The Phone Ranger

Happy birthday to me. Happy birthday to me. Happy birthday dear me. Happy birthday to me.


Yes, twenty three years old today, and what a way to celebrate by pushing trolleys on a cold Tuesday in the rain. Happy birthday to me.


We all reach that age in life when your Mum is far more excited about you turning another year older than you are. For most it's 19 or so. Others, (mentioning no names, Steve) it's in their late forties. For my 21st I had a party with family and friends. My Uni friend Jason booked a stripper, much to the displeasure of my Grandparents, who got covered in baby oil during the strip. On hindsight I wish he'd have booked a female one instead. Apparently, Mr Love Truncheon was cheaper than Miss Handcuffs.


For my 22nd me and my Mum went on a trip to Germany. Which involved three days of haggling with old German shopkeepers for bars of chocolate. I don't speak German and they knew I was a tourist. Pasty white legs and a camera around my neck were the obvious signs. I'd hold out a handful of Euros and they'd take anything they wanted. I only found out when I got back I'd paid £6.40 for a walnut whip. But on my 23rd birthday I was woken by my Mum with a cup of tea and a card. She already bought me driving lessons so I wasn't expecting anything. She even put sugar in my tea.


The only present I got was when I clocked in for my shift that day. I looked up at the notice board on the wall, which I never pay attention to normally. It's full of numbers and figures about sales and things that don't concern the trolley pushers. But at the top I noticed my name in capital letters, under the words 'HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO:' I was made up, the whole store knew it was my birthday, and, according to the board, a woman from the canteen called Janice. Happy birthday Janice! Maybe we'll sit down together and they'll bring out a big cake. With party hats and jelly. I jumped up and down a bit, staring up at my name. In capital letters. Everyone loves their name in capital letters. It makes you feel important. If you saw a tramp's name in capitals you'd think they'd at least own their own shoes. I got my phone out of my pocket and angled it up to my name to take a picture. I wanted proof that I was important, held in my phone forever. As I clicked the capture button I heard a voice behind me.


'Not got a signal, Dylan?'


It was Sharon, in a blue pinstripe suit and hair more scraped back than usual, as if it was stretching her face from either side.


'Oh, no. My name, up there.' Pointing at the board.
'Can I remind you, Dylan...' Keeping her eyes on me. 'that mobile phones are prohibited from the shop-floor whilst clocked in.'
'I don't work on shop-floor though do I, Sharon. I work on the car park.' I smiled at her but didn't get one back. Tough crowd. 'No, it's my birthday today. So I thought I'd...you know...take a picture of my name.' Still pointing at the board.
'Phones are prohibited, Dylan. Keep it in your locker.' She said bluntly, still looking at me. Did she know the board was there? I know It was a boring board but she's a manager. Managers love notice boards.
'All the rest of the porter have them in their pockets.'



Thirty seconds later we were all outside the store, huddled around Sharon who was holding an empty plastic bag.


'Phones are prohibited. In the bag, gentlemen.'


We all threw our phones in, apart from Steve. He wasn't going down without a fight.


'But Sharon, I need mine on me at all times. I need to be available. My mum has arthritis, she could fall over at any time.'
'Then she wouldn't be able to get to the phone.' Sharon replied without blinking.
'Sorry?'
'If she fell over. She wouldn't be able to get to the phone.'


Steve suddenly looked terrified.


'I'll just give her a quick call.' He squawked and rushed away.
'Thanks a lot, Dylan!' Darren barked at me.
'I've got more important things to deal with today without keeping an eye on you outside playing on your phones. We all know it's a big day.'


Darren and I stared at her, blankly.


'Don't you read the notice board?'


No, I'm the weirdo who just takes pictures of it.


'We have a Celebrity visit today.' Knotting the plastic bag. 'So I want the outside area cleaned up and looking smart.'
'Who's the celebrity?'
'It's a Special Mystery Celebrity visit, Dylan.'
'You don't know who it is, do you?'
'....No. But I've been told that he...or she, is a big star and is bound to get people into the store. I'll get Steve to clear up. You two are on balloon duty.'
'Why don't you know who it is?' Darren asked.
'You know that manager, Ryan, who we let go last year for being...over familiar with our checkout girls?'
'Oh yeah, he kept pinching their arses, didn't he?'
'Not just theirs.' Sharon said under her breath, looking away. 'Well, he always booked the guests. He didn't tell anyone who it is and now that he's gone, we don't know who's coming. We don't even have a contact number for them. All we know is that they're coming today at three.'



So there we were, out of the rain, blowing up balloons in preparation for our 'Special Mystery Celebrity Visit.' We wondered aloud who it was that would turn up to a supermarket, virtually unannounced, on a rainy Tuesday afternoon.


'Gut Bucket?' Suggested Darren. Putting together two words I would never have thought of putting together in my entire life.
'What? Who?'
'Gut Bucket. They're a Thrash Metal band.'
'Oh, of course. Gut Bucket.' I said sarcastically. 'Think I saw them on Top of the Pops a few years ago.
'Steve knows the drummer.'
'Obviously...'
'Or Beyonce.'
'What?'
'Beyonce Kn...'
'Yes, I know who she is. But why would she come here?'
'I don't know. Shopping?'
'Oh, yeah. She loves our 3 for 2 deals doesn't she?! Yeah, she comes in all the time. Can't get enough of us.'
'All right, all right...' Taking another blow into the balloon.


After 40 minutes of blowing into balloons I was light headed, and somewhat confused about who was coming into our store. Their had been no announcements. Sharon hadn't told us to put up a banner advertising anyone. Was anyone going to turn up? There was no cue of die-hard fans snaking outside of the building, clutching autograph books and magic markers. But sure enough at 3pm a black car pulled up at the pick up point. It stayed parked for about 10 minutes while Sharon rushed around the foyer making last minute changes, moving the 'Welcome' banner I'd put up and sticking up balloons I'd carefully placed on the floor. We only managed to blow up 3 between us. The canteen ladies were all stood together holding disposable cameras, a few lads off security were gathered in the corner, next to one or two confused looking customers.


A door of the black car opened. They was an audible gasp as a few people got out. Then the audible gasp turned into held breathes, then mumbles of confusion. Then questions like 'Who's that?' We were all stood still, looking through the doors at four men walking at us, all in denim and long greasy hair.


'Oh my god!' Said Darren.


Ten minutes later the corner of the foyer had microphones set up, a drum kit and a few guitars. The tallest of the four men tapped on the microphone, causing immediate screeching feedback.


'We're Gut Bucket. Thank you all for coming!'


'You all' was five people. Me, Darren, an excited looking Steve, an angry looking Sharon and an old Chinese lady.


'Before we start, I'd like to dedicate this song to a very special lad in the audience' Said the lanky guitarist, looking over at Steve who was sticking his thumbs up at him. 'This song is for Dylan, who got all the other trolley pushers phones confiscated. It's called 'The Idiot Song.'


Brilliant. A year ago I was in the lovely country of Germany, seeing the sights and sounds of Berlin, soaking up the culture. Now I was stood in the foyer of a supermarket, being called an idiot by a Yorkshire based thrash metal band, my manager and an elderly Chinese woman.



Happy birthday me.