A lorry driver going through a disciplinary requires support otherwise it can be used as an easy way to offload employees. My current job is clean and straightforward without pushing the boundaries for driving hours or the working time directive. A comfortable gig that pays well enough not to go looking, but the Devil makes work for idle hands.
Over tea and buns our tightknit band of ‘cargo chauffeurs’ plotted and schemed against, well, I’m not sure what. My guess is working, or even driving. The tail began to wag the dog. Management knew this, but it lacked the structure and leadership to deal with it. Director of operations turned a blind eye, a lukewarm humans sources manager and ineffective transport manager (I know, not your average haulage business) also ignored the unchallenged malcontents as there was no tangible issue; i.e. the goods got delivered. The more the drivers moaned the more efforts were made to placate the workforce. Eventually the boss’s patience snapped. Changes were made and in walked the new transport manager, Fletch. His remit was simple; divide and conquer. I still develop a nervous twitch when I consider under what circumstances Fletch became so battle-hardened. We guessed at military, or political activism, or growing up in Chard (a town where ‘even holidaying Glaswegians avoid’) He didn’t two-face anyone, what you saw was what you got; a bite first ask questions later approach to management. Naturally intimidating he made Malcolm Tucker appear polite. Word occasionally seeped out from the transport planning office of many orchestrated campaigns to remove people he didn’t like. If anyone left, he revelled in having got rid of them, even if he hadn’t. His primary target was a core of lorry drivers who were disruptive, but it brought collateral damage too. Therefore, it was inevitable from the moment that Baz fell out with Fletch he was in trouble. It started innocuously enough with a misunderstanding over time and place; two key principals in the supply chain. Baz stood his ground as did the transport manager. Cooler heads might have prevailed but there weren’t any in the room. A ‘disciplinary meeting’ letter was handed to him the following Friday scheduled for Monday, regarding his conduct with a written warning or dismissal on the cards. Baz was, and probably still is, as belligerent as they come whose bark is worse than his bite. However, Baz, like the rest of us, saw the meeting as a formality and he did not seek counsel. He merely showed up to argue the toss. Had he sought advice and brought supporting evidence from his erstwhile colleagues and had a representative in the room, things might have turned out differently. Instead, according to Baz, Fletch read the riot act flanked by a quivering wreck of a human resources manager and an impotent director of operations. Baz was dismissed with immediate effect. Baz argued over the initial misunderstanding. Fletch ignored that and pursued issues like punctuality, reliability and his conduct with the transport office (threatening behaviour was cited) to support his case that Baz was a liability the company could do without. At the Working Men’s Club Baz threatened physical and legal reprisals but instead he got a job down the road and all was forgotten. Had Baz valued his job, he should have gone in prepared. For example, the transport manager was abrasive with little personal skills that stage-managed unnecessary discord, often the work rota made errors that were pinned on driver rather than the software, and there was no process to file an aggrievance or a ‘I told you so’ if the driver was proved right. Baz didn’t even take a perfunctory note of the conversation, we don’t even know if he was given the opportunity to put his case and answer the allegations made against him. Had we understood what he was facing I like to think his former colleagues might have come out in support of Baz, after all, we were the ones left with Fletch. Over 18 months drivers were terrorised, every mistake scrutinised, and every line of corporate reasoning emphasised, all in print. I kept my head down, and avoided, mostly, the scrutiny of Fletch. Others like Baz were not so fortunate. In all five of the seven of the drivers who left went through the disciplinary process were sacked. The two survivors went in with external support and evidence and retained their jobs. Others merely handed in their notice, and not all had jobs to go to. By my reckoning half of the drivers left during that period. That may seem nothing compared to other places with a high turnover, but these drivers left because they couldn’t cope with the way they were being treated. When the boss struggled to recruit he showed some backbone and made more changes. An application to join the Fleet Operator Recognition Scheme (FORS) brought welcome management procedures. Out went the director of operations and the human resources manager, while Fletch was put on ‘gardening leave’. The atmosphere improved instantly.
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Volvo Trucks is celebrating 25 years of the FH; I remember my first drive of the all-new Swedish behemoth because it coincided with several other ‘firsts’. I don’t remember the 1990s fondly. Between jobs and enduring my first divorce, I hunkered down for a bit in the home counties, hoping to enjoy the life of a single man with weekend custody of two children more than a two-hour drive away.
