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Chapter 149
The Lock Out

I’m not sure we called it the hairdryer treatment back then. But whatever it was we got it full blast. No words were minced. No meaning left to chance. Look at you sitting about, we were told. Think you’re undermining the system don’t you? Well, you’re deluding yourselves. You mean nothing to no one. You make no difference to anything. Lolling about listening to your Faces and your soul. Singing along about never changing a thing. Well, we’re not working but we will fight. And with that, she was gone, slamming the door behind her.

I suppose it was wrong to still think of her as The Redhead’s little sister. She was quite a lady by then. A real spitfire, and as feisty as hell. We called her La Pasionaria. Or, if we were feeling brave, our little Red Pepper. She never knew whether to be mad or amused at that. Nevertheless, we loved her dearly, and were full of admiration for her commitment to causes. She was a firebrand, or fire raiser, and if there was a wrong out there she wanted to right it. And she had a point when she laid into us. We were getting complacent. We were withdrawing from the world. We were too comfortable by far.

How she found time for a job I don’t know, but our Red Pepper had a clerical role in one of the little factories round our way. Ironically it was in the same road you’d see on the original Tamla Motown Appreciation Society membership cards from way back when. But that’s the kind of irrelevant diversion that drove our Red Pepper mad. And there was indeed trouble at this little factory, where the bosses were refusing to recognise the Union. It was the old story as well where anyone who spoke out was sacked, and new employees taken on at a lower rate. Of course without Union recognition and representation there was nowhere for them to go. Now there was a lot of this sort of thing going on around then. The Government had pretty much declared war on the Trades Union movement. While the media focused on the big battles, there were lots of local disputes going on. And one of them was on our doorstep.

Not too surprisingly our Red Pepper was in there at the thick of it. We’re not asking for the earth, she’d say. We just want our rights recognised. And to her those rights were a decent living wage, some job security, some basic benefits, and the opportunity for people to be part of an officially recognised Trades Union. In exchange, she argued, you’d have a wonderfully committed workforce, which is the best route to a profitable and progressive business enterprise. But no, the bosses were reading the tealeaves of the time, and were intent on digging in. They simply sacked the workers who were not happy with the way things were going, and that was that. Our Red Pepper was equally determined not to give in.

So each morning, she was there with colleagues that had been cast aside, picketing and protesting. Daily she pleaded with erstwhile comrades to support the cause. Daily she was onto her political contacts, trying to drum up support, but naturally they were more interested in the bigger battles. So she thought we could and should have a role to play. And she was right. This was real. This wasn’t about sitting around reading Days of Hope. This was about making it happen. This was what made Kevin Rowland sing he couldn’t help it if he tried. Our Red Pepper and her sacked comrades, a small band of good if ill-used people, needed support. These were people who had never even heard of Socialist Worker, and for whom Militant was just something they heard about on the news. These were people just trying to do the right thing.

But what could we do? How many times had we asked ourselves that question? Well, once again we did what we could. The things we were good at. The publicity, and all that, to start with. Using our contacts, we got lots of flyers printed up. Our friend Stan’s network of old contemptibles helped there. We handed them out to local people round the shops. We gave them out at football grounds. We got local people interested in a real story. Made sure they understood it was real people affected. We got the real story out to the local media too. As much as we could. And then there was the purely practical. Like standing on the picket line, showing solidarity. You could just about do that then. The iron fist of Thatcherism hadn’t yet got quite so far. And making sure supplies of hot tea, soup, bacon butties, biscuits and buns were kept going. Okay, it didn’t change the world, but it helped things along.

We organised a series of fundraising and benefit events. Some of the groups we knew in the murky music business were particularly kind and co-operative. But maybe best of all was an idea that originated with Soul Sister Number One. I should explain that the siblings of The Fair One and The Redhead seemed to gang up on us, and form an unholy and unwholesomely close alliance. They had pretty much everything between us, and we wondered why they messed with us other than having pity on our souls. Anyway, they were the best of mates, and at a pow wow Soul Sister Number One suggested a campaign of action to discredit the company. After all the factory turned out precision tools which had a pretty limited customer base. Our Red Pepper liked this, and added that some of the company’s clients were large combines which would be somewhat sensitive to stinks. And, looking at us, she suggested we should get cracking. Soul Sister Number One sort of came to our assistance by offering to proof read anything we put together using her experienced connections-in-the-City eye. Gee thanks.

Well, we couldn’t let them down could we? But we did sort of think sending officious letters was a bit passé, and that a new variation on Chinese whispers might be more fun. A few ‘phone calls here to senior personnel, a few rumours started there, a few stories planted with the business press. And human nature being what it is our capacity to believe the worst knows no bounds. So maybe it’s no coincidence that there came a time when the factory’s biggest clients started to suggest it might be worth sorting out the little domestic difficulties or business just might be taken elsewhere because shareholders are asking questions. Well, you don’t want to believe all you hear do you? But maybe, just maybe, The Outside of Everything made a difference. We’ll probably never know. Nevertheless a perfectly reasonable pay-off was eventually offered to the sacked workers, together with glowing references making no mention of disputes or disagreements. By all accounts most of those involved soon got better jobs anyway. As for those left, well if they wanted to join a Union then they were allowed to. Our Red Pepper was even offered her job back, though by all accounts she told them what they could do with it. The factory’s still there actually, albeit under different ownership. A miracle in itself.

And our Red Pepper? Yeah, she forgave our lethargy, and even allowed to slink back to our wastrels’ ways. After all, we all need some time to think.

© 2008 John Carney
Illustration © 2008 Alistair Fitchett