The Sound of Laughter Read Online Free Page A
Author: Peter Kay
got to the back of the queue. I followed the others as they clocked on. Eventually it was my turn but I started to panic when I couldn't find a clocking-in card with my name on.
'Don't worry, I've still not got one and I've been here a month,' said a voice over my shoulder. I turned round to be greeted by a blond-haired lad wearing a faded Curiosity Killed the Cat tour T-shirt (I think it was the 'Misfit' tour of '86). His name was Mick Santiago and we
were to become work buddies over the next few months. In fact, we even stayed in touch after Mick got sacked for getting someone else to clock in for him. He was enjoying a weekend at the Reading Festival and would have got away with it if he hadn't been caught on camera dancing to Transvision Vamp in a crowd shot. Apparently one of the supervisors almost choked on his beer when he saw it on the big screen down the pub. Mick got his P45 first thing Monday morning, but I think he was more upset about being caught on camera singing 'Baby I Don't Care' than he was about losing his job.
He went on the dole and I didn't see him for a while. Then he turned up at my front door one night out of the blue and so I invited him in for a cup of tea.
He was wittering on about how he'd been on a weekend retreat with Jobseekers and had caught the clap off a black Swedish midget. He said he then spent six hours queuing at the STD clinic just to have 'some bird jam an umbrella up my bell-end'. Then he ate all my mum's ginger nuts and left.
I slammed the front door, ran upstairs and spent the rest of the night scrubbing the bog with every type of cleaner I could get my mum's yellow Marigolds on. I even gave it a splash with some holy water from Lourdes that I found under the sink. (Well, you can never be too careful, can you?)
The last time I heard of Mick he'd fallen for a girl down at the Church of the Nazarene and was playing bass in a Christian steel band. They were on a 'The Lord Loves a Sinner' tour performing at a variety of prisons the length and breadth of Great Britain.
But that's a different story. Right now he was taking me to meet the foreman. I turned the corner to find what I can only describe as a truly overwhelming sight. There were literally hundreds of women frantically bashing away on production lines – I could barely make them out for the tissue paper that hung in the air, like a sunlit fog. The other thing I couldn't fail to notice was the heat – it wrapped round me like a blanket. The noise was incredible now, a combination of machinery pumping out tissue product, screeching forklifts, the raucous laughter of the women and Bobby Brown singing 'My Prerogative'. To this day I still get butterflies when I hear that song.
'So who gave you the job? Was it Morris?' said Mick as he led me towards the foil room
'I don't know his name. He drove a forklift and had a stutter.'
'Yeah, that's Morris Minor, he's a d-d-d-dickhead,' he laughed. I smiled nervously; for all I knew Mick could have suffered from a stutter too. They all could.
Morris Minor (I was about to find out) was a
nickname, after a hit novelty song that was around at the time called 'Stutter Rap'. The trouble was he had no idea people called him that.
'Hello, Morris. We met last week,' I said, hesitantly offering him a handshake.
'What the fuck do you mean, "Morris"?... My name's Ian.'
It was then the penny dropped and I could feel Mick laughing behind me.
'I'm sorry,' I said.
'Yeah, well. .. just watch yourself, OK? Right, I want you to do a bit of shit shifting for me tonight.'
I didn't like the sound of that.
'I'm sticking you on the bins. Have you ever used a jack lift before?' he said as he nodded towards another lad pulling a pallet with one.
'Yeah, no problem,' I said confidently. Then I swear I had a look round to see who'd said it. I couldn't believe it was me, I'd never used one of those things in my life. I'd seen them down the supermarket often enough, being pulled round by blokes built
'Don't worry, I've still not got one and I've been here a month,' said a voice over my shoulder. I turned round to be greeted by a blond-haired lad wearing a faded Curiosity Killed the Cat tour T-shirt (I think it was the 'Misfit' tour of '86). His name was Mick Santiago and we
were to become work buddies over the next few months. In fact, we even stayed in touch after Mick got sacked for getting someone else to clock in for him. He was enjoying a weekend at the Reading Festival and would have got away with it if he hadn't been caught on camera dancing to Transvision Vamp in a crowd shot. Apparently one of the supervisors almost choked on his beer when he saw it on the big screen down the pub. Mick got his P45 first thing Monday morning, but I think he was more upset about being caught on camera singing 'Baby I Don't Care' than he was about losing his job.
He went on the dole and I didn't see him for a while. Then he turned up at my front door one night out of the blue and so I invited him in for a cup of tea.
He was wittering on about how he'd been on a weekend retreat with Jobseekers and had caught the clap off a black Swedish midget. He said he then spent six hours queuing at the STD clinic just to have 'some bird jam an umbrella up my bell-end'. Then he ate all my mum's ginger nuts and left.
I slammed the front door, ran upstairs and spent the rest of the night scrubbing the bog with every type of cleaner I could get my mum's yellow Marigolds on. I even gave it a splash with some holy water from Lourdes that I found under the sink. (Well, you can never be too careful, can you?)
The last time I heard of Mick he'd fallen for a girl down at the Church of the Nazarene and was playing bass in a Christian steel band. They were on a 'The Lord Loves a Sinner' tour performing at a variety of prisons the length and breadth of Great Britain.
But that's a different story. Right now he was taking me to meet the foreman. I turned the corner to find what I can only describe as a truly overwhelming sight. There were literally hundreds of women frantically bashing away on production lines – I could barely make them out for the tissue paper that hung in the air, like a sunlit fog. The other thing I couldn't fail to notice was the heat – it wrapped round me like a blanket. The noise was incredible now, a combination of machinery pumping out tissue product, screeching forklifts, the raucous laughter of the women and Bobby Brown singing 'My Prerogative'. To this day I still get butterflies when I hear that song.
'So who gave you the job? Was it Morris?' said Mick as he led me towards the foil room
'I don't know his name. He drove a forklift and had a stutter.'
'Yeah, that's Morris Minor, he's a d-d-d-dickhead,' he laughed. I smiled nervously; for all I knew Mick could have suffered from a stutter too. They all could.
Morris Minor (I was about to find out) was a
nickname, after a hit novelty song that was around at the time called 'Stutter Rap'. The trouble was he had no idea people called him that.
'Hello, Morris. We met last week,' I said, hesitantly offering him a handshake.
'What the fuck do you mean, "Morris"?... My name's Ian.'
It was then the penny dropped and I could feel Mick laughing behind me.
'I'm sorry,' I said.
'Yeah, well. .. just watch yourself, OK? Right, I want you to do a bit of shit shifting for me tonight.'
I didn't like the sound of that.
'I'm sticking you on the bins. Have you ever used a jack lift before?' he said as he nodded towards another lad pulling a pallet with one.
'Yeah, no problem,' I said confidently. Then I swear I had a look round to see who'd said it. I couldn't believe it was me, I'd never used one of those things in my life. I'd seen them down the supermarket often enough, being pulled round by blokes built
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