The Fandom of the Operator

  The local authorities were never happier than when I was employed and Dave was banged up. It meant that not only was there no official unemployment in the area, but there was no crime either.

  I gazed once more at the piece of paper. Telecommunications engineer. What was that all about? How dull was that? What could you do? There wasn’t much to telephones. You spoke in one end, words went down wires and came out the other. If the wires got broken you joined them up again. Fascinating? Challenging? I didn’t think so.

  I won’t go, I told myself. I’ll make some excuse. I’ll be sick.

  A shadow fell across the piece of paper. I looked up to see Harry peering in through the window. Harry was now employed by the dole office to escort unenthusiastic would-be employees to interviews at their new definitely-soon-to-be places of employment.

  One of the reasons that there was full employment in those days was that by law companies were obliged to employ the first person who arrived for an interview when a vacancy came up.

  Actually it was a blinder of a system. How many times have you seen some big rich blaggard on TV who was the head of some huge multinational consortium, wining and dining it, living high off the hog, burning the candle at both ends and indulging in numerous other clichés, and said to yourself, ‘I could do that job!’? But you know that you’d never get the opportunity to do so. Because it’s always ‘jobs for the boys’ or the Masonic handshake, or nepotism, or some such thing.

  Well, back in the early nineteen seventies it wasn’t like that. If a job as a managing director came up, folk who fancied being a managing director would rush along and apply for it and the first in the queue would get it. You don’t believe me, I can tell. But ask yourself this: what has Richard Branson got that you haven’t got? A beard, a toothy smile and a jumper? And that’s it, right? Richard Branson answered an ad in the early 1970s: ‘Young man wanted to run soon-to-be multi-million-pound business empire’. He won’t own up to it now, of course. He’ll tell you he worked his way up from nothing.

  But then, he would, wouldn’t he?

  No, in truth, that’s the way the seventies did business. It was a seventies tradition, or a new charter, or something.

  And it worked.

  It did.

  It really did.

  And I’d been offered the job of telecommunications engineer. Not ‘Young man wanted to start off multimillion-dollar computer industry. Name of Bill would be a benefit.’ Some other specky twonk got that one. I got telecommunications engineer. I didn’t want to. But I did.

  ‘Up and at it,’ called Harry through the now open window. All now open because he’d put his big elbow through it.

  ‘I’m not well,’ I said. ‘I’ve got Bright’s disease.’

  ‘Take it up with Bright,’ said Harry. ‘You’re off to an interview. I’ve a car waiting outside.’

  ‘Is it a Mini Metro?’ I asked.

  ‘No,’ said Harry. ‘They haven’t been invented yet.’

  ‘I hate you, Harry,’ I said.

  ‘And I respect you for it,’ said Harry. ‘But up and at it, or — and this is not a personal thing, but merely in the line of duty — I will come in there and smash your face in.’

  I got up from the table.

  ‘Put your tie on,’ said Harry.

  I put my tie on.

  ‘And your trousers.’

  I put my trousers on too.

  ‘Put them on the right way round.’

  I took them off again and did so.

  ‘There,’ said Harry. ‘You look very smart. You really should get your hair cut, though.’

  ‘I’ve tucked it into my trousers, haven’t I?’

  ‘You’re a weirdo,’ said Harry. ‘Although, don’t get me wrong, weirdo has its place in the overall scheme of things.’

  ‘You have a heart of gold,’ I said.

  ‘Let’s go,’ said Harry.

  I had never seen the inside of a telephone exchange. And I can’t say that I liked the look of it. I did like the smell, though. A kind of electrical burning smell of the type that you only get now in the carriages of intercity trains. The smell is called ozone, apparently. I’d always thought that ozone was the smell you got at the seaside when you sniffed near the sea. But apparently that’s something else entirely. That’s sewerage. Ozone is different. It smells ever so nice, though. I was really taken with it. Mr Holland showed me around. He’d been in telecommunications all his life so far. His dad had known Alexander Graham Bell and Faraday.

  ‘Let me tell you something about the history of telecommunications,’ said Mr Holland.

  ‘Must you?’ I said.

  ‘I must.’

  ‘Go on, then.’

  ‘It all began with Adam and Eve.’

