Curmudgeon's Column
Alf had been very depressed of late. It had all started when the firm he worked for, North Manchester Machine Tools Ltd had merged with three other local engineering firms; Oldham High-Quality, Shiny Tools Inc, Bury Dark Ages Scrap Recovery Ltd and Rochdale's Cottage Enterprises Ltd.
“What's the problem?” I asked him one evening in The Olde Blue Ball as he sat on his usual bar-stool staring moodily into his pint?
“It's that new bloody outfit I'm working for.” He answered morosely. “Nobody knows what's going on any more. It's all too big. The staff are up to the eyeballs with it. I've never seen morale so low.”
“Well you sit on the Works Council.” I replied. Why don't you tell the Managing Director to write to the staff and try to cheer 'em up a bit?”
“We tried that. He sent a letter out last year clipped to our wage packets.”
“And what effect did it have?” I asked encouragingly.
“Well those that were thinking of leaving left and those of us who had felt ok beforehand now came into work feeling totally demoralised and undervalued. Instead of encouraging us, the letter basically told us to stop whinging and rumour-mongering and get our noses to the grindstone.”
“Why don't you write an article in that staff magazine you keep telling me about?” I asked. “Try to foster a bit of the old fighting spirit.”
“I would do.” replied Alf, “But the Chief's just employed a new Public Relations Manager called Finbar McMushroom and he's closed it down. “Say's he wants to expand the Group Glossy and fill it with positive articles such as crosswords, small adds and recipes for pineapple upside-down cake.”
“But surely this new outfit, Pennine Conglomerates, is a good move. After all it was only allowed by the Monopolies and Merger Commission because it promised to improve the quality of its products?” I retorted, after I given a nod to Norman the landlord who ambled over to refill our glasses with one of the best pints of Holts Dark Mild to be found on this side of the Irwell.
“Well, it was supposed to be a merger but to be honest it's more like a takeover. They've decided that North Manchester Machine Tools are the sick man of the partnership and we've had all sort of swarmy sods in suits coming down telling us what a bag 'o shite we are. Doesn't do much for morale I can tell you.”
“Well then, get on to your senior managers and tell them to bloody well stick up for you then.” I offered.
“What bloody senior managers?” Alf asked. “They all saw the writing on the wall and pissed off as soon as they knew what was coming. Now, it's just the lads on the shop floor who've got to stand there and listen while the suits tell us how crap we are and how we'll have to pull our socks up or else. They even say that they might transfer some of the machine-shops to Oldham if we don't shape up and get our fingers out and as for the mob over in Rochdale, even the local vicar's upset at how they're running things. Bugger me, they are so mean. They even tried to take the free Christmas breakfast off the lads on early shift to save a few coppers. They only changed their minds when they threatened to down tools. I think they've got the North Manchester factory pencilled in as 'the awkward squad'.” muttered Alf. “It seems that the word has gone out that what was North Manchester Machine Tools is mud and now the suits are queuing up to put the boot in. This new company has a lot to answer for I'm telling you.”
“Pennine Conglomerates.” I said thoughtfully. “Now there's a name. Trouble is, we're nowhere near the bloody Pennines. Why did they call it that?”
“Well, nobody knows really but the mob on the shop floor have a bit of a theory. They think that the Pennines were the direction that the ex-directors headed off in as soon as they got their golden handshakes.” answered Alf with the sort of bitter cynicism that I thought only I was truly capable of and only on a particularly bad day at that!