I came across this piece in my document files and the observations I made over time about the dangers of working in a traditional butcher's shop still hold true today and are worth another visit.
The dangers of working
in a traditional butcher's shop
"I was doing an
interview in London today with a lady called Katie from the Tesco
'Real Food' magazine and I happened to mention the time, many years
ago, when I nearly had my arm chopped off by a rogue band saw back in
the days when I worked as a traditional butcher. Such is the
adventurous and somewhat perilous life of working in the butchery
trade. Prepare to feel faint as a dark vein of humour awaits the
unwary in the passages that follow.
The band saw incident
came about when I was working for a butchery firm called Edward Ryde
and Son in the Cornmarket, Derby. I never trusted the accursed
machine in the first place and the fast spinning and shark teeth
beast had a reputation of breaking free from its housings at top
speed and then shuddering to a violent halt after a terrifying bang
and snapping sound of the circular band of jagged steel thrashing
around in the close proximity of one's arm or hands or face. One
false move and one's juggling days were over. Thankfully my years of
Kung Fu training and lightening reflexes meant that my body parts
weren't savaged on the dreadful day it decided to kick off with me at
the helm. Well that's my story. However, the smell of scorched bone
marrow has haunted me ever since!
That's not all folks.
One fine day, at the same shop. I narrowly missed being squished by a
speeding bus as I pulled out the shop window blind. This involved
tugging on a pole with a hook attached to the blind and bouncing
backward into the open road in order to secure the blind and thus
protect the meat display from the ravages of the midday sun. Alas on
this particular day the hook came maladroitly away from the pole and
I landed on my scrawny backside in the middle of a busy road junction
complete with oncoming traffic. Fortunately the alert bus driver
spotted me lying abjectly in the road before reducing me to a
screaming tyre print mess in a blood soaked butcher’s coat.
Gingerly, I got up, waddled precariously back to the safety of the
chewing gum patterned pavement, through the shop entrance, up a
flight of stairs and got on with the day's work! Two days later the
whole blind got violently smashed from the front of the shop by an
errant bus and the window pane undulated as in a mild earthquake but
thankfully, failed to shatter. Talk about a drama. The whole of the
shocked serving staff hit the deck and a red ring of polony died
amongst the temporarily fallen.
Another time, I myself,
fell down a full flight of, just mopped, stairs with a full to
bursting aluminium bowl of pig's liver in my hands. The liver went
skywards I clattered down the steps in a more earthbound direction.
That week I was also playing Puck in Derby Shakespeare's production
of A Midsummer Night's Dream and doing less than impressive
acrobatics on stage. A poorly limp and a forward roll was all I was
up to. The combination of the back jarring accident and the minor
acrobatics meant that I was off work for thirteen weeks with a
crippling bout of sciatica. Guess who neglected to fill in the
accident book. Oui, moi.
Then there were the
accidental and often brutal cuts that most butchers give themselves:
a deep stab into the thumb from boning a leg of pork and slipping;
various nicks on the hands and painful intrusions down one's nails.
Let's not forget the purple bruising and callouses that don't want to
heal at Christmas time from constantly stringing up the various
joints with coarse butcher's string that on each tug dig into the
hand even more. Who can neglect to consider the trick of stabbing
oneself with the threader, a large sewing needle type tool for
threading butcher's string through joints of meat to make the joint
compact and pretty or to string up a chicken. What a surprise when it
comes through the other side of – your hand. Oh how you giggle as
you attempt to find the empty first aid box.
Also, there is always
the possibility of dropping a knife or cleaver down onto your foot.
Woe betide you if you are foolishly wearing sandals, trainers or
tennis shoes to work as I often did in my 'foolish Philip' years
circa 1971 -1988.
Butchers shops need to
be scrubbed clean in all manner of places to prevent germs and flies
laying their eggs in the summer. Nobody wants maggots in a butcher's
shop unless they are into fishing. Then, as fishermen say, “sanitary
neglect can be an unexpected boon”. The wooden block would be
scrubbed with a block brush; a viscous implement that could easily
tip over during the scrubbing motion and lacerate the fingers with
its hard metal bristles. Believe me that hurts for weeks afterwards.
How much? Like a stinging reprimand but much more direct and involves
bandages. Plenty of bandages and deep sobbing in the middle of the
night.
Should you wish, you
could also scold yourself badly with sloshing buckets of boiling
water or slip on a wet shop floor and hurt yourself in various
degrees, pride included. Not interested? Perhaps you'd prefer to
simply get acutely incised (cut thee self) quite gravely by being
daft enough to recklessly plunge your vulnerable hands into a sink
full of soapy bubbles, hot water and cunningly hidden knives.
I had a manager once
who accidentally sliced himself very deeply on his hand whilst
cleaning the 14” incredibly sharp circular blade of a bacon slicing
machine. Luckily I was there to laugh mockingly – and eventually
phone for an ambulance. For me. He was an ex-boxer.
'Breaking down' is a
term butchers use to describe taking an animal carcass apart and
creating joints or chops and steaks. To 'break down' a whole English
lamb we used to cut through the leg end of the lamb through the
spine, insert a metal spike for chopping guidance, and spread the
legs apart to attach to two hooks within a door frame and then
carefully and delicately use a large, long handled. cleaver to chop
downwards through the back of the animal to create two sides. This
involved a swinging motion with the large cleaver and should the
butcher not stand with his own legs apart the cleaver could easily
find its way into the butcher's thigh or leg. I can hear the sound of
an ambulance as I type. And screaming. Blood curling screaming.
There are many more
tales of gore from yesteryears but I finish today with my favourite.
This was the steak tenderiser, a machine that had no point but many
sharp edges. It was electronically powered and had two roller blades
that were supposed to finely cut the steak that was fed through the
letterbox top of the machine. Most of the time it would chew up the
poor innocent piece of frying steak worse than a man with no teeth.
Invariably the expectant customer got given a piece of mush that was
once a decent steak. And the danger in this? The danger would come
from trying to clean the blades and make them free of mangled beef.
Here we are talking of sixty or more sharp blades each keen to dig
into delicate fingers. And they did!
And then there were the
ultra sharp blades on the mincer, the multiple needle points on the
bacon machine that grip the bacon joints and just love lacerating
unsuspecting knuckles; the life threatening slips as boning knife
connects with groin...
Perhaps that's enough
for today."
Phil Lowe
