Yesterday’s Twitterings started off with the great
left-right debate and brought forth many accounts of bitter memories of the
strike-ridden shithole that Britain was during the sixties and seventies. The
Shop Steward was king and wildcat strikes could be called at the merest hint of
management daring to consider, for one moment, the possibility of increasing efficiency.
The sight of a ‘Time & Motion’ man with his clipboard was enough for the
whole of British Leyland (remember them?) to down tools, man the barricades and
fire up the braziers.
After wave upon wave of strike action successive
governments were terrified of upsetting the true fat cats of the day – the union
barons. With the country heavily reliant on nationalised, manpower-intensive,
heavy industry the likes of Jack Jones, Derek Robinson and Joe Gormley strutted
around parading their power like Third World tin-pot dictators while nightly power
cuts kept the general public, quite literally, in the dark. As the summer of 1978
faded into autumn, little did we then realise that the next Christmas would be
in the midst of our Winter of Discontent.
This was the backdrop to a series of talks at a
medium-sized engineering firm, now defunct, in the Midlands as management and
workers’ representatives were locked in a bitter battle over the working week.
The factory gates were closed and pickets stood guard. To a man the strike was
solid and workers stood firm as talks continued. For weeks it dragged on and
the days got colder and shorter. Concessions were proposed by management but
the union stuck to its guns and the men stood firm and turned their offers
down.
Eventually, one grey, drizzly mid-December day the doors
to the conference room were thrown wide and the press allowed in. Flashbulbs
popped as hands were shaken and papers waved for the cameras. Invited to
comment, Jimmy Gobshite, the union convener declined, saying that until he had
told his men the good news it wasn’t for wider ears. Jimmy strode out of the
factory and across the yard to the heavily fortified main gate where his
comrades were waiting, the press pack streaming behind him. At a gesture the
heavy chains were removed and the factory gates opened. Jimmy mounted a hastily
erected podium of pallets to address his members.
He waited a moment for silence and then: “Brothers” he
declaimed “I bring you great news. The capitalist lackeys have bowed before the
might of our argument and capitulated to all our demands” A great roar came
from the crowd and Jimmy was hoisted aloft on donkey-jacketed shoulders for a
victory lap of the factory yard before being returned to his podium. “From now
on, Comrades, all wages are to be doubled and paid holidays will be extended to
twelve weeks a year!”
Once more the crowd went wild and once more he was
carried victoriously, this time for two laps of the yard, as flat caps were
thrown into the air and workers hugged each other in joy and celebration. Flashbulbs
crackled like automatic fire and from somewhere fireworks had been produced and
fired off into the late afternoon skies. Eventually, after several wild
minutes, Jimmy was once more delivered back to his podium.
Breathless now with exhilaration Jimmy fought to recover his composure as the crowd cheered on. People were breaking out in a sporadic rendition of The
Red Flag as he delivered yet another message. “And from now on, brothers” he yelled
above the cacophony, “From now on… We only have to work on Fridays!” He flung
up his arms to encourage a cheer, but the crowd stopped, dead. Jimmy looked out
over a sea of stunned faces.
Jimmy knew he’d struck a good deal but he was
surprised at the stupefaction on their faces. He could only imagine it must be gratitude. Seconds passed and the
silence hung thick in the air. Even the birds had stopped their song. Then one lone, angry voice came from the back of
the crowd. “What?” challenged the voice “Every bloody Friday?”
