The Lost Post (Chapter 5) The Way Forward

The Deal

It seems almost surreal to look back on the way things were before the ‘Way Forward’, the ironically entitled deal that finally killed off the prospect of Royal Mail continuing as an effective public service. As a worker, prior to 2000 AD and, if your personality was inclined to do so, you could experience all the warmth, camaraderie and fun of a nationally owned business. If people ‘stitched’ you up back then, they did so with gusto, knowing that they were prime candidates for reparation. I remember little John when he got his first driving job. He’d been at it for a couple of months when Roy saw him loading his van on the dock one nippy February morning.
He preferred this method of delivery, he said, “You’d have to be an idiot not to. Wheels is better than feet”
“Okay” Roy said “but watch your back. The drivers cut corners, and I don’t just mean the ones that connect straight bits of road”
“I was stitched up once on the walks”, he moaned, the shame glowed in his iris and then faded. “No-one’s done it since. Besides a lot of the drivers are good lads”
“That won’t stop them. Take Joe over there” I said, pointing to a tall, lean, middle-aged and good-looking Barbadian. “Look what he did to Ron, on the early shift down the station”
“Joe’s okay, isn’t he?”
“A sterling fellow” Roy replied and related to him the tale of Ron, Joe and the big breakfast.
Joe was sitting in the little room reading the morning papers, and there was a young lad with him. His name was Tommy (he’s left now) and it was his first day. Joe told the boy that if he was hungry there was sausage, bacon and egg in the fridge. Tommy duly threw the lot on the pan as Joe made his excuses as he was due back at the office with his mail. As Tommy mopped up the last dregs with some bread, Ron, the senior man on Earlies, burst in. Ron had been outside on Platform 1 off-loading Joe’s mail and, as a favour to Joe, threw it on the back of his wagon. As Joe came out he thanked Ron for his help and mentioned casually that the new lad was finding his feet already (morning station work back then was as hard as a brick of butter in a baker’s oven) There he was, said Joe, tucking in to a hearty breakfast before he’d even lifted a bag. As Ron flew into the small room he ignored the salutations of his new recruit and strode directly to the fridge only to find his breakfast ingredients missing, being, as they were, tucked inside Tommy’s tummy. Ron was cantankerous enough without anyone pissing him off, and vented his wrath on the dupe for the remainder of the shift. By doing so he emptied himself of rage and shared the joke with Joe the following morning (Tommy phoned in sick) Joe, who had calculated this in advance, drove back to the mail centre barely able to see the road through eyes streaming with tears of laughter.
“Well” Little John replied, “I can only take people as I find them and Joe went out of his way to help me. Look inside the van - see all those parcels? Joe showed me how to set those in order”
“But you don’t do parcels on this job” Roy said incredulously as he peered into the back.
“You don’t…do…what!”
At this he dove into his van picked one a parcel and thrust it at Roy.
“Are you sure?”
Roy checked out the address and understood immediately why Joe had offered his services so willingly
“They’re Joe’s parcels you dickhead. He’s paid three hours overtime every morning to deliver them!”
For the last eight weeks Joe had turned up every morning, signed for his overtime, picked up his parcels, proceeded with them towards the bay and then helped Little John set them in so he could deliver them on Joe’s behalf, while Joe went back home to bed for another couple of hours kip.
Joe, some thirty feet away, had seen them talking and guessed that the ruse was up. Little John, on the other hand, was hurtling the erroneous items out onto the loading dock like bullets from a revolver. Joe stood there howling, even though he was going to have to pick up each and every parcel and for the first time in two months deliver them himself.
But Little John took it; you had to if you wanted to survive the jibes and banter. There were those who couldn’t of course, who took themselves too seriously and let it get to them. They’d become sullen, then acrid, then bitter, then deeply resentful and then finally, managers.
But it wasn’t all paradise – sure there was greed, jealously and back-stabbing as is the median for all large corporations but the perpetrators were usually friendless loners and in many circumstances they too ended up in management.
