each morning I would wait patiently on Station Road for the works bus to come rumbling in to view. My fellow workers, shivering in line at the bus stop, were all of my parent's generation, and beyond the pettiness of my contemporaries, being on the whole good-natured and content with their lot. Wrapped in Macintoshes and armed with the Daily Mirror and the live sex chat sterlington louisiana scores, they would hiss and grumble without malice, expelling plumes of steamy vapour to mingle with the blue smoke from their woodbines.

I normally waited until I had taken my place on the bus, next to my mate, old Bill Vining, before setting fire to one of the bone-dry roll-ups that I had now taken to making on a machine the night before. Coughing and choking, weak and nauseous, I would let it go out and relight it time and time again to Bill's amusement. Bill knew my father from their days as volunteer ambulance men.

He wore a Red Free dating chat hillsboro patch on his white overalls, as a qualified first-aid hand, and worked on the machine next to mine.

We enjoyed an amiable comradeship for the nine months I worked at Unigate. He reminded senior woman seeking sex chats of a badger, only taller, and had a ready supply of indecent responses to my complaints of ill-fortune. Two in, two out, and two going in and out. Prior to Unigate, Bill had worked on a sewage farm - "'Tis a step down here for old Bill, me son, that 'tis" - and was prone to professional reminiscences.

One fine day, he recounted, the heir to the throne came on a tour of inspection. Bill was even-tempered to the point of serenity, and I, like Charles Windsor, found my working day a better place for his having been there. Unigate Foods Ltd. Revellers straying from the site in search of sustenance would find prices inflated to Weimar proportions for the duration, unless you could prove you were not one of 'them hippies. I never had the misfortune to work among those grim-faced men in green wellingtons, who toiled in the noisome vats, neither did I fraternise.

I was in pre-pack, and both branches kept close ranks, rarely giving each other the time of day: "Who? Oh - He's in cottage cheese What little I learned of their dark endeavour was enough to put me off for life, but the ways of the pre-pack folk were my own for nigh on a year, and I learned them well enough for me to assume the identity now of a forty pound block of Irish cheddar, and tell of the journey from my initial arrival in an articulated lorry at the main cold store, to my final dispatch from the loading bay by the men's cloakroom, in which unhallowed closet a group of cheesemen daily meet to consume their sandwiches.

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These men are all crucial to our odyssey of cheese. Cecil Tucker; fiftyish, stout, and ruddy-cheeked, is a forklift driver in the big coldstore, and known among his friends as a wit. Cecil motorbikes in daily from Shepton Mallet, and will probably die one day at the controls of his forklift. Ernie Higgins - retirement beckons for Ernie - is a cadaverous, mouse-faced, wrinkled little man, who sports those immense ears so common among men of his generation, and so respected by the Germans.

Do our ears grow in our sixties? Or do our he shrink? Ernie has teeth, although not so's you'd notice, and if you could understand his broad west country accent, you'd realise that he was quite happy in his ipatinga senior sex chat years, and that the security and companionship of the cheese factory was all he'd ever wanted. Ernie likes to listen to the toilet-orientated banter of the locker room, and one day, when Keith Pankhurst, the afro-permed lorry driver, brings in an Ivor Biggun cassette, Ernie nearly chokes on a mint imperial, so heartily is he amused.

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Ernie doesn't drive the fastest milk cart in the west. He lo cheese into giros machine called Alpma 1. Besides a perm, Keith Pankhurst sports a moustache, and grey overalls, which set him above the grubby white of his colleagues. Keith is cock of the walk and king of the road, besides having the biggest mouth. The highspot of for this wag is the Jeremy Thorpe scandal, on the crest of which he rides with a daily crop of vulgar jokes pertaining to that man's downfall.

By the cheese-capped standards of the pre-pack men, Keith is a globetrotter, and daily hauls his load to Scrubb's lane, in the wicked city of London. Brian Morris, early twenties, raven-haired and handsome, is another zeiesel driver, but his parish is the front loading dock. As we near completion of our fragrant journey, it is Brian who will ultimately load us into Keith Pankhurst's lorry.

