Last Big Weekend Of The Summer

The morning post hit the mat with a thump; I was on to it
immediately, found the item I was looking for and opened it with
trembling hands. Then I ran upstairs to tell Mum and Dad the good
news.

"I've got in! I'm going to university!"

They looked pleased; after all, I would be the first in the family; Mum
and Dad would now be able to circulate among the aunts and uncles
talking of assignments and seminars and tutorials and resits - well,
maybe not resits - whilst the rest of the extended family were forced
to listen jealously.

"Where you off to, son?" asked Dad.

"Burger University!" I announced proudly.

"Never heard o' that one son - is it one that used to be a
polytechnic?"

"Nah, it's a new concept in education; you work for the burger chain,
get paid and do your study blocks in between. At the end you've got a
degree, no debts and a guaranteed job!"

"Just like nursing," added Mum, surprisingly, "Our Ruby's Gillian got
her nursing qualifications like that, you learn on the wards as well as
in nursing school. But you haven't got your exam results yet!"

I explained that Burger University worked on predicted grades plus an
interview; my predicted grades weren't brilliant, but I must have
interviewed well. I also pointed out that Oxford and Cambridge worked
on the same predictive principle, which calmed their concerns.

"When do you start?" asked Dad.

I looked at the acceptance letter. "Monday!" I said with shock; I had
counted on another month of dossing around in the sun waiting for the
results.

The following Monday I was on the train to Birmingham for Freshers'
week, where we were taught the basics of fast-food catering. Then it
was out to our assignment blocks; like many of the freshers, I was
assigned to the Faculty Of Buns. The lecturer had taught us about
vertical integration, how the burger chain ensured quality control by
involvement in the entire process from farming the cows to disposing of
the fast-food detritus. Buns were of strategic importance, and it was
indicative of the company's - sorry, university's - confidence in us
that we would be part of the critical supply line from day one. Also,
as buns were produced in local centres most of us would be able to stay
at home for our first assignment. Disappointment flooded me; I was
aching for the roisterous and carefree life of the first-term fresher,
instead I would be on shift work at a bakery in Bolton. That wasn't
all; our placement worker explained that, once we had been inducted, we
would be working the ovens all by ourselves. Well, for the most part;
shifts were 7-3 and 2.30-10.30 with half an hour overlap for handover,
and on early shift you got to meet and help the van driver who came to
collect the previous day's baking at eight a.m. sharp every day. My
"oppo" was Den, a lad from Farnworth; we were expected to "bond" with
our oppos, as we were required to cover for each other in case of
illness or the occasional tutorial back in Birmingham. I envied the
triple-A students who were handpicked to join the ultra-secretive
Faculty of Meat at a secure and undisclosed campus location.

The A-level results came the following week; it turned out that the
tech college had been over-optimistic and, whilst I had technically
passed three A-levels, the reality was that I was lucky to be at uni at
all. But Burger University had invested in my future, even though I was
only earning minimum wage, and I strove to master the technique of
baking burger buns. Being the only employee on shift meant that the
work couldn't be too manual; I had to tip the pre-weighed ingredients,
plus water, into the giant mixer and out came the dough in rows of
squishy blobs on trays which went straight into the oven; then the
finished batch had to be taken out, placed on cooling trays and then
passed into the shrink-wrap machine. Easy-peasy;
mixer-oven-cooling-wrap. But the mixer was multi-process and the oven
multi-layered, so there were always three or four batches in various
stages of production and the day became defined by the demanding ting
of the mixer and the oven as they completed their cycles. Oh, and the
sesame seeds; there was a hand-held squirter which sent a calibrated
spray of sesame seeds on to the buns waiting to go into the oven; this
mustn't be forgotten in ones eagerness to keep up to the production
schedule, which was fifty batches of buns per shift, taking into
account loading the van on early shift and cleaning the equipment at
the end of late shift. I finished my first week of lates without major
mishap and prepared to move on to earlies.

"Wonder if we get Bank Holiday Monday off?" I asked Den in the shift
overlap.

"Dunno; hope they pay double time. I'm sure they'll ring us up or send
a circular."

But as the second week wore on there was no word from Central
Campus.

"Maybe they've forgotten us already," I hoped.

