The Idler

Fruit Machines

The worst job I ever had was that of a fruit machine engineer.

The job consisted of me driving from pub to pub in Coventry repairing amusement machines, pay phones and pool tables.

This must sound pretty good, spending all day in pubs, betting shops and amusement arcades, but it was not, it was hell. The average working day was spent in some of the most despicable dives, horrible urine scented community pubs situated in the middle of desperate council estates, populated by whores, alcoholics and mouth breathing, tattooed knuckle-draggers who used me to supplement their dole money by making false claims against the fruit machines so they could perpetuate their useless existences.

Aside from finding used condoms and syringe needles in pool tables, cleaning vomit off payphones and the constant threat of having a pool cue wrapped around the back of your head for the sake of a handful of loose change, one of the worst aspects of the job was going into bingo clubs to repair their machines.

Bingo clubs contain some of the worst examples of humanity you would never hope to meet, bitter and twisted purple-haired harridans who believe they have a licence to treat you like shit because they were stupid enough to lose a weeks pension or their children’s inheritance in a fruit machine. They would scream, shout and sometimes physically abuse you before going back to feverishly feeding pound coins to the machines with their withered, nicotine stained fingers.

The slack jawed no-hopers who staffed these places could never be relied upon to help you as they were always told to side with the customer, however ludicrous they were. Needless to say, I formed a very low opinion of the human race while working in that job, one that has stayed with me to this day.

Roger Eastaff