This Christmas instead of working at the butchers, I worked at a bakers. This is partly because I moved back to London - and partly (mostly) because where possible I try to make my life decisions in accordance to eighteenth century nursery rhymes. Working at the bakery was warmer, easier, and decidedly less dangerous than working at the butchers. It wasn't until I went to collect all the meat for our family Christmas dinner that it even occurred to me that I was missing the butchers. Madness, obviously. To miss the daily, 16 hour struggle of tussling with freezing cold animal flesh, and the misogynistic jokes, and the fucking endless complaints about cups of tea that were definitely, patently, FINE. Total madness. And that's without even factoring in the free cake I get at the bakery.

As soon as I was spotted in the queue (- which was not as long as last year; I prefer to interpret this as a sign that Feller's was less busy and succesful without me, rather than as a sign that Feller's was better organised and less stressful without me) Mitzi came running out with a meat cleaver in one hand and a butcher's coat  in the other, shouting and gesticulating wildly "FI BABE YOU'RE LATE GET YOUR COAT ON". I've been with calm, normal people for so long I didn't immediately recognise this fun joke as classic butcher banter, and hastily began shedding my smart coat and last minute Christmas presents into the arms of my bewildered brother in order to take the knife and coat from Mitzi and join my brothers and sisters in arms at my rightful place behind the meat fridge. Pride swelled in my chest; my posture straightened as a sense of belonging infused my very bones, and my heart soared.

 I realised it was a joke just in the nick of time - I was stepping forwards to take the cleaver from Mitzi but I hadn't got as far as putting the coat on, and I was bustled inside without anyone realising how excited I'd been by the prospect of joining them all again. Thank god, because I'd never have heard the end of it. As it was they were all lovely and kind to me, telling me that they'd missed me and fussing over me even though there was tonnes of work to be done. I was totally delighted. They are all such characters, so exuberant and bawdy and generous and mad and exciting. I really love them. Mr Feller took my hand and very seriously asked me to come back for  Christmas 2014, and I think I will. UNLESS I get offered a role at a candlestick makers, because that would be just too divine intervention-y.

Check out this wicked-cool juxtaposition I captured after I dropped my handbag on the floor and my foundation rolled under the butcher's block and came to rest amongst the sawdust and gristle. Yes, I do still rub this all over my face on the bus each morning before working at the salad bar. I think it works better now.

I just noticed I haven't put up all the photos from Christmas! And since last posting photos I have learnt how to rotate them so they are easier to look at! Get ready for the BEST BLOG POST EVER!!!

I helped skin this deer! Skinning a deer is highly skilled work and butchers take great pride in getting the skin off all in one piece, without any tears or holes (even though the skins then go in the bin or are given away for free).

See! I wasn't bullshitting about skinning a deer well being a big deal! Pedro has been a butcher for 15 years, and he made me take this picture to send to his family back in Portugal because he was so proud of himself for doing such a good job. There is no question that I was integral to, or at the very least nearby, this wonderful achievement.

This is a pig's bum. He is holding some burnt pork. AYE SEE WHAT I DID THERE?! 

This is Jess, full-time lady butcher, being professional and working hard. In the background, a typical man-butcher can be seen, showing off and trying to be funny.

So the one in the hat is Mr Feller, who started Fellers - which then became Feller and Son, which then became Feller and Son and Daughter. Mitzi is the daughter in the title, usually she looks hot but she's really excited here because she's in a picture with her son, Tommy who she is pretty fond of. Tommy is 11 and already a better butcher than I am. I think one day he'll be in charge.

This is pork mince for the sausages. It looks bad but, weirdly, smells delicious.

Sausage making! This is a really complicated job and only Marc is allowed to do it.

The last few turkeys that were left before Christmas! At the start of December the whole shop is covered with these but I forgot to take a photo so you'll have to close your eyes and imagine.

Wahey! It's Mr Feller! The Big Dog! As I never intend to call him to his face because he would love it too much. He would probably get it stitched onto the back of his coat or something...

...Like he did after someone called him "The Motivator".

Christmas Eve! Or as I fondly remember it, the most exhausting day of my whole entire life. And yours. And everybody's. After two weeks of medium-to-high levels of sleep deprivation butchers are then subjected to a 72 hour period during which you cat nap between 11pm-4am and spend your waking hours confused, holding a knife and running around whilst people shout at you in a secret language. This is 5am on Christmas Eve - we had spent the night packing the orders, which can be seen in the green boxes to the left of the photo and in the brown trays in the background. Each of those brown trays contains about four orders, and an order usually consisted of one large bird - either a turkey, a capon, or a goose, plus a ham, sausages, bacon, stuffing and eggs. There was meat everywhere and we had to match it to the correct customer, most of whom were angry after being made to queue for upwards of ten minutes which was largely because very few of the fuckers brought their order numbers with them EVEN THOUGH WE REPEATEDLY TOLD THEM HOW IMPORTANT THESE NUMBERS WERE so we had to search through every single order until we found their stupid double barrelled name, whilst they stood there rolling their eyes and reminding us it was Christmas Eve and they really did have an awful lot to do. I think the sleep deprivation is a deliberate precaution to ensure all the butchers are too knackered to bother stabbing anybody.

