SHIFTING MEAT
Long white trucks roll in from the night and into their bays, where man and machine stand ready to offload the crates of bloody carcasses. The driver wipes his begrimed forehead with one hand and ticks away the inventory with the other. The trailer is soon picked clean – the back door slams shut and an unheard echo reverberates through the empty space. The driver says something like “so long, ladies” to the forklift operators, then grabs his young daughter’s hand and helps her up into the cabin. He lights a smoke and starts for Dusseldorf.
The forklift boys are looking sharp in their sparkling white livery, standing a tight circle around the delivery. “This one’s for Gelberts, innit” says Denson; he mans his machine, pries the meat from the cement and rumbles into the maze… the world’s biggest meat market… Smithfield Meat Markets… ‘Three blocks of butcheries and every cut you could dream of.”
The bells are ringing in D.P Gelbert’s refrigerator – the meat is in the house. A fervent hand slaps the red button opening the rolling doors – in grunts the forklift and drops the goods to the floor. “Ah, Denson, what’ve you brought us today?” Denson skips down from the driver’s seat and hands the consignment note to the head butcher, who flicks through the pages swiftly with his dry and bloodstained fingers. “Five pigs, eight beasts, sixty scores of cluckers…” The jolly butchers listen intently, eyes flashing wildly as their duties are assigned. They’re thinking about working the meat, getting the job done, headin’ down to the Cock Tavern for sunrise pints at six… whether they’re going to fork out the morning’s pay on a blowjob in the bathrooms.
It goes like this: bandsaws screeching through bone; flecks of blood spraying aprons red; long knives swishing through the meat; stoic Poles asking no questions whatsoever; buckets brimming with steak; “How do you fit four fags on a chair?”... “Turn it upside down.”
3AM and the meats are piling up in the display boxes at the front of the store. The various cuts are organised methodically; prime to the left, trite to the right. With their shiny white hardhats the salesmen stand behind their meat collections and pounce on the passers by in proper Cockney style.
D.P Gilbert himself sits in the glass payment booth engrossed in cheques and orders, bills and debts. The market constabulary, Kevin, walks up and whispers something over the counter... “Fuck off Kev”, and carries on with his papers. But moments later his concentration is broken – he looks up, brows bent angry over his eyes – a pair of hungry young carnivores come tossing into his store…
Long white trucks roll in from the night and into their bays, where man and machine stand ready to offload the crates of bloody carcasses. The driver wipes his begrimed forehead with one hand and ticks away the inventory with the other. The trailer is soon picked clean – the back door slams shut and an unheard echo reverberates through the empty space. The driver says something like “so long, ladies” to the forklift operators, then grabs his young daughter’s hand and helps her up into the cabin. He lights a smoke and starts for Dusseldorf.
The forklift boys are looking sharp in their sparkling white livery, standing a tight circle around the delivery. “This one’s for Gelberts, innit” says Denson; he mans his machine, pries the meat from the cement and rumbles into the maze… the world’s biggest meat market… Smithfield Meat Markets… ‘Three blocks of butcheries and every cut you could dream of.”
The bells are ringing in D.P Gelbert’s refrigerator – the meat is in the house. A fervent hand slaps the red button opening the rolling doors – in grunts the forklift and drops the goods to the floor. “Ah, Denson, what’ve you brought us today?” Denson skips down from the driver’s seat and hands the consignment note to the head butcher, who flicks through the pages swiftly with his dry and bloodstained fingers. “Five pigs, eight beasts, sixty scores of cluckers…” The jolly butchers listen intently, eyes flashing wildly as their duties are assigned. They’re thinking about working the meat, getting the job done, headin’ down to the Cock Tavern for sunrise pints at six… whether they’re going to fork out the morning’s pay on a blowjob in the bathrooms.
It goes like this: bandsaws screeching through bone; flecks of blood spraying aprons red; long knives swishing through the meat; stoic Poles asking no questions whatsoever; buckets brimming with steak; “How do you fit four fags on a chair?”... “Turn it upside down.”
3AM and the meats are piling up in the display boxes at the front of the store. The various cuts are organised methodically; prime to the left, trite to the right. With their shiny white hardhats the salesmen stand behind their meat collections and pounce on the passers by in proper Cockney style.
D.P Gilbert himself sits in the glass payment booth engrossed in cheques and orders, bills and debts. The market constabulary, Kevin, walks up and whispers something over the counter... “Fuck off Kev”, and carries on with his papers. But moments later his concentration is broken – he looks up, brows bent angry over his eyes – a pair of hungry young carnivores come tossing into his store…
COPSON ST
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