Roy was in the canteen with some of the other drivers when the news came through that The Way Forward had been voted in. The reaction of the workforce was split three ways. Some were incredulous, knowing that the deal was so bad for them that nobody in their right mind would vote it through. Others took this a step further and suspected vote rigging on a scale akin to the Bush/Florida scandal. The third group not only contained the greater proportion of workers but helped explain why, after the furore died down, the count was probably correct. They were the apathetic, or as Roy would call them:
“Weak miserable toads – too fucking scared to stand up for themselves”
Jim was only slightly less sympathetic. “The gaffers put a lot of pressure on them. They’ve been threatening them. Telling them it’ll come in anyway and when it does we’ll know who was standing where. Spineless twats”
“They’re afraid of being picked on” said Joe “Where were the Union reps? Why didn’t they make their presence felt? You know why – they’re backing the deal too. You watch the next time we have a pay rise there’ll be a sweet deal for the old higher grade postman, and you know why – because all the National Executive Council members are holding these jobs back at their home office. It’s a stitch up good and proper”
“What I cannot understand is we’d seen off 18 years of Conservatism” Roy cried. We’ve beaten back privatisation plans during both the Thatcher and Major reigns. When Labour won in 1997 it was as if the wall in Berlin had been come down again – we were safe and all the panic over losing our nationalised status were quashed forever.
“This Way Forward promises new investment and better ways of working in return for opening up the markets to competition. Now if we’re supposed to be losing ‘traffic’ to electronic mail and the mobile phone what’s the point of opening up a dying industry to competition?”
“We’re dying – haven’t you heard? This is the cure.” Said Jim
“Some corpse; this year we made profits of £400 million, of which a substantial amount went to the treasury. We’re a major employer and our productivity and reliability is improving. Just who’s the patient? Is it us or a Labour Party that’s desperate for money and has nothing else to sell?” The bitterness behind Joe’s words were sourced from thirty years of public service traded for a slap in the face.
“They won’t sell us – not directly – they can’t” countered Jim. “They’ve spent eighteen years in opposition slagging the Tories off for selling the “family jewels” How’s it going to look if they chuck away the only thing Thatcher wouldn’t touch? No, they’ll destroy us from within that’s what they’ll do and I know just the instrument they’ll use”
They all looked askance. “What the hell does that mean?” asked Brian
“Johnson”
Alan Johnson had been the top dog of the CWU in 1997 when the forerunner of The Way Forward was proposed – it was called The Employee Agenda. The deal offered the usual derisory increase in basic pay but attached to more string than in two series of Thunderbirds. Johnson told his sheep to throw it out and they dutifully complied. But the management repackaged the deal with more money and even more string but this time there was a Volte face from Johnson. Yes -he proclaimed to the RM populace – vote yes; but we still voted no and he left us.
“You mean Judas Johnson?” said Roy, the epithet being derived from not only his change of position on The Employee Agenda but his reappearance later that year as Labour’s chosen representative to ‘fight’ for the seat in Hull West (one of the safest Labour seats in the country) in the general election.
“The very man, if that’s a definition of a man. He knows how we tick doesn’t he? He’s already proved where his loyalties lie. His own filthy ambition, that’s where”
“You can’t prove that” a voice came from behind them. It was Des, the Union’s branch chairman. “Where’s his motive?”
“You’ve got a short fucking memory haven’t you Des?” Jim seethed, “You were with him on the first vote and against him on the second”
“Okay so he was wrong, but he did the decent thing and resigned, didn’t he?”
“Decency and honour had nothing to do with it” spat Joe, “We’re just pawns so Blair can turn round and say he’s a friend to business”
“You’re conspiracy theorists. You don’t trust anyone. You can’t live your life having no faith in anything. Cynicism won’t win any battles” berated the Union man.
