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From the skies to the scrap dealeR:

everyones gotta earn sometime. Paul Prendi It’s typical for me to start panicking this time of year. It’s not my fault. My profession doesn’t entertain winter work. Would you want to climb pylons in the eel-slippery cool of winter? As the nights draw in we’re sent home on basic wage to wait it out until spring like frustrated hedgehogs. We manage, but that’s not the point. The point is I’m left to scramble around using my other skills to keep the wolf from the door. This usually includes tearing the hell out of the cellar to find things to sell. Many a time I’ve held a pair of female leather boots thinking, ‘She’s not worn them in ages. Surely she won’t miss these?’ Only to find myself having to quickly cancel the sale when she asks for them the next morning. Every year my CD and vinyl collection gets shaved down - placed into ‘classic’, ‘need’, ‘might need’ and ‘sell’ categories in the confidence that someone will find their long-lost album online - but there’s always that guilty feeling after posting a CD that smells like it’s been gathering fur next to those leather boots in the cellar. And there’s the scrap. All year keeping old bolts, bits of useless wire, broken tools. The stereotypical tight-fisted Yorkshireman hell bent on scrimping and scraping, slowly shaping the old ‘one man’s trash is another man’s treasure’ adage into dirty finger-nailed reality. What I should be concentrating on is the old disco. The money for old rope, bread and butter hobby I dare not turn into a job for fear of hating it. I totally admire anyone who DJs for a living. The superstar DJs, who turns up with their laptop and demands lists the size of Shropshire, can wallow in the fact that half their life and their money will be looked after by someone else. But the others - who week-in, week-out, carry those heavy

chuffing speakers up and down, in and out of venues all year while putting up with some of Britain’s finest drunkards - are the ones who really need to be commended. And that’s where I come in. Carefully picking venues, sticking to friends’ events, playing it safe with just the right amount of gigs, keeping the balance (and the Mrs happy). Halloween and Christmas are busy times and I still love it, although Christmas Eve and New Year’s Eve are now out of bounds due to Father Christmas coming down our chimney to meet the kids. But New Year’s Day sees my long-running 10 hour disco, when I get to play old Irish records, folk ballads, rock & roll and stuff you’d never dream of hearing anywhere else. It’s a good day. As January progresses and the hangovers are finally dealt with, I’m glad for the extra days sorting my life out at my own pace. The Mrs does her best to speed this process up in the form of a to-do list. Under its guidance I carefully pick out the jobs in order of: 1. Easiness 2. Cheapness 3. What I can take to the tip or sell By now the savings are taking a battering, as family and friends’ birthdays all come too soon. No-one should be allowed a birthday in January. I take to the Internet and read through emails which I really should have replied to instead of drinking gin at ten in the morning over Christmas. ‘The role has now been filled... The opening for this opportunity is now closed...’ I curse my luck, or should I say my laziness. By February the gaffers at work are sick of my phone calls. ‘When are we due back? Is there nothing at all? Can’t you get me in for a couple of days?’ All answered

with the usual ‘I’ll see what I can do.’ I must remember to do less work for that bastard this year. We’re hit with an almighty icy blast and the winter hits hard. Our boiler, which was installed by a mate, has packed its bags and gone to Tenerife for a few weeks. The pipes are frozen. I take the Mrs and the kids to her mother’s and start pouring boiling water down the sinks, bath and shower. It takes days. My plumber mate - who, incidentally, is the only one who will go near our boiler - fixes the bloody thing and were back on track. I don’t tell the Mrs its fixed for another two days. Heaven. I can see all my neighbours struggling with the ice and offer some industrial strength rock salt (I had acquired quite a lot from work due to my parents’ steep drive). Soon the street is safe and I drive down to the main road in the van and park at the bottom of the steepest hill in the village. I stack bag upon bag of rock salt on a pallet. ‘£5 a bag!’ That’s the plumber paid for. After promising myself that I cannot sustain this amount of time off again I manage to get two interviews in one week. They’re with rival companies. They go well and I get offered both roles. I pick the one which best suits my family. I start in two weeks - March 11th. Things are looking up. It is now March and the odd DJ stint in the local boozer keeps me afloat (just). I’m amazed how these regulars survive. ‘Old Joe’s been there since ten this morning,’ says the landlord. It’s now half past eleven and Joe is trying to grope Mick’s wife. It looks like Mick isn’t bothered. At this time I’m still currently employed, albeit earning a pittance, and I get a call from the Gaffer. ‘Get your lads together,