  ‘This would be quite a long history, then. Could we move on a bit?’

  ‘And then the 83102 superseded the 83101 and the coil-exchanger really came into its own.’

  ‘Fascinating,’ I said. ‘I never knew there was so much to it.’

  ‘You start on Monday, then.’

  ‘But what do I have to do?’

  ‘Ah,’ said Mr Holland, and he led me to a tiny booth. It was even smaller than my kitchenette. And it didn’t have any windows at all, although it did have a door and a table.

  ‘Sit there,’ said Mr Holland.

  And a chair.

  I sat on the chair.

  ‘Now,’ said Mr Holland. ‘Do you see this?’ He pointed to a bulb that was attached to a Bakelite fitting that was in turn attached to the table.

  ‘I see it,’ I said. ‘It’s a bulb.’

  ‘It’s an attached bulb. From the fitting, wires extend through the table and down into the floor.

  I peered beneath the table. ‘You’re right,’ I said. ‘They do. Bravo for those wires.’

  ‘And do you see this switch?’ He pointed to the switch in question. It was also attached to the table and certain other wires ran from it, through the table (which to me seemed a pretty sad table, what with all these holes cut through it and everything), and similarly vanished into the floor.

  ‘I spy this switch,’ I said. ‘There it is: I have it.’

  ‘Good,’ said Mr Holland. ‘I can see that you’re a natural for this job.’

  ‘Hm!’ said I, thoughtfully.

  ‘The nature of the job is this,’ said Mr Holland, whom I noted wore a bow tie, always a bad sign, in my opinion. ‘At certain times the light bulb will come on and it will be your duty to press the switch and turn it off’

  ‘Why?’ I asked.

  ‘Because it has come on.’

  ‘Oh,’ I said. ‘But why?’

  ‘But why what?’

  ‘Why does it need to be switched off?’

  Mr Holland laughed. ‘Because it has come on, of course.’

  ‘I see,’ I said, but I didn’t. ‘No,’ I continued, ‘I don’t see. Why does the bulb come on?’

  Mr Holland stared at me queerly. And it wasn’t that kind of queerly at all. ‘You have applied for the post of telecommunications engineer, haven’t you?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes,’ I said.

  ‘So I am assuming that you do know how to switch a light bulb off.’

  ‘Of course,’ I said. ‘Everybody knows how to do that.’

  ‘You’d be surprised,’ said Mr Holland. ‘You’d be surprised.’

  ‘So this is what a telecommunications engineer does: switch off a light bulb?’

  ‘Switch it off when it comes on. And not before. You didn’t think it was going to be all glamour, did you? Out joining broken wires together?’ Mr Holland laughed again.

  ‘Perish the thought,’ I said. ‘My constitution would not survive such constant excitement.’

  ‘Are you taking the piddle?’ asked Mr Holland.

  ‘Definitely. Yes.’

  ‘Well, it’s not a necessary requirement for the job. But it’s not prohibited, as long as you do it in your own time. Do you have your own gloves?’

&nb
sp; I shook my head.

  ‘You’ll need your own gloves.

  ‘Why?’ I asked.

  ‘For when it’s winter,’ said Mr Holland. ‘When you’re coming to work, if it’s cold you’ll want to wear gloves. I can’t lend you mine. I only have one pair.’

  ‘I’ll get some from Woolworth’s,’ I said.

  ‘False economy,’ said Mr Holland. ‘Buy a leather pair from Rowse’s in Ealing Broadway. You’ll pay the extra, but they’ll last you a lifetime.’

  ‘I’ll bear that in mind,’ I said.

  ‘I think you’re the right man for this job,’ said Mr Holland. ‘Do you want me to run through your duties once again?’

  ‘It’s switch off the bulb if it comes on, isn’t it?’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Sure,’ said I, nodding my head.

  ‘You’re a natural. I think we can say that the job is yours. Any questions?’

  ‘Why does the bulb go on?’ I asked.

  Mr Holland laughed once again. ‘You young blokes,’ he said. ‘Always trying to run before you can walk. Always wanting to know more, more, more. You tickle me, you really do. Where will it all end, eh?’

  ‘In the heat death of the universe, or so I’ve read.’