Being a butcher in the summer is much better than being a butcher in the winter.

For starters, working in a large fridge becomes a huge bonus rather than a crushing, chilblain-causing penance. Secondly, I am better at being a butcher in the summer than I am in the winter because people want lamb chops (which are easy to cut), steaks (which are easy to cut) and bits of chicken (also easy to cut) rather than a whole fucking turkey with its insides neatly presented and hanging from a bag around its neck. Thirdly, the sort of questions people ask are questions I know the answer to or can at least look them in the eye and lie about knowing that I will not be solely responsible for destroying their entire Christmas dinner and potentially causing an irreprable rift within the family (as when a flustered middle-aged woman demands to know whether a 4kg capon will feed three adults, one young child and an elderly grandparent who doesn't each much but would be offended by an unreasonably small portion. And will it be enough for leftovers? Because I need leftovers. Well, do you think if I get a bigger one will it still fit in the aga? And how much longer will it take to cook? I still want it moist, of course. Why don't you know? Well can I speak to someone who does know, please? SORRY, MADAM,  BUT NOBODY KNOWS THE ANSWER. Except apparently all the other butchers. I don't know how but they do. They know the answer to that and to all other Christmas meat enquiries and I wish they didn't because it makes it really embarrassing that I have no idea. I didn't even know what a capon was for the first week. FYI it's just a big chicken. It used to refer only to a castrated rooster but now: big chicken). Anyway at summer it's like, "shall I get chicken wings, will chicken wings be nice on the barbecue?" and I'm all yes! yes they fucking will! of course they will. All barbecued meat is good! Throw more questions at me, sir! Yes you should get steak as well! Everyone will be delighted and your wife will love you more! She really will! How long should you cook sausages for? Why, UNTIL THEY'RE DONE MADAM! Next customer please!".

Furthermore, there are lots of scantily clad women wandering around which means that the male butchers can perve on them rather than on me. Thank you, scantily clad women of Oxford for taking that bullet for me. You and your nice summer clothes are making my working day 80% more enjoyable .

BACK SLANG

Back Slang is a secret language which butchers use. I am nervous about writing about Back Slang on the Internet, as butchers are men and women of honour and I'm sure they would consider it notably dishonourable of me to reveal their secret language TO THE WORLD. I am still going to, though, because Back Slang is so much fun!

When speaking Back Slang, one simply reverses the letters of the word one wishes to use and then pronounces the word phonetically. Sometimes it doesn't quite work, for example "cunt" backwards is "tnuc", which is hard to say. In those instances you just chuck a couple of extra vowels in, so tnuc becomes "tunnock". It's really easy once you get going, especially as you don't need to bother with reversing prepositions, pronouns or conjunctions. You pretty much just speak normal English until you get to the rude word in the sentence, and then you reverse that. Back Slang is useful for slagging customers off and for talking about the meat you're trying to flog them. You don't want them to know their sausages are dlo (dee-lo) or that they're a total dratsab, do you?

USEFUL BACK SLANG WORDS

Dab eno/Doog eno - Bad one/good one. Used all the time, to describe people, meat, whatevs.

Lahteeaich - Alright

Eefok - Coffee

Eefink - Knife

Senip - Penis

Whynaff - Fanny

Tunnock - Cunt

Krip - Prick

Teefos - Soft

Gaf - Fag

Evakh - Have

Dlos - Sold

Kool - Look

Eno - One

Owt - Two

Earth -Three

Net - Ten

Enob - Bone

Woc - Cow

Retchtub - Butcher

Sip - Piss

Say - Yes

Yob - Boy

Keenurd - Drunk

Whykess - Sexy

Dlo - Old

Dratsab - Bastard

Isn't it cool? Butchers are cool. With their own language and shit. Like an undiscovered Amazonian tribe, if they had The Sun in the Amazon.

I really miss being a butcher. I think shoving my hands inside dead animals and wrenching out their entrails whilst trying not to explode their poo everywhere might be my calling. I will need to practice on more animals before I know for sure, but, obviously, can't. Not until next Christmas, anyway.