“No you’re wrong. We’re realists – you’re the cynics, all of you who weald the slightest piece of power. You cannot envisage us in any other terms of how we fit in the overall scheme of your individual careers. We are votes, not people. On the negotiating table we are numbers of jobs or head counts. No one sees the dependents behind the figures; the wives, husbands or children. We’re here to keep you representing us and not working amongst us- to keep politicians on the gravy train instead of laying the sleepers alongside us”
“You have a vote”
“And who shall I vote for? All men are born equal and so it is with officialdom. You may be black, white, brown or yellow; catholic, protestant, Muslim or Jewish; man, woman, androgynous or beast – but underneath it all you’re all corrupt”
“Why don’t you stand then and make a difference?”
“No thanks, I’ll leave the dirty work to you”
“I see. You won’t put on your white suit because you’re afraid it may get soiled.”
“I don't need the agro”
“And I do? I tell you guys not to come into work before your time. I tell you you’re not insured and that by finishing early you’re killing your own jobs. What happens? – I’m ignored. Then when management come looking to get rid of jobs I’m the villain. But I’ve still got to represent you and get the best deal I can. When I emerge from these discussions I get slaughtered by the same ungrateful bastards that landed in an unwinnable position through their own stupid actions.
“But that’s not the best of it. Not by far. Within days the stupid pricks are back up to their old tricks –coming in early and finishing before their time and the whole ridiculous bloody cycle goes on. The problem with you lot is not that you can’t trust me rather you can’t trust yourselves” and with this Des walked off.
He was right in so many ways but wrong in just as many. The problem was that in all things most people are right and wrong in equal measure. Life is essentially simple; in order for politics to exist we have to complicate things.
The Way Forward was to be our saviour. We had the promise of £90 million investment into the company. This was our paradise in Bali with Kim Basinger. In fact, in many ways, it was similar to the 1997 deal. The basic increase was substantial but that only meant that there had to be something within the deal that would claw it all back, and probably more and it didn’t take a Poirot to dig it out either. Night allowance was cut for those attending overtime in the wee hours; Saturday premium disappeared; double time for weekend overtime vanished into the ether; the link between hourly wage rates and overtime was severed so that the value placed on it became simply a figure that depreciated in real terms through every successive pay deal. This quickly degenerated into the ludicrous situation where those who performed more than ten hours were actually paid less than the normal hourly rate for basic pay.
Overtime, was therefore discouraged, at least in regards to disbursement. But in practise, as those of us in mail centres were wearily aware, it would be as vital, if not more, in the coming years as people left through retirement, resignation or voluntary redundancy and were not replaced. Managers, who sneered at the greedy ones who appeared to live at the place and never go home, took great solace in the fact that, in real terms, the gluttonous would now be forced to diet. However within weeks those supervisors were begging the obese to dine with them once again but their table was now lacking in sustenance.
And so after 2000 AD that secure concrete base had been replaced by a wooden plinth which was being slowly ravaged by the termites of the loss of rights and benefits that had been fought and won years earlier. They were given away by Union leaders who had never struggled for anything other than their own vested interests. They criticised their own members censuring them for their self-indulgence and their blinkered vision being unable to see past the loss of properly funded overtime and without the clarity to foresee the enhanced pensionable boon from a larger weekly stipend. But our weekly bonus had been swallowed whole by the new basic wage so the percentage increase in salary quoted in the media, although accurate in mathematical terms, disguised the fact that it was in real terms a paltry augmentation that would, for many people, be unable to sustain the loss of revenue from reduced overtime pay. As the nirvana that was “full employment leading to comfortable retirement” became a castle in the air, two distinct methodologies were adopted by those who were literate enough to read the writing on the wall: survival of the fittest or voluntary redundancy.
After the shock waves had subsided we realised that we hadn’t been sleeping with Basinger in Bali but with three whores; and not three friendly, plain-looking but heart of gold whores who took your money and looked after you. No, these were three beautiful sirens you couldn’t resist. But like an iceberg, the shallow beauty belied the dangerous belly tucked neatly under the superficial waist band. These whores were nasty, vicious, scheming whores; one was all out to shaft you from behind, another to suck you dry, but the third and last wasn’t going to get fucked even if it meant their brothers did.