  ‘Well, let’s hope that doesn’t happen before I go on my holidays. I’ve booked a caravan at Camber Sands, one of the most beautiful spots in the country. Ever been there?’

  ‘Only in my worst nightmare,’ I said.

  Mr Holland laughed once again. And then he stopped laughing for ever. ‘Enough of humour,’ he said. ‘Telecommunications is a serious business. You do your job, young Barry, and I’ll do mine, and everyone will be happy for it and able to make phone calls as they like.’

  ‘Praise be to that,’ I said. ‘And it’s Gary.’

  ‘I’ll just bet it is. See you on Monday morning, then, Barry. Sharp at seven.’

  ‘Seven?’ I said. ‘What, seven in the morning?’

  ‘Telecommunications never sleep. An unmanned bulb station is an accident waiting to happen. Seven till seven. Weekends off. Who could ask for more?’

  ‘Would you like me to make a list?’

  ‘It was a rhetorical question. See you on Monday. Sharp at seven.’

  ‘In your dreams, you will.’

  The bulb booth door opened and in came Harry. ‘Everything hunky-dory?’ he asked.

  ‘No,’ said I.

  ‘Yes,’ said Mr Holland.

  ‘Good,’ said Harry. ‘I’ll get Gary here sharp at seven on Monday.’

  ‘Whatever,’ said Mr Holland. ‘I’m so glad that the vacancy is filled. We’ll miss old Mr Hurst. Thirty-five years, man and boy, and woman in his later years, he boyed, manned and womanned that bulb switch. Things will never be the same without him, but we live in changing times and I’m sure young Barry will follow the example of his predecessor.’

  ‘In a pig’s ear, I will,’ I said.

  ‘He certainly will,’ said Harry.

  ‘Seven on Monday,’ said Mr Holland. ‘Look forward to it. Goodbye.’

  ‘Goodbye,’ I said. ‘For ever.’

  ‘You’ll be here,’ said Harry.

  ‘I bloody won’t,’ I said.

  But I would. Oh yes.

  I would. I really would.

  10

  I was rudely awakened at six of the morning clock. It was the following Monday and my awakening, though rude, was pleasurable.

  ‘I love the way you always wake me up like that,’ I said to Sandra.

  ‘As a wife, my duties lie in pleasuring my husband,’ replied my loving spouse. ‘Such is the way with us women, we are never happier than when we are serving our masters.’

  The alarm clock jingle-jangled and I was rudely and really awakened.

  ‘Sandra! Make my breakfast!’ I said, in my sternest tone.

  ‘Make it yourself,’ said Sandra. ‘And when you’re doing so, make some for me.’

  ‘Let’s do some sexing first, then.’

  ‘In your dreams,’ said my loveless spouse, and I went off downstairs.

  Then, recalling that we lived in a ground-floor flat, I came up from the cellar and dragged my feet into the kitchen. It was still rather dark, but looking on the bright side it would soon be Saturday.

  ‘I wasn’t born for the grind of nine to five,’ I told the cat. ‘I’m not like the rest of these walking dead. I’m made of more superior stuff I deserve better. I do. I really do.’

  The cat yawned then rubbed itself against my legs like a silken pervert.

  ‘You want food, don’t you?’ I asked it. ‘Well, you can damn well wait for it. I’m a working man and I don’t have time to pamper pussies.’

  I brewed coffee, munched upon cornflakes and prepared myself for the day ahead. ‘Now then, what will I need to take with me?’ I asked myself. For the cat had left the kitchen in a huff (which was the height of feline fashion at the time).

  I wandered into the sitting room and ran my finger all along a bookshelf. ‘Let’s see. Death Wears a Hoodless Cagoule ? Babe in a Body Bag? Bleed on Me Gently? Werewolf in Manhattan?’ So many to choose from. Tricky decision.

  Well, I mean, what do you want from me? I was supposed to spend my days sitting in a dire little windowless cell, waiting for a light bulb to flash on, so I could switch it off again. I was going to need something to pass the time, wasn’t I? And what better than the entire genre detective works of P. P. Penrose? Eighty-five Lazlo Woodbine thrillers?

