All for a Cheese Sandwich
An observation of what the driver/sales working day was like during my time in the UK Sandwich Industry.
My career in this fascinating industry began in the early nineties and went on for over twenty years involving all aspects of the business. In those early days, it was Fun, Exciting, and in many cases, Dangerous.
Imagine if you will; It’s the early nineties the `Gold Rush` era of sandwich manufacture and delivery in the UK. We were one of many sandwich manufacturers that were springing up everywhere at that time, hence the phrase, The `Gold Rush` era. It is one o’clock in the morning, the twilight zone, the time of urban foxes, an eerie quiet hanging over the dark streets.
A nervous figure lurks around a BMW with tinted windows parked on the curbside; the figure lurks around its doors. There s a slight whirring sound as the car window slides down, a hand appears, a package changes hands, and the mysterious, nervous-looking figure disappears into the shadows of a side street. As this takes place, further down the dimly lit road, there is an activity of another kind as the working day of the sandwich delivery man is just about to begin.
He walks to the factory entrance pulls at the cold handle, and a large metal door swings open to reveal a walk-in fridge; freezing air from the large ceiling fans hits his face as he walks in, his day is just beginning if he wasn’t’ fully awake before, he is now.
Other drivers, his working colleagues, push and jostle by him eager to load, getaway, and get back home. Coughing and sneezing coupled with barely audible grunts of “Morning” abound as whiffs of garlic from a meal the night before waft by his face. The smell of alcohol and stale cigarette smoke mixed with the aroma of sterilizing lotion in the factory beyond the fridge, all make for a heady mix in this; the twilight zone.
A particular type of person work these hours, they either love it or hate it, but whichever it is, they all make the most of it; otherwise, they would never survive, and many didn’t.
After much pushing and shoving, finally loaded, he drives’ away. The factory he has left behind stands quiet now, resting, a mass of bright stainless steel tables, the aroma of sterilizing lotion, giving an almost morgue-like atmosphere. Only hours before workers, with layers of warm clothing under their white coats to protect against the chill of the freezers, were prepping, slicing tomatoes, cucumbers, slicing ham, cheese, and all while chattering away to their colleagues. Just a few hours after he has left, they will return, and it will all start again as it does every day.
As he drives away, the streets are quiet; crushed drinks cans spin up under the vans wheel arch as he turns the corner, empty crisp packets from the previous night’s fun-seekers float along the road in the twilight hour’s breeze. He is all alone except, of course, for others like him who have decided to work these ungodly hours, hours when all sane people are asleep in their warm beds. By the time they rise, his days’ work will be almost over, and as they choose their favorite snack from the chiller, they will have no idea how it got there or what has happened in this twilight period.
There are few vehicles around at two in the morning, so driving is a dream, almost literally so to some of the company’s drivers in those heady klondike days. It’s less stressful-easy until about six-thirty, then it starts, his private world will be intruded upon by those who were asleep earlier and are now, of course, late, and cursing him for being on their road and delivering at that time of the day.
Deliveries of sandwiches in those days were mainly to garage forecourts; there were hundreds then, later, due to supermarket expansion, there would only be handfuls here and there.
At his first of many garage forecourts to deliver someone’s lunchtime snack, he places the sandwiches on the shelf, checking the dates on the sandwiches already there. On a large Petrol Forecourt, there would generally be two sandwich suppliers. Whoever comes first would take the prime sales position. The one to arrive second would move his competitor’s sandwiches to a shelf lower down and take his place in the top area. This action would go on and on, and so the game is played. It was a recognized game; however, all drivers were on commission, so there were instances, on large, lucrative forecourts, where drivers returned to move their sandwiches back again.
There could be occasions where drivers would arrive together. In those fraught early days of this fast-growing industry, arguments would occur, and it could get scary, especially in those early hours when everyone else is asleep.
As he completes his daily ritual at the forecourt chiller, he then approaches the cashier for a signature. These are also a particular type; they will either come across as though they own the place and do everything in their power to ruin your schedule by prevaricating over the delivery note and returns, or pay no heed whatsoever and scrawl an illegible mark and grunt.
His work completed, with heavy eyelids and windows open to allow the fresh air to keep him awake, he drives back to the factory. The factory, the shell that he left behind all those hours ago in the still of the night, is a cacophony of noise as disgruntled workers are doing the same tedious job as yesterday, receiving the same orders barked from the same stressed-out supervisors (also a particular type).
Documents and cash handed in, he retires to the canteen to have what is euphemistically called a coffee from the machine. After a chat with his colleagues about the morning he’s had, he is away to sleep, ready for the twilight zone again later that night, all for a cheese sandwich.
Bless you and Thank you for reading this blog, please share with your friends.
I wish you all that I have; People around you who care.
John Warner Author/Creator-The Tales of Padistan Bear
John Warner Author 