EXPLOITATION
To alleviate mass unemployment in the early 1980s, especially among young people, the government introduced the Youth Opportunities Programme (YOP) where an employer, funded by the government, trained a young person at their place of business for six months, preparing them for future employment that would lead to a secure job.
The pay was £23 per week, a few pounds more than a fortnightly unemployment check. With traveling expenses, those few pounds more turned into a few shillings.
A friend who lived with me at 15, Elm Park, decided to take on a position at a clothing shop in the West End of London. During his six-month stint, he never missed a day (unlike me). He thrived in customer relations, performed every task required of him, smiled his best smile, bought his own slacks and shirts for work, and was regularly informed that if he worked hard, there would be a permanent role for him at the store.
When the six months concluded, he was released by the shop. He discovered a week later that they had taken on another young person on the same YOP scheme. My bredren cursed some serious badword. I wrapped him a long spliff so he could calm down.
Blatant exploitation.
When I was unemployed, I’d trod down to the employment exchange on Brixton’s Coldharbour Lane. Job vacancies were displayed on laminated cards fixed on boards. There were always positions for chambermaids, cleaners, road sweepers, and laborers. You picked a job description and handed it to an employment advisor over a counter (they always looked as miserable as a cold beggar in Toronto).
With my carpentry knowledge, I searched for work on building sites. Sometimes I found a one- or two-day shift mixing cement, carrying bricks, making mugs of tea, or cleaning up the workplace. A broom spent more time in my hands than a saw. I’d inform my employers that I could insert locks, hang doors, fit windowsills, cupboards, and frames. They’d laugh at me and say they wouldn’t want to risk me performing expensive skilled work.
“Where’s your credentials?”
I didn’t blame them. I had had an opportunity at the Lambeth Council construction services and fucked it up.
However, the cash-in-hand building site work that I didn’t declare to the employment exchange kept me in reggae vinyl, imitation silk flower shirts, and Jamaican patties and chips.
But there were also jobs that I absolutely hated.
Next door to the employment exchange was an industrial laundry. They cleaned the bedsheets, linen, and towels of West End hotels. I lasted three days before a foreman yelled at me, “Stop being a lazy African and get those fucking sheets in the basket!”
I told him to fuck himself hard with his bottle of Coke.
I think I did four shifts at a McDonald’s in Clapham Junction before I was presented with a blue jacket, a black rubbish bag, and told to pick up any McDonald’s litter on the street.
“They got road sweepers to do that fuckery,” was my response.
“When employees start with us,” my boss explained, “everyone is expected to perform this task. It’s sort of a ritual.”
“Well, I ain’t doing it,” I said. “Fuck you. Put yourself in the fucking bag.”
I did eventually train as a center lathe turner. I studied for six months at an engineering skill center in Perivale, West London. “We’re going to train you to machine components to a thousandth of an inch,” the instructor informed trainees on the first day.
A thousandth of an inch? I said to myself. Is that possible?
It was.
The commute from South London was horrible, but I managed to gain a qualification and a living from the trade for many years.
Stepping through Brixton’s Granville Arcade in the fall of 1980, I discovered a new reggae record shack—the General record store. It was only about thirty steps away from Soferno B’s.
I was fast approaching eighteen years old. Shopkeepers and reggae-heads now recognized me. They nodded to me in the streets as I passed by in a semi-swagger. I had perfected my strut. I could understand Jamaican patois and Brixtonian slang. I was becoming more confident with every passing day. I now considered myself a ripe Brixtonian.
“Hey, Wheats!” a bredren called out to me. “Where are you stepping wid your t’ree-quarter trousers and your imitation chops (fake gold bracelet)? No fit gyal is ever gonna grine you.”
“And no A-class gyal is gonna grine you wid your dry hair that needs to step to a petrol station to slap nuff oil on it and your crusty cheeks that’s demanding a serious dose of cocoa butter!” I’d reply.
“Wheats! You t’ink you ah Brixtonian now?”
“Yes, bredren, more Brixtonian than the foundations of the town hall, to raatid!”
“You still the living bumpkin from the land of Oz!”
“And you’re still a cruff wid no gyal!”
I moved on to the General record store.
Behind the counter was Chinese-Jamaican George, a bubbly, likable character who had a knowledge of reggae that was unrivaled. Whenever I coched in his store, we debated many topics, such as the amount of weed you get in a two-pound draw, the latest news of local crime lords, what bad boy was on the run, updates from recent sound system sessions, raids by the police on the Frontline, the latest sufferah to be kicked out by his parents because he grew dreadlocks, and the current liberation struggle in Zimbabwe.
George was a founding member of the Nasty Rocker sound system that boasted Ricky Ranking and Lorna G as their resident DJs/toasters. Years later, Lorna established herself as a fine actress, appearing in West End shows and television dramas including the Small Axe series. She also had a hit with a song titled “Brixton Rock.”
I’ll never forget the first tune George played for me: “Saturday Night Jamboree” by Wayne Jarrett and Silver Fox. Customers banged their fists on the counter and hollered their approval: “Rewind! Rewind! Rewind!” Mixed by Scientist at King Tubby’s quarter tower, the track was a favorite at any dancehall I stepped to.
Whenever I had enough money for travel, I’d take a trip to Peckings Records just off Uxbridge Road in West London. They stocked exclusive Studio One releases direct from Jamaica.
Occasionally, I’d drop by Daddy Kool in the West End to search their basement treasure trove for rare revival tunes.
As my record collection grew, I dreamed about running my own pirate radio station.