  Yes, well, OK, I know. I’d read them all before. Read each of them many times before. But I loved these books and the more you read and reread them, the more you seemed to learn about them. You noticed all these little details, these cross- correspondences, references to other novels, recurring characters, running gags. Not to mention all the trenchcoat humour and the toot that Laz talked in bars with Fangio the fat boy.

  ‘I’ll dip for it,’ I said. ‘Ip, dip, sky blue, who’s it? Not you.’ And all along the shelf I went, until I was down to one. One book a day would be sufficient. And I could do what I always did when I read one: imagine myself as a Hollywood director making the film version. Cast with stars of my own choosing, even adding a few scenes of my own, which would involve famous Hollywood actresses getting their kit off in the cause of high art.

  I had dipped up The Hollow Chocolate Bunnies of the Apocalypse, which was handy as it was one of my favourites. It’s a bit of a weird one, The Hollow Chocolate Bunnies. The entire book is a dream that Laz has while he’s lying in a coma, having been shot in the back by a murderous dame. In the dream Laz is a teddy bear, Eddie Bear, private eye, and he’s called in to solve a series of murders in Toy City, where nursery-rhyme characters, all rich and famous from the royalties on their nursery rhymes, are being bumped off one after another. In case you haven’t read it, I won’t give away the ingenious trick ending. But it’s truly a blinder.

  I dressed up for the coming day, being careful to tuck my Fair Isle slipover into my trousers, so I could hide the book in it. Just in case I was body-searched by Harry.

  At six forty-five the front-door bell rang and I went off to meet my fate.

  ‘You aren’t going to be difficult about this, are you?’ Harry asked, as he drove me through the all but empty streets of Brentford. ‘I mean, it will save us both an unnecessary amount of fuss and bother and blows to your skull, if you just keep this job for a couple of months.’

  ‘A couple of months!’ I shook my head.

  ‘It’s eight weeks,’ said Harry. ‘Long enough for you to read all your stupid Lilo Windborne novels.’

  ‘The name’s Woodbine,’ I said. ‘Lazlo Woodbine. Some call him Laz. And how did you know I was planning to do that anyway?’

  ‘I watched you through your sitting-room window wandering about in your Y-fronts and dipping for a book to read today. And it’s all you ever do when you’re supposed to be working. How many times have you been sacked for doing it?’

  ‘I’ve lost count
,’ I said. ‘Who cares?’

  ‘I don’t,’ said Harry. ‘The council employ me to see that you stay employed. If you didn’t keep fouling up, I’d be out of a job. And I can’t have that. I’m saving up for a motorbike.’

  ‘What do you want a motorbike for?’ I asked. ‘You’ve got a car.’

  ‘I want to run the most famous night club in the world,’ said Harry, swerving to run over a ginger tom.

  ‘And you need a motorbike for that?’

  Harry sighed. ‘You’re not too bright, are you?’ he said. ‘If a job comes up to run the most famous night club in the world, it will go to the first applicant for the job, won’t it?’

  I nodded.

  ‘So the first applicant will be the man who gets to the interview first — which is to say, faster than anyone else, won’t it?’

  I nodded again.

  ‘You don’t even have a pushbike, do you?’ Harry asked.

  I shook my head.

  ‘Which is why you will be switching a light bulb off all day.’

  I mulled over this. And I cast a sidelong glance at Harry. ‘It really is as simple as that, isn’t it?’ I said.

  ‘I’d save up for a motorbike too, if I were you,’ said Harry. ‘But don’t even think about racing me to the night-club job. I’ll run you off the road.’

  ‘I wouldn’t dream of it,’ I said. ‘But I am impressed. Trouble is, I’m in a bit of a Catch 22 situation. I can’t be bothered to stay in the duff jobs long enough to earn sufficient money to buy the motorbike so I can be first at the interview for the good jobs.’

  ‘You could just top yourself,’ said Harry, helpfully. ‘But not before I’ve bought my motorbike. Or I’ll beat the poo-poo out of you.’

  ‘That’s more like it,’ I said. ‘You had me going there for a while. I really did think that you were intelligent.’

  ‘April fool,’ said Harry.

  ‘It’s not April,’ I said.

  ‘Had you again,’ said Harry. ‘Could you just open the door on your side?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Just open it, please.’

  I opened it and Harry pushed me out. ‘See you tomorrow,’ he called, as he sped away.