Licking road clean, wit' tongue
I reckon that Monty Python got the idea for the famous Yorkshiremen sketch from listening to Massey agriculture students recounting their summer on-farm practical work experiences in the first week of the new term.
“I slept in a dog kennel. Cups of tea were free but cups of coffee were 5 cents each.”
“That’s nothing. My boss said if he paid me more than the award wage, he’d be prosecuted.”
“Pfft. We were only allowed to eat in the main house for breakfast on Sundays. We were only allowed to speak when spoken to, and never to make eye contact with the womenfolk or engage them in conversation.”
“Luxury. There were four of us sleeping in a woolshed catching pen. If we were lucky we’d have some rats to snuggle up to on a really cold night.”
And so it went. Often with some embellishment for dramatic effect. Usually with more than too large a grain of truth.
Interestingly the 13th Amendment to the Constitution of the United States of America had been passed into law by the Senate on 8 April 1864, just over 110 years earlier. That’s the amendment that banned slavery, to save people looking it up.
Being young and reflective meant that stories of exploitation could be shared with humour and the knowledge that however badly one may have been treated, some other poor bastard would have had things much worse.
I reckon four months in the middle of nowhere in the employ of the North Island’s most misguided sheep farmer is one of the many reasons I have no particular care or affection for these woolly ruminants.
Back in those days sheep farmers were still basking in the glow of being pandered to by various government schemes dating back to the 1950s designed to stoke the economy’s engine room. The Ministry of Agriculture and Fisheries (as it then was) published a massive tome entitled something like “Assistance available to farmers”. Most of that “assistance” was targeted at backcountry sheep farmers. Dairying had still to come of age and political influence.
As a comparatively recent graduate, in 1984 I was employed by the New Zealand Meat Producers Board. This dynasty could trace its roots back to its 1922 empowering legislation, the Meat Export Control Act. It was presided over by a bunch of chaps who had been educated in prestigious single-sex schools and who had inherited a run somewhere around the country that a squatter grandparent had managed to secure in the early days of colonisation. Farm buildings with white walls, red roofs, and a wife acquired from Woodford House or similar brood mare establishment.
The start of my tenure coincided with the Labour government’s reforms of the mid 1980s. This largely comprised of the Rt Hon Roger Douglas doing away with all forms of taxpayer subsidy and requiring agriculture to live off its wits and the realities of international markets.
Many sheep farmers were unaccustomed to austerity. The thought of preparing a financial budget was hard for some, but forced them to recognise that they didn’t need to replace the farm ute every year. I recall overhearing conversations at an after-match Meat Board function in the Hawke’s Bay. A couple of farmer toffs were very concerned at escalating agistment costs for polo ponies, and the sad reality that they may have to let a set go.
Another major crisis at that time was the installation of judder bars at Wanganui Collegiate School (exclusively for boys back then). Apparently this meant that the undersides of Alfa Romeo cars could be badly graunched and that the Range Rover was required if groups of people were to attend school sports days. Tragic.
All of this grief was a bit beyond the comprehension of a state coed educated dairy farmer’s son who had never previously heard of a chukka.
This culture also encased the attitudes and behaviours of Meat Board members.
Amongst its staff, the Board employed a “chef chauffeur”. A former World War II Greek resistance fighter, Spiro. Spiro actually ran the Board. Directors loved him. He cooked things that they had enjoyed at boarding school. Toad in the hole and such. Indeed they so loved his crumbed chops that they had paid him several thousand dollars for the recipe so that this could be used to promote lamb chops to consumers around the world. I kid you not. Spiro also used to run a free taxi service for them, uplifting them from social events around Wellington in the wee small hours and delivering them back to their hotels. Some senior directors had even been known to have been delivered by Spiro back to their farms in the Hawke’s Bay.
Spiro had a few rackets going on. As well as being a salaried staff member, he also got paid per head for his catering services. His supplies were obtained from his mates and invoiced to the Board with an added margin. He invariably overcatered, with over-supply being onsold externally, and Spiro pocketingthe proceeds. He had managed, for a short period, to successfully get a Board vehicle used as a proper Wellington taxi, proceeds to Spiro. Board vehicle servicing was done by his mates and invoiced through Spiro. He owned the Addressograph machine used to emboss names and addresses onto the Board’s various mailings. And so on.
Spiro’s enterprise eventually came to the attention of a newly-appointed chief executive. New CEO had noticed that the Board’s chef chauffeur was one of the organisation’s most highly paid staff. He assigned his HR manager the task of resolving this. Spiro was in his early to mid 60s. The government had recently brought the retirement age forward from 65 to 60, giving people in that age bracket an option of early retirement or continuing on to age 65. Spiro should have taken the early retirement option, but hindsight is a wonderful thing.
New CEO had also acquired a BMW 525ii as his company vehicle. A light appeared on the dash informing him of a need for service. He asked Spiro to take the car to the local BMW agent. At the end of the day the service light was still going. This surprised the CEO who had expected Spiro to sort things. Spiro’s vehicle servicing mate in Island Bay didn’t have the requisite BMW gadget needed to make the light go out. Busted.
The HR manager steadily chipped away at Spiro’s empire. Hostility fermented. I even achieved his ire by getting Lotus Symphony to produce sticky mailing labels -- at considerably less cost and more conveniently than Spiro could do with his Addressograph.
Eventually Spiro decided to call it a day. A send-off event was scheduled, as was the norm for departing staff members.
Spiro was not happy to leave in this manner. This became clear when his farewell speech started with the words “I hope-a this-a place a-burns to the ground!” Several minutes of vitriol later it ended with the words “And-a we all-a know why I-a leave, it’s-a because of that-a Biiitch!” The HR manager had the presence of mind not to attend the festivities. Others wouldn’t have missed it for quids.
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Originally Posted by Oakie
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