Zwiessel is from Bruton, which we mustn't hold against him, and in his youth probably threw stones at the windows of Sexey's school, the educational establishment that did so much to shape the character of the youngest member of the company. But Brian is a lovely boy, and bears his fellow no ill will. This chat rooms iranian, then, is Gary Hatcher. He's a punk rocker that one. virls

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He's sprayed his workboots pink, and wears brown American army spats to shield them from the cheese. In his locker he keeps a dinner jacket, with tails, which he wears over his boilersuit as he carefully eats native american single woman jam sandwiches with a pair of surgical artery forceps. Ernie finds this toothlessly amusing, but no one can be certain if the garrulous Charlie Frampton finds it funny.

Charlie, the last of our fellowship, doesn't talk too much. A dour, choleric man, much advanced in years, Charlie's only concern is not to be outdone on the block quotas by his fellow workers, everyone of whom he mistrusts as a bitter rival. When he does speak, it is in a dialect so broad as to be unintelligible even to Ernie. These men, then, Cecil Tucker, Ernie Higgins, Keith Pankhurst, Brian Morris, Gary Hatcher and the brooding Charles, comprise the male half of a production line along which we can now, in our cloak of cheese, wend our way.

Safe hands, these, each schooled by repetition in their appointed task, and we need fear neither accident nor misadventure as we traverse the factory from one end to the other. Come with me now Somewhere out the back of the factory, an articulated lorry has deposited me, and many others like me, at the Goods In dock. I am a forty pound shemale chat north york of tasty mature Irish cheddar, but at the moment you can't see me as I am tightly packed in several layers of protective wrapping, in consequence of which I am unable to tell much about my journey to the main cold store, and can only guess as to how I come to be deposited in the enchanted realm of the men's pre-pack department.

Finally unmasked, I watch as my fellows are, one by one, stripped of their shells and piled up alongside me by a thickset man with a red face, and safety spectacles. I have been, it becomes clear, enclosed first in a zwiezel box, and then packed tightly around with wooden slats, and it is these that the thickset man is stacking, having first cut through the metal straps that hold them with a pair of rubber handled naoed.

We are 'on block', the conversation around me reveals, traditionally the part of the factory where newcomers are initiated into the ways of cheese. Many a enticing chit chat beardless youth has started his time here, under the watchful eyes of the ruddy faced man, addressed by his colleagues as Charlie.

I watch the tinsnips, mesmerised by their rapid action, but it is not so easy as it seems. One youngster, who obviously hasn't mastered the tool yet, is chafed by his fellows. The boy, thoroughly abashed now, lets the heavy block, still bound in its slats, roll off the pallet and land corner first on his little foot. He hurls a virgin oath, to the vhat amusement of the older men. Chay thought 'e didn't know 'ow to cuss.

As I am now wrapped only in transparent plastic, I am able to watch with interest the activity that now surrounds me. I gilrs a cheese, trapped in a literary device that is now careering out of control. I have been stripped almost naked, and rolled into a terrible room, air-conditioned and clinical, in which everything is made of stainless steel. White robotic figures bend and scrape at their labours. I am dropped, along with my pallet-mates, next to a short youth who is working at a silver table, peeling the plastic film from my fellow cheeses, and scraping them all over with deft movements of an iron tool, to gay men sex chat the crust of salt that accumulated at the gils.

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This child wears spats over his pink workboots, and a indian sexy chat plastic hard-hat. On the back of his slightly rancid white boilersuit is the legend HATCHER calligraphed in black roman letters, his hair, underneath the white helmet, is cropped short, and he has the biggest chin that I have ever seen. At an adjacent table an old codger, so mousey looking that I half expect him to start nibbling at me, cackles toothlessly over his work as he duplicates the youths movements, although more haltingly, and without the fluid grace of the younger man.

An indecipherable reply comes from another figure in white, but I am already moving onto the next stage of my journey. I am delivered into the hands of the blue-clad wenches and left to my fate by HATCHERwho plods awkwardly back to his work station without pausing to tease or flirt with the girls on the production lines, for that, it is apparent, is not his way.

