This story contains some politically incorrect themes, if you are offended by such, please stop reading now. It was the way we thought and spoke in those days though.
In 1971, I was working for the GPO (BT as it is known now), and as an apprentice, I had to learn every aspect of the phone telecoms business. That included telephone exchanges.
In those days, before computers, telephone exchanges were massive buildings stuffed with electro mechanical devices, noisy and with lots of moving parts. They were so primitive that most large customers had there own satellite exhanges , on-site, with banks of plugs, cables and ‘eyeball’ indicators, manned by teams of operators. Part of our job was to install, maintain and repair these satellite exchanges.
And that is why I found myself in Park Lane mental hospital one hot summers morning. The looney bin.
Naturally my boss, being a Liverpool fan, and me being an Evertonian, tried to frighten the living daylights out of me, telling me about the mass murderers, cannibals and axe wielders, who all wanted to dismember me and dance on the bits and howl.
It worked, I was pooing myself.
We drove through the main gate and stopped at the side of a large grass quad, right next to a workmans hut. The secure unit was opposite, with some faces at the barred windows. The admin building including the exchange , security and the shop, were behind us to the right. I waited in the the van, while the gaffer went to security. He said I could go to the shop, or mosey around, but I had to be back in half an hour.
‘And keep your eye on those ladders. If anyone gets over that wall because of us, we’ll be sacked’
There was no way in the world I was leaving that van. Not without a bodyguard.
I watched people walking across the quad, some were being escorted, someone was singing a sad song through the bars opposite. I looked to see what the workmen were doing. They had a cement mixer and some moulds for making paving stones, in one corner there was a heap of broken slabs, it was crazy paving, which was very fashionable in the 70’s. The two workmen came out of the hut, a little white guy got the cement mixer going, and a six foot six black guy, without a shirt, carrying a sledgehammer in his right hand as if it were nothing.
H e started to swing that hammer, the slabs broke easily and he chucked the bits onto the pile in the corner. His biceps were twice the size of my thighs, big, wide shoulders and black as the ace of spades. I expected him to break out into a chorus of ‘old man ribber’ at any moment. ‘Now that’s what I call a bodyguard’, I thought, I wouldn’t have any problem with the loons while HE was around.
So I relaxed a bit and got out of the van and wandered over to the shop. I came back with a large bottle of lemo (lemonade. They didn’t do water in those days)
The black guy came over to the wall, he was dripping with sweat and the veins in his arms were sticking out. I shared the lemo with him and he nodded at the ladders ‘Are dey chained down like?’ in a broad scouse accent. So I told him they were secured and the key was hidden in the back, under my tool box. ‘Good. Ders some right fckng nutters round ere like.’
The boss came back and we went to the exchange. I spent a few hours crawling through the dust with my soldering iron, then, job done we headed for the café.
‘Are you going to get any more lemo for Mad-George ?’ he asked me.
‘What’
‘That bloke you were talking to. Killed his wife then twisted her boyfriends head right off his shoulders with his bare hands’
I had brown adrenalin running down my leg. ‘But he’s a workman, making crazy paving’ ‘Yeah, it’s a good joke that isn’t it. No – he’s a loon, an inmate, but considered harmless, as long as he doesn’t tell you his name is Turner Brown’
As we walked back to the van, the ladders were gone.
I had even more brown adrenalin running down my leg. I could not believe how stupid I had been telling him were the keys were hidden. We ran over, the gaffer was running round in circles, panicking. Then he spotted the two ‘workmen’ in the hut. They were laughing their heads off and making ‘under the arm’ gestures
The boss found the ladders behind their hut, and we put them back on the van.
We were both shaken up and white with fright, as we drove through the gate, the guards searched the van then asked if we were ok
We kept our gobs shut, and beat a hasty.
In 1971, I was working for the GPO (BT as it is known now), and as an apprentice, I had to learn every aspect of the phone telecoms business. That included telephone exchanges.
In those days, before computers, telephone exchanges were massive buildings stuffed with electro mechanical devices, noisy and with lots of moving parts. They were so primitive that most large customers had there own satellite exhanges , on-site, with banks of plugs, cables and ‘eyeball’ indicators, manned by teams of operators. Part of our job was to install, maintain and repair these satellite exchanges.
And that is why I found myself in Park Lane mental hospital one hot summers morning. The looney bin.
Naturally my boss, being a Liverpool fan, and me being an Evertonian, tried to frighten the living daylights out of me, telling me about the mass murderers, cannibals and axe wielders, who all wanted to dismember me and dance on the bits and howl.
It worked, I was pooing myself.
We drove through the main gate and stopped at the side of a large grass quad, right next to a workmans hut. The secure unit was opposite, with some faces at the barred windows. The admin building including the exchange , security and the shop, were behind us to the right. I waited in the the van, while the gaffer went to security. He said I could go to the shop, or mosey around, but I had to be back in half an hour.
‘And keep your eye on those ladders. If anyone gets over that wall because of us, we’ll be sacked’
There was no way in the world I was leaving that van. Not without a bodyguard.
I watched people walking across the quad, some were being escorted, someone was singing a sad song through the bars opposite. I looked to see what the workmen were doing. They had a cement mixer and some moulds for making paving stones, in one corner there was a heap of broken slabs, it was crazy paving, which was very fashionable in the 70’s. The two workmen came out of the hut, a little white guy got the cement mixer going, and a six foot six black guy, without a shirt, carrying a sledgehammer in his right hand as if it were nothing.
H e started to swing that hammer, the slabs broke easily and he chucked the bits onto the pile in the corner. His biceps were twice the size of my thighs, big, wide shoulders and black as the ace of spades. I expected him to break out into a chorus of ‘old man ribber’ at any moment. ‘Now that’s what I call a bodyguard’, I thought, I wouldn’t have any problem with the loons while HE was around.
So I relaxed a bit and got out of the van and wandered over to the shop. I came back with a large bottle of lemo (lemonade. They didn’t do water in those days)
The black guy came over to the wall, he was dripping with sweat and the veins in his arms were sticking out. I shared the lemo with him and he nodded at the ladders ‘Are dey chained down like?’ in a broad scouse accent. So I told him they were secured and the key was hidden in the back, under my tool box. ‘Good. Ders some right fckng nutters round ere like.’
The boss came back and we went to the exchange. I spent a few hours crawling through the dust with my soldering iron, then, job done we headed for the café.
‘Are you going to get any more lemo for Mad-George ?’ he asked me.
‘What’
‘That bloke you were talking to. Killed his wife then twisted her boyfriends head right off his shoulders with his bare hands’
I had brown adrenalin running down my leg. ‘But he’s a workman, making crazy paving’ ‘Yeah, it’s a good joke that isn’t it. No – he’s a loon, an inmate, but considered harmless, as long as he doesn’t tell you his name is Turner Brown’
As we walked back to the van, the ladders were gone.
I had even more brown adrenalin running down my leg. I could not believe how stupid I had been telling him were the keys were hidden. We ran over, the gaffer was running round in circles, panicking. Then he spotted the two ‘workmen’ in the hut. They were laughing their heads off and making ‘under the arm’ gestures
The boss found the ladders behind their hut, and we put them back on the van.
We were both shaken up and white with fright, as we drove through the gate, the guards searched the van then asked if we were ok
We kept our gobs shut, and beat a hasty.
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