Politics is derived from two words - Poly, meaning many, and tics, meaning small blood-sucking insects.

Cris Clayton.

Johnny Was A Joker

“Johnny is a joker, he’s a clown, a real funny joker, he’s a clown”. Those misremembered words from a forgotten song run through my head and remind me of a Johnny I once knew. Johnny Weatherspoon was his name, a weasel faced Yorkshire man from Huddersfield, who had gravitated northwards for some unknown reason and ended up working in J T Dodds Fabrications, in Wallsend. A gas welder by trade – there were no electric spot or seam welders in those days – he was also a clown and the fabrication shop joker.

Don’t get me wrong when I say he was a joker he wasn’t the kind of man to come up to you with inane jokes like, ‘What do you call a mother-in-law with a wooden leg?’--- ‘Peggy.’ Or ‘What do you call a lion with a carrot in each ear?’---‘Anything you like, he can’t hear you.’  No there were none of those funny ha, ha, jokes from Johnny he was about as funny as a pain in the backside. His idea of a joke was to play a trick or prank on one of his long-suffering work mates.

The men in the fabrication shop could put up with him sending the new apprentice for, a long stand or a left handed monkey wrench, which was every new apprentice’s induction into working life. What they couldn’t stand was all of the other annoying and sometimes dangerous strokes he pulled. One of his favourites was to heat up a penny when he saw someone heading in his direction, drop it on the floor as they drew near and bray like a demented donkey, when his hapless victim bent and picked up the red-hot coin. Or once in a while he would weld on a bracket a fraction out of line, so that no matter how they tried, assembly just couldn’t quite get the part to fit. He’d hide the fitter’s tools or swap them for the wrong sizes and then cry blue murder when he was given a good hiding.

After a particularly bad beating he stopped and everyone heaved a sigh of relief. But the respite didn’t last. Before long Johnny was back to his old tricks, overalls were seeded with itching powder, stink bombs were dropped in the canteen and plastic dog turds appeared in bait boxes. These however, were nothing compared to what happened when he got hold of a tube of super glue. Old Norman the cleaner ended up stuck to his broom, Charlie’s tools became permanently attached to his work bench and the fire brigade had to be called when Dick Simpson’s bum refused to be parted from the toilet seat.

This was the final straw, the men refused to work with him and Bob the manager gave Johnny a choice, he could go on permanent night shift or collect his brown envelope on Friday. Johnny chose the night shift and it was a while before we heard of him again, and then what we heard was second hand. Apparently there were only six other men on nights with Johnny and since they were all over six foot and built like brick outhouses he never dared pull any of his tricks with them. As near as anyone could work out this curb on his tricks must have gnawed away at him until he couldn’t stand it and he decided to go back to his old ways.

When he finished his shift one Friday morning he slipped into the toilets and ten minutes before the weekend shift were due in, smeared everything - toilet seats, the flush handles, the cisterns, the door handles, toilet roll holders, taps and even above the urinal, where some of the men leaned with a hand on the wall - with supper glue. Mind you he must have had a scary moment when Jack Carr, who had noticed Johnny’s card hadn’t been clocked out, stuck his head in the door and called out, ‘You in there Johnny?’

Johnny, who was busy in the last cubicle, sat on the seat, lifted his feet up and stayed silent and Jack assuming Johnny had forgotten to punch his card, punched it for him, locked up and went home.

Back in the toilets Johnny’s trousers and the heels of his boots were stuck to the toilet seat, so he loosened his belt, put one hand on the toilet roll holder, reached behind him, grasped the flush handle and as he pushed upwards three things happened. One, his right hand stuck to the holder. Two, his left hand stuck to the flush handle and three, his bum slid free of his trousers and stuck to the cistern. He must have begun to scream then, but no one heard his cries. Not only had the silly prat forgotten about the glue, he’d forgotten that the factory always shut down for a fortnight at the end of July.

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