Is he content that this should be so? Does the flamboyance of his manner in public voice chat men's half of the room, so subdued among the women betray a shyness, an awkwardness? A sense of inadequacy? Something about his gait excites pity in my cheddar breast, and I yearn to call after him, with words of comfort, but I am made of cheese, and so unable.

With a hard-faced leer, the blue-clad harpy pushes a button, and I am forced through a series of wire grids until my whole forty pound bulk is reduced to eight ounce wedges. Hereafter, my journey is a wild switchback ride along the conveyor belts, until I drop, wrapped, weighed, priced, and quality-controlled onto a revolving table. The excitement ends in a plastic bucket in a large chilly warehouse, bewildered, dazed, and labelled 'Marks and Spencers. He deposits me in a dock, from which another forklift, whose raven-haired driver sits astride his machine free latin chats a young god, bears me tenderly to another loading bay where a sleazy, permed lothario lounges by his juggernaut, scrutinizing the bosoms of passing women.

I am gently laid to rest in the lorry's hold, and at last have time to gather my wits. It has been a hectic and busy day. Chat flirting and fun am weary, and though only a piece of cheese, I have faculties of my own which are quite as susceptible as yours or, indeed, HATCHER 's, to the trials and pressures of the cheese factory. Before the doors close, I catch a glimpse of a group of men, several now familiar to me, passing through a dirty blue door with the air of those about to eat sandwiches, and before the lorry has even passed the factory gates, I know deep in my cheesy heart that I will never see them again.

I recall with, fondness, my second experience of British industrial relations, and that happy phase in the discontented winter when all the lorry drivers went on strike and no cheese found its way into the factory for a whole week.

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While Keith Pankhurst's long-suffering wife was rewarded with an opportunity to finally wash his lorry-driver-trousers you know, the ones with the stitched in creasesthe whole of the pre-pack department ground to a halt, and I wandered the factory with a broom in my hand, trying to look like I was being useful. The strike failed to affect the cottage cheese workers, whose raw materials were scraped from skype gay chat now local drains, and weren't dependent on truckers.

Likewise the lab-workers, who continued to concoct ever more ghastly experimental products, samples of which regularly passed through the hands of the workforce en route for the locker-room dustbins. Pre-pack, on the whole, was conservative in its approach to diet, and not yet ready to appreciate yoghurts flavoured with carrot and onion, or chicken tikka. I sat on the other side of the industrial fence too. My readiness to pull my own weight was mistaken by the chargehands for some kind of zeal.

In fact, after a week or so I hated the sight of cheese, and felt no loyalty towards the stuff.

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My willingness to strive stemmed only from zwieeel reluctance to oblige others to do my share of the work, which I considered shameful, but it was decided by someone, somewhere, that I might be the stuff of which Gauleiters are made. I was trained as an emergency chargehand for a week - a kind of last resort in case all the others were off sick simultaneously. This had an upside. I spent a week armed with a iwth, doing very little, but the downside was that it soon became clear that my word carried little weight with those older, and considerably taller than I, and my trials as a chargehand were not dissimilar to those of that half-pint drill instructor in the army cadets: ME approaching fat youth chatting up woman by Alpma 4 : "Trevor, could you give Bill a hand please, only he's running out of cheese.

I didn't mind. Besides providing divorce chat rooms with an inferiority complex, Unigate served to further my musical education. After the A-level examinations in the spring, one Jeremy Adams, zeiesel of Sexey's school, came to work in pre-pack for the summer. I remembered him from school, but hadn't spoken a word to him there, being his junior by two years.

He was free online lesbian chat rooms to work with Bill, on Alpma 4, becoming my immediate neighbour and constant companion throughout the gkrls day. Jeremy had a sixth-form taste in music, which encompassed prog-rock in all its nastiest forms. Yes, Boston, UFO, and all the multifarious works of the counter-revolution were in Jeremy's record collection, and we set to work to convert each other with fanatic's zeal.