Hangovers were punctured by moments of lucidity that were distorted by an inner pain I couldn’t suppress; rejection. I won’t lie. It remains the lowest point of my underwhelming, futile, paid-by-the-hour life spent mostly in the first lane. Like all those suddenly cut adrift I did my best to keep me and my mind occupied, so for the first time in my life I became an ‘agency driver’. I signed up with Naz, the owner of a Driver Hire franchise near Heathrow. For a while he became a welcome surrogate partner, who’d phone all hours asking me to do a nightshift or work the weekend, even though I wanted day work and couldn’t work weekends. He was persistent if nothing else. “Think of the money,” he’d repeat after I’d said I was unavailable. During the summer of 1996 he offered me a day’s work for a haulage company based off the A4 in West London. They had a precious cargo that needed to be delivered to Cheltenham and then Reading. I would have a chaperone; not in the cab but in an unmarked police car; a blue Ford Sierra with Bodie and Doyle sat inside. A proper first. Another first was the chance to drive a Volvo FH12. A bluey/purple, slightly mucky 4x2, low-roof tractor unit attached to a tandem axle box trailer was parked up ready to go. I’d never seen one up close. It looked very different to its competitors; a narrow grille and narrow windscreen on the front of a long aerodynamic arc made it look very un-British. The ‘firsts’ came thick and fast; a seat with air-suspension, a ‘Driver Information System’ with a trip computer, air conditioning and ‘walnut’ trim. I feigned indifference. The transport manager questioned my knowledge about the wagon and demonstrated the cruise control option, the first truck I’d driven with such technology. The cab was clean, and still had that ‘new’ smell even though it had clocked more than 100,000kms. It was well looked after. The trailer was loaded, padlocked and my police escort was waiting. I hopped in, inserted the tacho disc down through the top of the dashboard (another first) and fired it up. It also sounded different; like a muffled drumbeat on a keyboard sped up. I liked it. I launched cruise control heading up the M40 towards Oxford, my right foot becoming idle. Limiters had just been introduced, so trucks were inching along at similar speeds. I rose and fell on the seat with its air-suspension much like Lester Piggott in the Grand National. I searched for a dampener without joy. In the mirror the Sierra remained a constant presence. It all felt…weird. The 420hp 12.1-litre engine worked effortlessly. I worked the 12-speed three-over-three range-change/splitter with due care and attention. The four-over-four had been my bread and butter but then so had marriage. Earlier that week Naz had me on a job that involved driving to Leeds in an ERF EC10 with a twin-splitter. The difference between these two trucks was noteworthy. At Cheltenham I backed close to the doors of a business unit and the manager, I knew he was the manager because it said so on a small lapel badge, scurried out. “You’re late, you are late, you’re late,” he said combing anxiety with a shortness of breath. Dressed in smart-casual Bodie and Doyle emerged from the Sierra. They looked on as the store manager got a key from his pocket and opened the padlock. The door rolled up to reveal boxes on pallets. Bodie glanced up and down the road and gestured for us to hurry up before sparking up a Superkings. We then proceeded to unload eight pallets containing the new Liverpool home and away kit for the 1996-97 season. The club had switched kit supplier from Adidas to Reebok; it was yet to be launched. Word was out that it was a ‘high risk’ load, explained Doyle. “First, I’d heard of it,” I said coolly. Doyle caught my eye and nodded. It unnerved me. By the time I kicked on to Reading ‘cool’ had been replaced by ‘fear’. I panicked every time a car slowed down in front of me or tried to overtake. I lapped a roundabout twice, copying something I’d seen from an espionage film. From the driver’s seat Sierra Doyle gave me a few hand gestures suggesting I get on with it. At Reading another man with a key in his pocket opened the back door of the trailer, and once the remaining pallets were unloaded Bodie and Doyle left without so much as a by your leave. The run back was uneventful; I toyed with the cruise control and found the dampener on the seat, so each bump wasn’t like trying to jump Becher's Brook. I relaxed and enjoyed it. When I got back the yard was shut. I parked up and put the keys through a letterbox and went home. Naz called me later about a nightshift. Two days later I spent 15 hours on the south coast delivering carpets in a Ford Cargo. |
AuthorAging proletariat with face, teeth and body to prove it. Archives
August 2021
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