The custard man

A lock of years back, I came to realise that there is only so long you can go on pretending that things are not what they seem.

At some point, you have to admitt that a spade is irreducibly a spade, a mundane job is as boring as it seems and, no matter how you spin it, a big bowl of custard is a big bowl of custard. I was working in a local food factory that specialises in the production of custard at the time.

Though it’s true to say that industrial quantities of other sugary liquids were, and continue to be, pumped through its steaming pipes, primarily, the blood that runs in the veins of this beast is custard.

Yes, I was a custard man. No two ways about it…

For those who have never been tethered to the ‘end of line’ in a custard factory before, you are embarking upon an enlightening read. You see, the world of the custard factory is a misunderstood one. Little is known of it by those who have not lived it. To outsiders, its true nature is elusive, enigmatic, a mystery.

Certainly, it is true that many stories have escaped its impassive walls over the years, smuggled out on the sweaty lips of the men who toil within. However, the picture assembled by these weary whispers is not only fragmented and incomplete, but it fails to convey the truth of what it is to be a custard man.

You see, being a custard man is not a job, it is a state of mind.

Allow me to first detail the external life of the custard man at work, via the instructions I received on my first day on the frontline.

“Right,” explained the group leader on day one, “Here’s what you are going to do…

“Every half hour, for the next 12 hours, son, you’ll go between the three lines which you can see in front of you. Your task is simple: Make sure that your line is kept clear at all times by lifting all the produce that appears upon it onto pallets. After your pallet is full, one of the slightly-less-enslaved-looking-boys, driving the pallet trucks, will come and take it away. Got it…?”

And so, dressed in a humiliatingly ironic white lab coat, you’d start lifting, and lifting, and, in the absence of a miracle – or ‘breakdown’ as the bosses called it – you’d keep lifting until 7am became 7pm, or, if you were on night shifts, until the birds started chirping.

Physically, the assignment was simple and uncomplicated. It was tough enough, but, for most fellas of reasonable fitness – and one formidable woman – it was manageable. That’s if you could keep the head…

But, in my time, I discovered that while there were only several effective ways of keeping the head, there were an infinite number of ways of losing it.

Here are a few of the former.

Tactic number one for retaining your sanity was to abandon the concept of time until you were, at the very least, halfway through your shift. To look at the clock while you were still climbing the hill was to make the rock you were pushing ten times heavier.

Tactic number two for relieving unnecessary suffering was remember that things could be worse. Depending on how hard the shift was, this might involve imagining yourself being jobless, homeless, or the captive of a ruthless gang of Somali pirates.

Tactic number three was to attempt to cultivate good feelings toward your comrades, and engage in as much lighthearted chat as you could manage.

In the beginning, this comes naturally, easy. But, as time wears on, and boys fail to return from their tea breaks with the fastidious punctuality that your hungry expectations come to demand, lines of division can form. Hatred can take hold. It takes conscious effort to overcome the violent impulses that begin to assert themselves in these moments, but, if you can manage it, life beneath the florescent lights becomes far healthier and happier.

But, inevitably, at certain times, it all gets too much, and to continue listening to a coworker tell you how good-looking his absolutely grand-looking girlfriend is, or hear him yet again boast about the boundless sporting potential of his three-year-old son, would be to risk jail time.

At crisis points like this, my last resort would be to jam my earphones deep inside my lugs and hide behind a wall of music. The last place of refuge.

But, sometimes, even this was not enough; The obviousness of your reality would burn too bright to be ignored.

‘You can frame it, reframe it, and then reframe it again, Emmet, but the picture within still remains the same,’ I’d think.

The fact of the matter is the fact of the matter: For the next 12 hours it’s just you and the custard.