The Competition

During the reigns of both Thatcher and Major the concept of nationalised industry was deemed dirty, soiled and antiquated. It stood for inefficiency, waste, high wages and low productivity and it was a pariah for those that demanded choice. That was the key, you see, the ability to choose. But try as they might (and they did) the powers that be could not persuade the Tories to surrender up the Royal Mail; no, it took a Labour government to do that.
And so, while we basked in the great bay of safety, beyond the peaceful coastal waters the great tidal wave of auctions began. Gas, communications, and electricity – all these utilities were sold off to the British people in shares. And the people would not be second best in the auction house. Those private companies chomping at the bit to bid for large tracts of those portfolios were not going to have their way. Maggie made sure of that. We would become a nation of shareholders thanks to the great shopkeeper herself. We would now hold bits of paper telling us we owned what we thought we owned before.
We didn’t hold them for long though and sold them back within a couple of days for a quick profit allowing the vultures to come in for the carcass. There may have been a little less meat left on the bone but it was certainly fleshy enough.
But apart from the money we did now have choice and isn’t that what we’ve been fighting for? We could now tell British Gas what to do with their…er…gas, and find ourselves a cheaper supplier; the same with our power (but not water) Today we have dozen of suppliers all vying for our business resulting in cheaper and cheaper bills, enabling the average householder to spend his savings on foreign holidays, a bigger car or maybe even a better house.
At least that’s what they told us would happen. The truth is that in this open market of ours, gas and electricity prices, already criminally exorbitant, are set to rise yet again this winter. Extra insurance is now necessary to cover water and gas pipes which we used to take for granted as part of the service. With greater choice came shoddier and shoddier service. Train companies run their engines on tracks they do not own, utility companies offer the cheapest prices for services they borrow and can only fix errors by utilizing the facilities of the original ex-nationalised company, privatised because they weren’t efficient enough to do this self same work. These providers are cheap because their service does not extend beyond a monthly invoice and direct debit payment. Woe betide anyone that experiences a difficulty, as direct communication by phone with a human mind is impossible beyond the impenetrable two-dimensional utility warehouse that is the call centre.
Britain has become just too wealthy to stomach, even if, in many cases it’s not our fault. Those old demarcation lines of Upper/Middle/Lower class and their sub-divisions are no longer applicable. Ordinary people, especially the middle-aged and elderly, with little savings and small pensions have become real-estate rich in a relatively short space of time. Their council tax bills rise proportionate to the spiralling value of a house they do not wish to sell but are finding it increasingly difficult to maintain. There is no benefit for them in this life save knowing they’re leaving a substantial inheritance. The fact that poor people can pass on unearned fortunes, a privilege usually limited to ‘old money’, is a state of affairs the super-rich cannot permit because it’s beyond their control, so their companies, the banks and insurance giants, secure the land through ‘competitive’ annuities. These funds cannot reduce the extortionate cost of living for the homeowner, but can only offer them a way of meeting the cost for a period of time at the end of which they hope they’ll be dead.
And then they finally did it to us. There was a small quandary though. Unlike gas, electricity, water and communication – there were no pipes, or wires plugged straight into each home to deliver the utility. Delivering the mail was a manual affair. The postmen and women of Great Britain had to walk it up to every door of every house, every morning barring Sunday. For every doorstep that stood adjacent to a pavement there were others with long sweeping drives; farms that were reached only by negotiating the most rutted of roads; communities accessible only by boat. What measures would the competition take to ensure the same dedicated service? The answer was relatively straightforward, they wouldn’t.
How did they intend to compete then? Their methods became very clear, very soon. They would offer to collect and process mail and pass it in to the Royal Mail to segregate, sort, machine and deliver on their behalf. Some of their mail would, and eventually all, be bundled and ready for walk preparation, thus eradicating all other forms of handling. Until then we seemed to have lost only a quarter of the work for half of the cost, and yet the latter, fixed via negotiation between the competitor, Royal Mail and Postcom (the quango conceived to ensure fair play) was meant to be attributable only to the delivery part of the equation.