Tomorrow after work I am moving into Mitzi's house until Christmas Eve. I have to be at the butchers at 5am every day, eurrrghhh, and I won't get to leave until "late" (ominously vague). The first Park and Ride bus is at 6am, and buses from Wallingford to Oxford only start at about 7am. So naturally the best solution was for me to move in with my short-tempered boss, and her house-guest-phobic boyfriend, who is my other boss, at the most stressful and tense time of the year. What could possibly go wrong. I DON'T EVEN HAVE A LAPTOP. It is going to be so weird. Being a butcher has completely taken over my life. I'm tentatively looking forward to it, on the basis that it is a novel experience - but realistically I think it might be COMPLETELY MENTAL AND WEIRD. Maybe I have accidentally joined a butcher cult? Maybe I've accidentally started one?

Anywaiz. Today at work I had to do a radio interview about the Covered Market, and we sold out of organic turkeys for Christmas and Michael Palin came in. Quite a lot of celebrity intellectuals visit Fellers. I took a phone order from a lady the other day, she said her name was "Hitchens - like kitchens but without the K". "Like Christopher?" I asked. "Actually, he's my brother-in-law" she said. And I couldn't bloody remember if he'd died or was still really ill, but I thought because she'd used the present tense, he must still be alive - even though I was almost certain he was dead. And then I couldn't bloody remember if he and the brother had made up, and I couldn't remember the brother's name at all, and I suddenly realised I had been silent for quite a while and I urgently needed to say something, because I was on the phone, where any conversational pauses seem much longer than they do in person, and it would have been a long pause even if we'd been face-to-face, so I blurted out "CONGRATULATIONS!" which is not the appropriate response at all. Obviously. And then she said something along the lines of yes, well, I much prefer my husband. So it was an even more inappropriate response. And now I'm wondering if once we hung up she thought maybe I was deliberately congratulating her on Christopher Hitchens being dead because I knew the brothers didn't get on? Anyway, it was a pretty fucking massive faux pas. I felt like Bridget fucking Jones for the rest of the day, but luckily Mitzi didn't fire me. I suppose that particular example of a celebrity intellectual (there is definitely capacity for some kind of portmonteau pun there but I haven't got the energy) doesn't count, what with it not being an in-shop visit and also being the wife of the celebrity, rather than the celebrity himself - but we do get some good ones! So far I've spotted Palin, Ian McEwan, Phillip Pullman, and Colin Greenwood (who I guess is just a run-of-the-mill celebrity really. I'm counting him as "intellectual" on the basis that he's not, like, household name famous, but on the other hand he is kind of really famous...also Radiohead are for smart people). I am hoping Paxman comes in. He does live in Oxford. And maybe Louis Theroux! Who doesn't live in Oxford, but whatevs. I would be so excited if he came to the butchers! I would deliberately chop my finger off (just the pinky or the ring finger, one of the expendable ones, I'm not a nutter) and then insist on him accompanying me to A&E.

Also, I wanted to share this quote from Tiny; "You know when you see a woman, and she's so ugly, you think, who would ever shag that? I shag that woman". After a good ten minute discussion I had to abandon my attempts to convince Tiny that I have never looked at a woman and thought, "who would ever shag that?".

My last post was really whingy, so here are some fun photos! The sexual harrassment does suck (WAHEY) but there are loads of good bits about being a Lady Butcher which ultimately outweigh the bad bits. 

Hello Laydeeeez! This is top butcher totty - on the left is Marc, he is Mitzi's boyf. They used to snog each other when they were kids then they grew up and went off and got married to other people and had kids and got divorced and now they are back together. I swear to god, it is so romantic. They love each other so much. The one with the grin is Chris, he's a bit of a geezer. Irresistible!

 Roe deer and fallow deer at either end of the photo, in the middle is burnt pork. I think there is some kind of health and safety issue with the pork because Mitzi keeps telling regulars that this is their last year to get it and when I ask why she just gives me a look.

 This is Larry, he goes to Smithfield market to get meat for us and he always wears a flat cap. Also, Larry's voice is quite posh. I believe that beneath his cap there are MANY SECRETS.

This is Ian, Jessie and Mitzi at The Block. The Block is where all the meat gets chopped. At the end of the day it has to be sanded down to keep it clean so there are big grooves in it like where Homer sits on the sofa. Usually it looks like some horrible animal farm warzone but you can't really tell from this photo/these guy's faces.

This is Pedro, I like him but he can be a right fucking prick.

Here's a bunch of stuff we sell! I should have turned the flash off. 

The other day some man asked me if this was "Bambi's mum" and then pissed himself for ages. Another man asked if the venison hanging outside were "dear" but it was such a shit joke I didn't even realise it was a joke until about an hour later.

This is Tiny, he is about 8 foot. He is pictured here with Teddy, my favourite customer. Teddy likes to come in and sweep up. He says precocious things and gets in the way. Work stops when he arrives as even pervo-sexist-dickhead butchers find him completely adorable.

This is me! Don't laugh at my outfit because it is fucking freezing in the butchers.

