Nice Buns
Clive and Norm rise to the occasion and make some dough
The following account is based on a true story. Any similarity between the characters described and living persons is entirely intentional. So sue me.
Clive is not stupid, despite a lot of evidence to the contrary. It is just that he has these ideas. His friend Norm, on the other hand, is perhaps a little hard of understanding. Having no ideas of his own he goes along with Clive, the Robin to his rather dubious Batman.
They have just turned 17 in 1969 when Clive sees an advert in the New Musical Express.
“Norm, look at this. The Stones are doing a free concert in Hyde Park.”
Norm, contemplating his ham roll with great interest, shows little enthusiasm.
“I suppose we could go,” he remarks, “as long as it’s free.”
Clive strokes his chin thoughtfully, wishing he could feel a bit more manly bristle there.
“Well, the concert is free, but we’d have to get there, and we’d need somewhere to sleep over. So, it won’t be entirely free.”
“Hadn’t thought of that,” says Norm chewing happily, “Can’t go then, can we?”
“Leave it with me,” says Clive as they return to their workstation.
By the time they leave the engineering plant at 5 pm, Clive has a scheme in mind.
“Norm,” he says, “this is how we earn the money. My cousin says they need people to man the overnight bakery. All we have to do is put a few buns in the oven and clean up. We can work here until 5 pm, then do the bakery from 10 pm till 6 am.”
“When do we get to sleep?” asks Norm, always concerned for his creature comforts.
“In between jobs. It’s not like it’s going to last long. We just need to earn a few quid to do up your brother’s van, then we’ve got somewhere to sleep as well as travel. It’s brilliant.”
“I’ll have to ask him,” says Norm doubtfully.
“Well, he won’t pass up the chance to have his van fixed, will he?”
Two nights later the bakery boss shows them the ropes. There is a big dough bin at the top of the barn. They have to put in the ingredients and set the mixer off. They clean up while the dough rises, then shove it in the dumb waiter to take it downstairs. Once there, they roll it up and put it in the oven. What could be simpler?
On the first night shift, Clive is downstairs sweeping while Norm is upstairs supposedly keeping an eye on the dough mix. Hearing a muffled expletive, Clive calls, “You all right up there Norm?”
“Dropped my lighter,” growls Norm.
“Well, pick it up, you daft bugger!”
“Dropped it in the dough,” sighs Norm.
Clive rolls his eyes and stomps up the ladder. They both peer over the rim of the huge bowl.
“Where is it?” asks Clive.
“I stopped the machine,” Norm explains, “but the lighter was already mixed in.”
“Well, you’ll have to get it out. Get up there and I’ll hold your legs.”
“Me?” says Norm, looking around to see if anyone else is available.
It starts off well. Clive mounts the steps so he can lean over the top of the bowl. Norm shuffles in front of him and Clive grasps his belt.
“It’s no good,” says Norm, “I can’t reach.”
“Hold on,” says Clive and he transfers his grip to the back of Norm’s jeans. They pull tight into Norm’s crotch, and he yelps.
“Mind my wedding tackle, that hurt!”
“Won’t be needing it,” Clive sniggers. Then he suddenly gasps in spasms as the most impressive sneeze wracks his body.
“Ah, ah, achoo!”
Clive scrambles to hold onto the ladder and stop himself falling.
There is a loud “gloop” as Norm sinks head-first into the dough.
The mixture seems to bubble and boil, and Clive looks down in confusion, as if the scene below is nothing to do with him. However, Norm’s triumphant arm suddenly shoots up from the thick pool, followed more slowly by the rest of him. He holds the lighter aloft and rather thickly announces,
“Got it!”
Norm emerges like a doughy Michelin Man and Clive pulls his slippery body over the rim and onto the ladder.
“We’ll have to get you cleaned up,” says Clive, because stating the obvious to Norm is never a waste of time. After much scraping and dabbing with damp cloths, just enough dough is left in the bowl to make a small batch of rolls. They send it down to the ground floor and spend the rest of the shift anxiously watching it bake, like expectant fathers outside the delivery room.
After a few more nights Clive and Norm consider themselves old hands at this baking business. Their good intentions to sleep between shifts take a back seat on Friday night when the factory lads decide to go for an after-work drink. They tag along, just for a swift half. However, a game of darts soon has them in its thrall, and they roll out of the pub just in time to get to the bakery and start their shift. They are not drunk, you understand, just a little tired and emotional after their triumph at the dart board.
The dough is duly mixed and proved, and the rolls wait patiently in the oven for their transformation.
Clive finishes sweeping downstairs and Norm is busying himself upstairs with whatever it is Norm does when left to his own devices. They settle down to wait.
Clive’s nose twitches and he snuffles in his sleep. His eyes suddenly open and he yells.
“Norm! The buns are burning!”
“Wha?” Norm takes longer to wake up. Perhaps his brain cells need more time than most to restart. He manages to get down the ladder and together they heave the very brown rolls from the hot oven.
