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Lazy and Feckless

[ 3 minute read ]

Opinion 

A long time ago I was walking past an industrial estate in the North of England during my feckless period. Some artists and songwriters have a 'blue' period, I have a feckless period. To be fair, I had just arrived from Ireland that week after picking oranges on the Greek Peloponnesus six weeks before and I had just negotiated a sign-writing job for a high-street shop. The product of being orphaned, I suppose; just keep on being a child living a halcyon lifestyle; every day a school summer holiday.

As I continued walking towards the motorway to hitch-hike back south, I watched a cyclist, head-down and pedaling hard, pass me and turn into the industrial estate. I looked at my watch and saw it was twenty seven minutes to two. He was late back from his lunch-break and he was probably using more energy in the cycling than he would minding a rubber extrusion machine. I determined then that because I had, in the past, fallen into the same circumstance, I would never hurry back to work again. That decision was not because I had a disrespect for my work, my workplace, or my employers' it was because I knew I was not conditioned sufficiently well to be a responsible worker.

      'Sod that!' I thought.

Since then I have done everything I could to avoid being a man on a bike late for work. I have been a magician, a puppeteer, a mime, a fire-breather and a juggler. I have worked in commercial orchards and picked potatoes and lettuce. I have been self-employed and employed dozens of people and I have sold my businesses after incorporating them. I have been a professional artist and a professional gambler, though in different years. I have sprayed paint and blasted grit, and I have been a lorry driver. I have written and sold spreadsheets to small businesses and I have been a web designer. In all those jobs I was autonomous when it came to either showing up or determining my start-times or the routes I took. In agricultural work you usually got paid by the quantity of produce you picked, so you could pick strawberries in the morning and spend the money in the afternoon. We used to use mopeds to tow our friends on bicycles to the strawberry fields miles away.

I sometimes think about the commuters on buses synchronously nodding every time the bus hits a bump or pot-hole. It is a twee scene of normality that could be placed in the nineteen fifties or the year 2026. Yet, every one of those people have a life outside of their work even though they are all lined up and occupy carefully crafted compartments of employment. I am jealous of them just as they are jealous of me standing by the side of the road with a torn banner that reads. 'Jam Tomorrow!'. 

       'Oh, he is so lucky to have no master or mistress to control him.' No-one really thinks that in its unfolded sense. Perhaps with a closer look, if I use a long enough stick to prise the sentiment out, I might dig out, 'You slack-arse.' Not far from calling me a blaggard is it? Well, I suppose the imagined banner does poke fun at people's ruined expectation of a brighter future. 'Jam yesterday and jam today, but never jam tomorrow.' I think is from Lewis Carroll's 'Alice in Wonderland' or 'Through the Looking-Glass'. I think it was revived during the second world war by a member of Parliament but he might have wanted 'Jam Tomorrow' to mean the future looks bright. I think jam was rationed in those days. In looking it up on Wikipedia just after 1330 o'clock I see that John Maynard Keynes uses jam-making, and 'never jam today' as an allusion to preserving savings for a future which ultimately stagnates the economy today.

In reality, I have different contracts for different types of jobs; one day some sign-writing, another some driving, and another just a strange handy-man with good computing skills and crazy and over-complicated spreadsheets that are fun to create but say nothing useful. In reality, I am dedicated to arriving punctually and the constraints on my life are the same as the man late for work on the industrial estate in the north of England. However, while he was worried about his lateness, I am worried that I might be late. It is the same angst and the only difference is I maintain control of the circumstance and he somehow lost it.

Now, because I have at least some worth, these days I am in my 'circumscribed fecklessness' period. With that in mind, I sometimes indulge in public self-flagellation. In 1978, Ian Dury and the Blockheads, wanted to be hit with rhythm-sticks. I want to hit myself with words. 'Hit me! Hit me! Hit me slowly. Hit me quick!' (from 'Hit me with your Rhythm Stick', written by band member, Chaz Jankel, on Stiff Records). It is about feeling people's vibes.

However, I have a nagging feeling that the older folk who actually know the song are tittering behind implacable masks hiding their glee at my faux pas. The 1970s was a time when the 'double entendre' and the use of euphemisms was commonplace and especially on the television with the 'Carry On' franchise. This had to be in light of the machinations of the horn-rimmed bespectacled Mary Whitehouse trying to shut down everyone's fun, including 'Kiss me Quick' hats and saucy postcards at the seaside. Oh Dear! Did I not understand what they were really singing about? It doesn't matter. It is all good.