"As long as they keep paying us," replied Den.

At shift changeover on the second Friday I asked Den what he was doing
for the long weekend.

"Nothing much," he said. "I've been waiting to see what they say about
Monday. Nothing so far?"

"Tell you what," I said, "if they ring you at work and say you have to
come in, then ring me at home. But if they don't, how about going to
Blackpool? "

"Cool," said Den, "If I don't ring, meet you at the station about ten?"
And I strode home and left him to complete the final shift of the
week.

The telephone stayed silent, and on Saturday morning I packed a bag and
got the bus to the railway station where Den was already waiting; it
was only poxy old Blackpool, but we were already excited like
schoolkids going to Eurodisney.

"Two returns to Blackpool," I said to the man in the ticket
office.

"When you coming back?" he asked.

"Bank Holiday Monday," I declared.

"Nice. That'll be two Savers, then; hope it stays fine."

It did, more or less; it was a bit cloudy and gusty when we got there,
not a day for sitting on the beach, but Blackpool's attractions are not
dependent on good weather. We found some cheap digs and left our stuff,
then went to the top of the Tower and took some photos, then down to
the Pleasure Beach for the Grand National and the Pepsi Max. We took a
breather and watched the surly sea slop against the promenade walls as
the last rays of the sun squinted from beneath the cloudbank, then the
lights came on and we inured our insides with some Lancastrian
fish-and-chips before hitting the night life. We cruised the pubs,
getting an eyeful of the talent on offer, before settling on a
cavernous nightclub which bore the sign "Ladies free before
10.30".

"Bound to be plenty of totty in there," suggested Den; we paid and
entered.

The nightclub appeared to be a prefabricated warehouse with one huge
bar taking up an entire wall; there were very few seats and a massive
dance area over which a glittery ball spun in the staccato bursts of
spotlights. Dance music was being played at a tremendous volume and, as
the ten-thirty deadline began to approach, the club began to fill up
with talent.

"Let's get in quick," said Den, who reckoned that most guys would only
show up later after the pubs closed.

We honed in on two girls who were dancing together, one blonde and one
brunette. The blonde looked hot; she was wearing a short skirt and long
boots, whilst the brunette was wearing a much longer skirt and a baggy
top; her ankles looked a bit fat. I danced opposite the brunette. We
offered the girls a drink, and whilst I went to the bar I was surprised
to see Den with his mouth close to the brunette's ear whilst the blonde
looked on.

"Two pints of bitter, please," I said to the barman. "And the girls
want cocktails, something to do with trams and the Pleasure Beach, or
so they said."

"Tramcar To The Tower and Pleasure On The Beach," explained the barman,
sloshing various liquids around and producing two lurid drinks, one
green and one red, so full of fruits, umbrellas and things on sticks
that I wondered how you could ever get any of the drink in your mouth.
"That'll be twenty-four pounds fifty, sir!" he said.

I took the drinks back and had to prise Den away from the brunette. He
then exchanged some distanced pleasantries with the blonde whilst I
tried to tell the brunette a funny story. Suddenly the girls got up and
went off to the toilet. I asked Den whether he had gleaned their names,
and it turns out he hadn't; he thought they were usherettes from
Macclesfield. The brunette had told me, or so I thought, that they
worked in a launderette in Huddersfield; they could have been
statuettes from Sellafield for all that we could hear above the disco
racket. I caught sight of the girls returning from the toilet and
nudged Den; they were taking a circuitous route round the other three
sides of the hall in order to reach the door; the brunette was dragging
her heels, but the blonde looked angry and held her friend's wrist in a
firm grip as she marched towards the exit. Ah, well. I took a sip of
the nearest redundant cocktail; it tasted like medicine, but cost more
than a prescription.

"Well, that's that," I sighed. "Though that brunette did look a bit of
a minger."

Den stared. "I thought you'd fancy the blonde; I was leaving her to
you."

"So was I!" I replied.

I realise later that such are the defining moments in which friendships
are formed.
We decided to cut our losses, drank up and went back to our digs
largely sober.