They sit and look at them for a while, as if expecting them to miraculously heal themselves. When this does not happen, Clive says,
“We’ll have to start again Norm.”
“Right,” grunts Norm and lumbers back up the ladder.
This time they stay awake and produce an edible batch of rolls. There is just one problem though.
“We need to get rid of the burnt ones,” says Clive, feeling very weary, “Can’t let the old man find out we wasted all that dough.”
They stuff the offending rolls into sacks and start to drag them outside.
“Where are we taking them?” asks Norm, not unreasonably.
“You got any ideas?” asks Clive, already knowing the answer. “Right, we’ll take them to my girlfriend’s.”
“Does she eat a lot of bread?” asks Norm, puzzled.
“No, her dad keeps pigs. They’ll eat them.”
They drag the heavy sacks into the back of the van and drive down the narrow lane to Carol’s house.
“We mustn’t wake her dad up,” whispers Clive, “He already hates me.”
They try and peer over the gate and Clive points pointlessly into the darkness.
“The pen is over there. They’ll be in the sheds though, so we’ll have to wake them. Off you go.”
Norm digs his heels into the pig shit under his shoes and is clearly going no further. He can smell the vile odour and thinks the nearer they get to the pigs the worse it will be.
Clive looks at him in disgust. Some sidekick he turns out to be.
“Alright, I’ll go then,” he concedes nobly.
The pig shit is thicker inside the pen, and Clive’s foot skids under him. He waves his arms like a demented windmill then crashes to the ground in a slimy heap. His struggles to right himself only make matters worse and he is soon covered head to foot in the malodourous excrement. He is brown and the air is blue, but who can tell in the dark?
Norm starts to laugh in his ponderous way. He always gets the joke two minutes after everyone else has stopped laughing, but this time he is really enjoying himself.
“Shut up!” hisses Clive, “You’ll wake them up.”
He finally manages to stand up, and strides in a wide-legged cowboy style into the pens. He deposits the rolls and the pigs are soon happily destroying the evidence.
“Right, let’s get out of here!”
Norm suddenly stops laughing. “You can’t get in my brother’s van like that. You’ll have to get changed.”
“Into what? A fairy bloody princess?” Clive is normally patient with Norm, but his frustration is starting to surface.
“Ask Carol,” says Norm, as if that explains everything.
After a moment’s consideration, Clive decides it is not a bad idea.
They stand below Carol’s window and Clive picks up a pile of shingle to throw gently up at the glass pane, and wake his true love from her slumber. He is just in time to stop Norm hurling a cobble the size of his fist and glares at him.
“You’ll break the window,” he snarls.
Carol throws up the sash and says in a stage whisper, “What the hell are you doing Clive? It’s 3 o clock in the morning. A.M,” she adds for emphasis.
“How did you know it was me?” asks Clive.
“Who the hell else could it be, you moron? What do you want?”
Clive explains the need to borrow her father’s clothes and is dismayed to find she is not as understanding as he has hoped. However, she eventually disappears and returns with a small bundle wrapped in a hand towel.
“Now bugger off,” she commands and shuts the window firmly.
Clive strips down to his underwear, then decides he needs to remove that as well. He uses the towel to clean off as much of the filth as he can, then reaches for the garment. It is a frilly pink negligée.
Norm is puzzled. “Is that what her dad wears?” he asks.
Clive sighs. “No Norm, I think Carol’s a bit annoyed with me.”
“Why?” Norm asks innocently.
“What time is it Norm?”
“About 3 am,” replies Norm, failing to make the connection.
“Exactly,’” says Clive.
Norm is none the wiser but agrees to let Clive into the van at last.
Back at the bakery, they are clearing up ready for the boss to collect the rolls. He arrives early, out of breath and looking flustered, like a fat baby bird.
“Boys,” he gasps, “I got here as soon as I could. The missus was supposed to tell you that the thermostat on the oven is buggered so we wouldn’t be baking tonight. The bakers have got their supply somewhere else, so you’ve had a wasted night. I can’t pay you for buns I can’t sell.”
Norm stands with his mouth open and Clive nods slowly.
“Right,” he says.
The boss makes a hasty retreat. When he gets to the door he turns and says,
“Clive, if you wanted overalls you only had to ask.”
Epilogue
Sixty years on, it is still not clear whether Norm and Clive ever got to see the Rolling Stones. I have heard no tall stories, no claims of a lifelong friendship with Mick Jagger or lascivious adventures with Marianne Faithfull. It seems unlikely that Clive has had a sudden attack of discretion so let’s assume that they never got to Hyde Park that year.
The long suffering Carol married Clive and has managed to tolerate him ever since, as far as I can tell. His grandchildren gather at his knee to hear his stories and he seems content with his lot.
The tell-tale twinkle is still there in his eye, so I suspect there’s another story that even Clive decided not to tell. I doubt that Marianne Faithfull was involved but you never know, do you?
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