Is it okay to wear your bunny suit to bed even though it has a small amount of water buffalo blood around the cuff? I know it's not fine, but is it okay? It's the warmest thing I own and the butchers is freeeezing cold, so I had to wear it there. That decision made itself. But it's also my favourite, best-ever pyjamas. And it's cold here at home, too. And I forgot that I cannot truly relax unless I am wearing this all in one. And what's so bad about water buffalo blood, anyway? I mean, hey, we all wear leather shoes! IT'S PRETTY MUCH THE SAME THING.

Y'ALL DEAD MEAT, AND ME, I'M JUST A BUTCHER

So I'm feeling pretty settled in at the butchers now. I know how everybody takes their tea, the regulars have learned my name, and I can do basic butcher binizz like using the mincing machine or chopping steak (the other butchers don't even hover nervously whilst I attempt these tasks! Maybe they are simply lax and/or indifferent to my personal safety, but I think that they TRUST me! They think I am semi-competent at my job! And perhaps also a little bit the thing about being lax and/or indifferent).
Some of the customers even seem to think I know what I'm talking about! I do make an effort to smear my butchers coat with blood and entrails at every opportunity in order to inspire respect and fear, so it is good to see that this is paying off.
EVEN MORE IMPRESSIVELY (!!!!!),  if you can credit it, nine times out of ten I can shove my hand in a pile of chicken hearts/lambs kidneys/diced venison/etc etc and emerge clutching almost exactly the amount of meat the customer asked for. When I say "almost exactly" we're talking, like, a ten gram margin of error. That is some serious shit, my friends. I was born to butcher. I'm so relieved - I was getting worried I was born to teach or something shite like that.

Here's a picture of me and some sausages! 

 I made Amy get in the meat fridge with me to record this special moment. I love it when people take pictures of me.

http://amyhonour.tumblr.com

Today I did a shit-tonne of real butcher work! I learnt to use the mincing machine, I peeled and dewinged about twenty chickens, and I used a meat cleaver! It was all really exciting, except for the peeling part. I believe the correct term is "skinning" but you do literally grab the tuft of skin at the top of the chicken's neck and then peel it the entire way back, to the point where you assume you take a knife and slice the skin apart from the meat. Only you DO NOT use a knife, you must use brute force to wrench the skin from the meat, even though the skin is incredibly slippery and super, super cold and often pings back into your face when you finally rip it free. I can't see why you mustn't use a knife, but that is The Butcher Way.

 I also learnt some useful butcher etiquette: you must never use another butcher's knife, or their mug.

So today was my second day of being a butcher! And I don't want to brag or nuttin, but I still have ten fingers! A promising start.

 For the next month I will be working at M. Feller, Son and Daughter - which is a prestigious organic butchers located in the Covered Market in Oxford. I know that I am, essentially, a Christmas temp, but even so I feel quite honoured to be working there. If you live in Oxford, or have visited the Covered Market around Christmas, you will know Feller's as the butchers which is festooned with pheasant, rabbit, goose, boar and turkey carcasses. Like some grisly, profane Christmas tree decorated with the sole intention of upsetting vegetarians. No! The Christmas display at Feller's is fascinating and traditional and probably only upsetting for vegetarians who are already having a bad day. It's where all the most devoted, ethically-aware carnivores get their meat. It's a Big Deal, you guys. And now, their reputation is in my hands! Sort of, anyway. It's a lot of pressure. I'm honoured, but on the other hand, I am SHIT SCARED.

The hardest thing about being a butcher, so far, is the weights. People ask you for six kilograms of diced venison, 2 ounces of lambs liver and a pound of beef scrag like it aint no thang, and then stare at you with unblinking eyes as you frantically try to convert everything into metric because that's what the scales do and then you realise you don't even know what metric is and your only real idea of weight is that 8 stone is skinny and 11 stone is fat so you just grab a handful of meat - a big handful if the customer is a man, a smaller handful if the customer is a lady - and shove it on the scales and then everybody balks and your stomach drops because that's not SCRAG you IDIOT that's NECK. Except scrag and neck are the same thing so that's a bad example. I think they are the same thing, anyway. I just googled and scrag and neck are the same thing, but you can only get scrag from a sheep. Lawks amercy! As I said earlier, I still have ten fingers.

I've got a lot to learn before the Christmas rush begins properly, when we work 4am-11pm and the queue stretches the whole way out of the market. I really, really want to do a good job and learn a bit about being a proper butcher before I leave, because hey, this is a a RARE and fascinating opportunity.  I should really make the most of it. Also it is important to always Try Your Best. Before I started I vaguely pictured myself as some kind of butcher-Jesus, benevolently handing out sausages to adoring disciples who spoke of the miracles I perform in awed whispers. HA. HA, ME OF THE PAST! You dumb bitch! The more I learn about being a butcher, the more overwhelmingly complicated it seems to be.