Not-exactly what it says on the tin

Nineteen eighty-eight was such a long time ago that I don’t remember how I got the job working on the production line at the Cuprinol factory in Frome. But since it was a production line and I was packing boxes at the end of it, I can’t imagine the application process having been particularly tough. I went to work with a considerable reluctance and a dragging of feet that some may say was not the most suitable of attitudes to go into a new job with. They’d be right: I didn’t last out the day.
As you may have gathered by now I’m the type of person to whom boredom comes rather easily... you too, huh? (see Book). If I’m not finding my given task of the moment sufficiently stimulating I will inevitably try to do something else; something to divert my attention away from the tedious unpleasantness of the particular task. Often, this will involve thinking up alternative mind-occupying entertainments to help pass the time, and an example of this would be the counting of the thousands of cold, lifeless, recently-beheaded soggy lumps of grey-fleshed bird (pouring onto the conveyor) at the chicken factory some time back. The lack of chickens notwithstanding, it was a similar scenario at Cuprinol.
If you don’t already know, Cuprinol manufactured a range of wood-stain products and dollopped them into tins. These tins were then packed (by me) into very large cardboard boxes. My role was also to seal said boxes once full and mark one of six spaces on the side to indicate which variety of wood stain or creosote was contained within. I’ve no idea whether there’s any difference between wood stain and creosote but I don’t care, either. What’s important is that packing boxes of the stuff was about as much fun as sitting in treacle.
By the end of the first of the morning’s shifts I’d already exhausted the majority of my time-passing activities; one of which required me to count the number of tins passing through my hands each minute to be dumped into a box for Homebase. I’d counted all of the bolts (in the machines) within my field of vision and I’d tried hypnotising myself with the regularity of their output, but succeeded only in having one of my legs go numb. I really was getting very bored indeed and I realised that it was time for a new game. After a tea break spent listening to men in overalls guffawing about the size of the ‘puppies’ of the girl on Page 3, along with a discussion of the previous night’s football that I didn’t understand, I’d come up with it.
As I’ve said, packing boxes at the end of a production line was about as much fun as sitting in treacle. Judging by the expressions worn by my co-workers it was clear that I was not the only one who thought so. Radio One was blaring like a foghorn across the factory floor and there was an air of glumness and disappointment about the place too. Bored, I’d figured that an injection of humour was required and I set about this injection beginning with my own work station.
With my marker pen, to accompany the label describing the contents of the box destined for either B&Q or Homebase I began to add a variety of cartoons. I had a brain stuffed with images of pig-rabbits and people with huge teeth and at least a dozen types of chicken. It was these that I would feature on the side of each box and it pleased me to imagine them being appreciated by the staff of B&Q or Homebase as they transferred the tins to the shelf. I then took the idea a little further. I took it too far.
In addition to my cartoon pig-rabbits, people with huge teeth and man and pig-rabbit-chicken combinations I began adding bubbles for thought and speech. In each of them the characters made comments about the weather and wished all the staff at B&Q and Homebase a pleasant day. Soon enough the characters then began to joke about the contents of the boxes and instead of being specific with the labelling, they (I) would simply tick all of the spaces on the side or leave them all blank; adding the words ‘Guess which?’ to the side instead. It amused me to think of the fun to be had by those members of staff as they played their game of Russian Roulette: Wood-Stain Product Edition. I’d had a lot of fun at a friend’s house recently by taking all of the labels off their tins of food. I thought it was going to go down rather well. It didn’t. A few minutes later and my line manager stormed across the factory floor. ‘What the fuck are you doing?’ he yelled, his face as red as ketchup.
‘Er... I was just having a bit of fun.’
‘What?’
‘Um... I thought the customers would appreciate the cartoons and a little joke.’
‘You’re fired. Fuck-off.’
‘I’ll get my coat. I suppose a reference is out of the question?’
It was.