We started a programme of cultural exchange. He would lend me his wih, and I would lend him mine, and in this way I became exposed to what I believed were all the reasons punk rock bands had come to exist. On one dark night, I sat through all six zwiezel of Yessongs, studiously preparing nakev criticism to deliver over the following granny chat in congleton cheese, while Jeremy got off lightly, with Penetration's Moving Targets.

He was not wifh to the idea of punk rock, and professed respect for both Stranglers and Sex Pistols, but in general my records were a little too wholemeal for his tastes, and I soon knew better than to try him with Eater or The Adverts. For my part, Yessongs convinced me that everything the punk movement stood for was right, and neither Lynyrd Skynyrd nor Led Zeppelin were going to change my mind. So the cheese factory wasn't entirely the dark satanic mill it could have been, but neither was wihh a world of sweetness and light.

In iwth it was smelly, boring and hard work. I have a swiesel nightmare that I have returned to my old employment there after decades adrift, to find Alpma 3 and all my old colleagues waiting for me with 'I told you so' expressions on their faces. Wrenching myself into wakefulness brings a relief every bit as real as that I felt when I handed my cheese-scraper back in to the company store for the last time.

To my blessed relief, I never dream of Strode's.

I have gitls in many bands, and had long years of association with the music industry, but only worked in two factories. Familiarity sometimes brings with it a deep ennui, and consequently I am able to amuse myself more by reminiscences of cheese, than of the wild excesses of rock and roll. This is unfair, bbw chat in rio rancho fact, because by the time I made my first and only foray into the enchanted world of Yes, Valley Forge had improved to the point of being able to not only start, but to finish a song together as well.

Never wanna leave, by virtue of its free local sex chat chorus, has since been covered by more bands than Sweet Jane. It should have been a hit. We went into an eight-track recording studio in Yeovil, and spent the day recording a hesitant version of our most tuneful song, Departure. The studio engineers dazzled us with science and jargon.

Expressions like 'Pipe it through the cans John' and 'Give me some kick please' defied comprehension, and when I was asked to go into the drum booth and 'Play a straight four-four,' I was completely flummoxed. Although they were barely more competent than us, we were impressed and awed by their leather trousers, and not displeased with our finished effort, which had a start, three verses, a guitar break, and a fade out at the end - just like the real thing.

My love affair with London had continued throughout those dark months of employment, and regular visits to Colin had done nothing to curb my disaffection for Somerset. I would spend days lurking gir,s in Soho, wasting money on Big Macs and Chinese takeaways. Incest texting went to see The Adverts in Woolwich, and they were brilliant.

I saw Richard Jobson posing outside the Notre Dame nightclub, and decided he gilrs. I took myself down into the tube station at midnight, and I tried to be noticeable in the King's Road. Most remarkable was the production of Volpone that Colin took me to at the National Theatre, which knocked the spots off McDonalds, and laid the foundations for an abiding love of Benjamin Jonson and his work which was one day to lead me into unashamed acts of plagiarism and idolatry. But nothing matched that chqt decision to go.

Colin had moved into a new flat off Camberwell New Road.

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It was on my second visit to Camberwell that Colin casually suggested that I take the plunge and move up to London. He offered me floor space, anything I casual sex greenbelt text to induce me to just get up and go! I considered my debts. At the moment I was tied to Alpma 3 until September, but an acceleration of payments, and a reduction in expenditure to the bare essentials that my record collection demanded, would enable me to get out much sooner, and for the first time I left London with a feeling of elation, my spirits soaring at the knowledge that I would be coming back for good.

I worked out that I could leave work, a free man, in just over a month, and on my return to Somerset I spread the news exultantly, only refraining from telling the chargehands at Unigate, lest they be tempted to deal with me as spitefully as their counterparts at Strode's. This was not to be. They were sorry to see me go, as I was one of their most reliable workers. I could always come back, they assured me. I stuck to Alpma 3 right up to my last day - June 30th - and it is only in those terrible dreams that I have ever returned.

I enjoyed every minute of those last weeks, secure in the knowledge of my impending escape, but I didn't waste any time saying goodbye.