But just whose mail would they then collect? - Yours and mine? - The man in the street? - The small businessman? Contrarily their target market consisted of the big boys – the banks, the building societies, the insurance companies, et al; easy to collect and process in their brand spanking new machinery (of which Royal Mail was sadly lacking) and in sufficient volumes to generate huge profits. These represented the core business of Royal Mail, though, and the resultant losses, despite the delivery payment from the competition, garnered the only response available – an application to Postcom to up the price of stamps to negate the loss of commerce.
As more and more of the country’s great and good deserted the once proud flagship, Royal mail’s revenues slumped. Soon large chunks of those proud black figures pre 2000 were redirected into the swelling coffers of the competition’s board and shareholders.
How did postal competition benefit the general public? He was now paying more for his stamps but was receiving the same service as it continued to be the same person walking down his garden path, every morning, in the same uniform, responsible for posting the same mail, albeit it that a growing part of his bundle of letters did not bear the head of the sovereign.
But it was boon time for the financial institutions, postage wise. Surely the millions that they saved could prompt a decrease in bank charges? Perhaps a reduction in insurance premiums could be advanced by our brave and robust insurance concerns? Soon cinema chains, mobile phone companies, clothing manufacturers, sporting goods, supermarkets, toy manufacturers and, of course, utility companies, were availing themselves of the opportunity to diminish their extravagant mailing costs. This must, surely, in turn lead to an economic boom underpinned by the diminution in the cost of living, as those appreciative industries pass on their savings to the country by way of reduced prices for their own quality goods?
But none of this happened. Ah competition – you are a cheap bitch indeed. And so, with Postcom and the Government’s blessing, the letter market was opened up and once unleashed the dogs of war attacked Royal Mail’s plump and well fed stomach, ripping through the skin, the fat and the nerves. The skeleton left quivering on the deck, it’s belly now an empty hole surrounded by a tapering ribcage, had still to pick itself up, shoulder the heavy bag containing the enemy’s mail and walk three miles to deliver it with only a bacon sandwich to sustain it when once it feasted on a ‘Full English’
Roy didn’t eat “full English”, not anymore. He loved it, especially on a Sunday morning in a B & B, on the annual horse racing trip. Sandra had placed herself on a low-fat diet. He was pleased, albeit surprised, at first and went to bed each morning checking under the covers as he climbed in inelegantly, to inspect his wife’s pyjama-ed rear and check on its attenuation. He closed his eyes and imagined her bottom had transformed into a svelte petite package enveloped in a pair of pretty pink knickers and before long he had engineered an erection. He opened them again and lay facing her back. It’s been a while, he thought, and slipped his hand under her top. Sandra, understandably, who had been ironing all night and had had to run around taking Bobby to and from karate class, in between dashing into the supermarket for supplies, was exhausted and although she stirred instantly at his touch, caught sight of the clock perched on the dresser. Desperate for the hour’s sleep she’d have before the alarm shrieked at seven (she kept a noisy one because, she claimed to Roy, she was a heavy sleeper) her elbows clamped tight on her waist cutting off Roy’s probing advance. Unperturbed he moved the attack downwards.
Whether Roy was still half asleep or not, his hand caressed her arse but its sojourn just went on and on. Instead of tiny underwear you could almost eat, his dreams were invaded by images of parachutes and marquees, and so he stopped and kept his erection going by rolling over and returning to the Ann Summers’ catalogue ruminating in his sleepy mind. He kept the subsequent self-abuse as discreet as possible and after a muted orgasm tucked his member deep inside his underpants, which he always wore to bed after a shift. Sandra fell back asleep aided by the recognizable rhythmic pulse of Roy’s foreskin being stroked up and down wondering how anybody could doze off covered in all that sticky stuff.