I learned life from a council estate. Rusty cars, and health visits from Tongs Ya Bass who stole my sherbet dab, but let me keep my Mojos. Dad hit Mum, Mum hit me, and childhood sucked like a hose clearing the sewers. Dad left Mum for a piece of skirt, and Mum got tired of life. At twenty-one I owned a suitcase.
I had an education, and my life and suitcase entered the world of mortgages, babies, and nine carpet tiles. I couldn't afford a carpet. Thatcher's recession brought depression and overtime to the pharmaceutical industry where I worked. People needed drugs to obliterate their crummy lives, and I needed money.
It was pleasant for awhile. Life became work, a 24/7 cliché. I had the fancy car, my son - a Sinclair ZX Spectrum, and my daughter enough Little Ponies and Polly Pockets to occupy the spare room. Bribe the kids and pretend they are happy. My bank account, a healthy black, but my marriage was in chaos.
Stress leads to promiscuity, and a receptionist led my husband to a motel room. Difficult days, and we got through it, but the stress stayed. Some twat introduced Team Building. Get everyone naked; exposure makes it easier to be stabbed in the back. Et tu tongs ya bass. Time for employee to become employer.
Everyone hates the boss, and I did too until I became one. Bosses are rich, fat bastards who drive fancy cars, and don't care about people's real lives. I was constipated with employees. 'You have a cold,' I said. 'Take time off. I'll cover.' I worked from six in the morning to ten at night. It was dark. It was light. No holiday, and no life. Friends were customers who conned me, and suppliers gave me a bottle of wine at Christmas.
'I want to talk about a pay rise,' said the employee, recently tanned and healthy from his paternity leave. Shame he didn't take his wife and kid on it. I needed a pay rise, but the bank frowns on employers trying to eat. How a boss of a small company can get fat is a mystery I have yet to solve.
Employees screw you, suppliers and customers screw you, and then the bank screws on the coffin lid. Two of our customers folded, and in came Tongs ya Bass in suits.
'Cut back,' said the bank official, with red Prada shoes.
I took a pay cut. Personal debt started, and my fancy car was rusting.
'Enforce natural wastage,' said the real fat bastard - a bank employee.
The cleaners went first. I cleaned the toilets. Then the staff smelled the rats in suits, and left. Natural wastage cleaned out half my employees in the first month.
'Reduce stock levels.' I don't remember what prat said that. By then they all looked the same. Reducing stock levels means the suits are preparing to close you, No stock, no sales, no money. Tongs ya Bank wanted my Mojos.
Another company folded - enter the Domino effect and the liquidation bitch. She took my keys, mobile, passwords, but let me keep my knickers.
I made tea – for her, and asked if I could have a tea-break. Most times she said no. She sold the forklift so I climbed pallet racks to count stock. Health and safety rules don't apply to the nerve-jangled bastard of a liquidated company. We're the scum of the earth, and a target for spit balls from enraged employees.
I had nothing, no Mojos, not even a paper bag. Every Mojo was in the company. The staff got their salary plus sixty days, and holidays due, and didn't admit they had taken their holidays earlier. They found jobs within ten days. Lucky bastards.
The screws kept turning. Banker wankers got nervous. Never put your personal account with your business account. They closed everything including my mortgage account. They also forgot to tell me. My husband worked, low key, just enough to pay the mortgage, not enough to afford a toilet roll.
Two days before a miserable Christmas, the bank sent a Christmas card demanding the mortgage be repaid in full. HO! HO! HO!
Fuck the suitcase – black bin bags were a luxury, and my arse slapped into the ground. The steps back were full of bare-arsed-scum-of-the-earth like me, but they were in front. The genius of economic strength found it funny that the closed account still accepted payment. I almost laughed with them, but the rope around my neck stopped me.
Tongs ya Bank employs thugs in suits. It's the suit that makes them clever.
'You don't gain interest on a closed account, loser.'
They phoned Saturday morning, Sunday afternoon, weekdays - every hour.
'I've paid every month?'
'It's not my problem,' said the voice, with the Financial Times up her arse. Growing up in Hell was easier. Hand over the goodies, or run. I wanted to run, but the suits had a claim on my insurance policy.
By spring, I received a letter informing me to put my home on the market, but Tongs ya Bank couldn't pay my accumulating money into their own mortgage account because they had closed the account.
I don't remember the last time I ate in a restaurant, or the last time I bought a book. I use the library, cycle, and have a healthy carbon footprint; I don't go anywhere. I sorted out their mistake, and now have a bad credit rating. Though, if I pay someone I can get it cleared.
I can't sell my house. Who has money to buy? I wrap up in Oxfam woollies, and eat one fish finger with home-grown potatoes. Two on a Sunday - I still have some little luxuries.
Life can only get better if I climb the steps... shame the credit crunch dug a deep hole at the bottom of the slide.
(c) A.Cooper 2008