‘Not since the mid-1980’s have I seen clashes between workers and management like it - it’s really serious!’ exclaims Patrick Clifton, a.k.a. Postman Pat.
The Cheese Grater recently caught up with Pat to see what he thought about the dispute between the Postal Workers’ Union, Communication Workers’ Union (CWU) and Royal Mail’s management, headed by Adam Crozier.
Adorned in a ‘modernised’ Royal Mail outfit comprising navy shorts and a jacket, white socks decorated with the Royal Mail cypher, brown Birkenstocks and the famed sky-blue Royal Mail shirt, Pat takes a long and thoughtful wheeze from his fourteenth Woodbine. His faithful cat Jess, thirty years old in 2011 (making Jess around 130 in cat years), purrs melifluously as she nestles in Pat’s crotch.
I ask him what he thinks of the management’s demands that workers be open to modernisation. His response is vitriolic. ‘We have modernised! We’ve taken a pay cut, taken on private firms such as TNT for which we deliver and they cream the profit off the top and, on top of it all, we, the workers, have been trying to get management to use the Advisory Conciliation and Arbitration Service. But they refuse - that just shows you who’s asking for a strike, doesn’t it?’
Pat takes a moment to wipe some saliva from his bottom lip and adjust his trademark horn-rimmed glasses. ‘The media are almost completely biased in their representation of the story, making it out as if we, the workers, want to strike, that we are dinosaurs of a bygone age and we should move with the markets. Well, why don’t they move with this?’ Pat says, sticking his middle finger up at a group of nearby reporters.
I ask him what he thinks of Adam Crozier. The mention of his name brings a raging hiss from Jess. ‘That cunt and his three-million-plus per year salary!’ spits Pat, ‘I would piss on him if he were on fire - but only enough so that the fire didn’t go out and he knew I was pissing on him while he was on fire.’
At this point, the familiar Postmistress, Mrs. Goggins, walks in with coffee and a plate of biscuits. ‘Digestives, custard creams and rich teas again, pet,’ she says, winking at me.‘I’ll not have bourbon creams in my biscuit tin, if you know what I mean.’ She turns to leave on this enigmatic note. ‘Thanks, love,’ says Pat to Mrs. Goggins, giving her rear an ample squeeze as she wanders off with a teapot.
In between dips of biscuit into his coffee, Pat pontificates some more, ‘You know, from the 1970’s through to the 1990’s the Royal Mail was the most profitable postal delivery service in the world! You don’t see that mentioned in the media do you? And the Union bosses begged the Labour and Tory governments to stop siphoning off the profits and to reinvest that cash in a Royal Mail modernisation, but would they do it?’ He slams his hand down on the table, giving me a jolt. ‘Would they my arse!’
Pat mentions that in recent years he has been forced to work not only as a Postman, but also in the Special Delivery Service (SDS). ‘In keeping with “modernisation” I’ve had to work in the SDS to keep my job, travelling between Greendale, Ingledale and Pencaster on a daily commute! I’m almost sixty years old, I can’t keep up the pace.’
As he finishes his sentence, Pat bends forward and lets out a heavy wheeze, clutching his left arm. For a moment I fear the worst, but he soon regains his composure.
I end with a question about Lord Mandelson. What does Pat think about Mandelson’s comment that he is ‘beyond anger’ at the prospect of a workers’ strike? ‘He can go fuck himself, and we all know he probably does anyway.’