Sunday was, we decided, going to be a slob day; as late a breakfast as
was allowed then a day at leisure. We took a tram to the end of the
line at Fleetwood and smelt the fish, then, because the conductor had
persuaded us to buy an all-day ticket, travelled all the way to the
other end of the line. We hopped on to a bus and trundled down to
snooty Lytham, where we strolled on the grassy, litter-and-burger-free
promenade and smiled at the shuffling pensioners.

"We'll get it right this time," promised Den, "so tell me which you
fancy, the one with the sticks or the one with the funny wig?"

Back to Blackpool, a walk along Central Pier till dusk, then back on
the tram to see the lights. It wasn't yet the Illuminations season, but
they have to set up the displays early and test them out, so it gave us
an excuse to get the money's worth out of the day tickets. We went for
a couple of jars in Cleveleys - no money for expensive clubbing and
wasteful women - then back on the tram to the digs, watch the telly for
an hour or two and off to kip. Well, it's not Ibiza, and we were low on
money!

The lovely thing about Bank Holiday weekends is the way in which, not
only does Saturday slide into Sunday as usual, but the Sunday slurs
over into a third day when you can redress the imbalance of the
previous two days; slob around if you've been decorating, say, or go
for a long walk if you've been slobbing around. We paid up at the guest
house, checked out and thought about going home. But we didn't; we
could still squeeze a few hours of enjoyment out of the place. We
strolled round the shops, all of which were open and ready for the
day-trippers to turn up. There, resplendent in its primary-colour
plastic fascia, was the burger bar; our burger bar, one of twenty in
the northwest for which we made the buns. We automatically made our way
in for lunch; not only did we get staff discount but it was a
disciplinary offence to be seen entering the premises of rival burger
establishments. But Den suggested we didn't let on that we were
staff?

We took our burgers and shakes back to a table and examined them
closely.

"Yours or mine?" I asked Den.

He peered at his bun and bit it carefully.

"Neither, I reckon; the mix isn't sweet enough and just look at those
sesame seeds; it's like they've just been thrown on!"

We asked to speak to the manageress; an anxious-looking, toothy girl of
about twenty-five came to the counter to see what was wrong, beckoning
us to one side.

"These bread buns aren't up to the usual standard!" announced Den
solemnly.

The manageress looked embarrassed, and leant across confidingly.

"To tell you the truth, we've had to get emergency supplies from the
supermarkets, there's a supply problem at the bakery," she
admitted.

"I bet they were trying to save money and didn't arrange any cover for
the Bank Holiday," I said sententiously.

She looked puzzled.

"Ooh, no, they always arrange holiday cover. In any case the Bank
Holiday's not till next Monday. No, it'll be those lazy student toerags
they take on. We had one here on Retail secondment, she was so useless
they shipped her off to Faculty Of Hygiene And Lavatorial Science,
which is where those bakery boys will end up if they bother to turn up
at all tomorrow?"

Aghast, we both glanced at a calendar on the wall, which marked the
following Monday in red and the current day very definitely in black.
We slunk back to our seats and morosely chewed our burgers, which were
suddenly even more tasteless than usual.

"How bloody stupid!" I grimaced. "University material we are, and we
can't even read a calendar properly."

"Hey," said Den suddenly, "if you dash down to the station you can get
in for late shift, you'll only be an hour or two down!"

"No chance," I replied, "we're in this together." But our university
education was effectively over before most students had even
registered. Mum and Dad would be distraught.

The central library in Blackpool was hard to track down; it's probably
one of the least-requested destinations in the town. But we found it
eventually, and sat down at a table with the Times Educational
Supplement looking for universities which had last-minute places
available on courses for which the entry requirements were low. It
wasn't encouraging. We could do Punch And Judy studies at Skegness,
History Of Tin Mining down in Camelford or Living With The Nuclear
Nightmare (No Physics Involved) at Furness?

We were dressed for our next interview in red-and-white striped
trousers and blue shirts decorated with more stars than a glam-rock
revival. And a wide-brimmed hat to match.

"I'm sorry, sir, we can't give you all breast pieces," said Den in a
tone which was meant to combine authority with genuine regret.

"But we can max your coleslaw for only 99p!" I declared brightly.

The man in the suit pursed his lips and tapped his pencil against the
blotter; we held our breath.

"Well, you've left it very late, but I'm pleased to say we can offer
you both a place at Fried Chicken College!" he declared.