21st March 2020

Things on the scoot have gone from strange to scary. I knew last night was going to be a tough shift when an hour before it was due to start the shift manager messaged me asking me to come in early. Nah. Not after you cut my hours and told me to come late. The train in was dead, maybe 10% of the usual amount of people, two of whom kept coughing. I moved away. When I got out at Highbury and Islington for my 4 -12 shift, it was eerily quiet. I arrived to an order ready to go, the other rider had apparently been flat out all day so I got the scoot out and set off.

Another no contact delivery. This time the customer said they were self isolating, which I don’t actually mind. They need to eat, if they’re ill they probably can’t cook. The moment I set off two police vans and three cars sped past, sirens blaring. I wound my way through Hackney past an industrial complex where a friend lives, and in another life I used to do sound mixes and make goofs, then past an offy, outside of which, we enjoyed street beers on warm nights. I dropped the pizza on the doorstep rang the bell and left.

Next drop, a back street round Old Street. I opened the pizza box to see my diluted bleach filled spritzer spilled all over the pizza. I made it the night before after getting spooked about pressing intercom buttons all over east and north London. Another delivery guy gave me the idea, a guy with kids, who couldn’t afford to get sick. He had a bottle of water mixed with vinegar which he used to clean his hands and nose after every drop. At that time, I thought it was a bit over the top, but not now. On the way back to the shop to get another pizza, four undercover police cars with sirens sped past. I saw so many police speeding around that night I wondered if there might be looting going on but maybe there was an injunction against reporting it. I’d heard rumours about it. Or maybe the police had been asked to pick up the sick.

Did you know all the social housing blocks in the borough of Islington have tv screens in the communal areas feeding government information in all the time? I used to wonder how long people would dutifully carry on going to work while society crumbled, or if people eventually did find freedom if they’d know what to do with it. I guess I’m finding out. I feel like I’m living in J G Ballard’s wastepaper basket.

Friday night at 6:30 on Fleet Street looking up to St Paul's in central London. 

Next delivery was ready to go soon as I got back. It was just off Fleet Street. Just by Pepys’ house, which gave me a spook because just before the virus hit London I was reading a book about 1666, which featured Pepys’ account of the plague outbreak that year. It seemed like time was folding in on itself. I remember thinking how nuts they were for carrying on with a war against the Dutch while there was a plague going on, but that’s exactly what we’re doing now. The US is still bombing the Iranians, you’d think they’d have enough on their plates, or would just, you know, give it a fucking rest for once.

On the way there I went down St John’s Street, round Smithfield. Everything was shut. There was no one there. Much quieter than Islington. Smithfield felt more like 5am on Saturday than 6:30 on a Friday. Same with Fleet Street. Things were going from curious to actually scary. It hit me that we’re heading into a recession of unprecedented severity.

So far no tips and no real madness. But back at the shop I got a text about Boris shutting the restaurants and pubs but not take aways or delivery places. Crumbs. I noticed it was supposed to be rush hour, but there were no cars. The air felt cleaner, but thick with delivery riders like a cloud of locusts. It was getting biblical. Some feeding of the 5000 shit.

There seemed to be a fewer ambulances out. I counted 17 over eights hours on the road. I saw at least double that amount of police cars with sirens on though.

The beginning of the chaos, about 8:30pm.  

The orders were coming thick and fast. The pizzas were piling up under the hot lamps, there wasn’t enough space to pin up the order tickets. I did three orders every time I left the shop and we couldn’t keep up. But each time I came back for more, they had to dig through the piles of pizzas to find the ones that matched the order. I think quite a few people got pizza surprise for dinner. Utter chaos. By nine, we were way passed order 100 which is considered a busy night if we get there by 12. Every pizza was at least two hours late and the map on the screen was filling up with red dots, pizzas they hadn’t made yet were already late.

Two other riders started about seven, but neither really speak English, so when they got lost, they couldn’t speak to customers on the phone. I noticed one of them, who didn’t speak a word of English, was riding a scoot I was on the night before but swapped because it got a flat. I told the boss about it but the flat hadn’t been fixed. He was riding it regardless. I know both these guys would be homeless if they didn’t do this job.  One of them lived in Amsterdam for a bit before coming to London, where He got ripped off for 400 euros by a scamming landlord. People like this are prey, so they end up doing unsafe, unpleasant work for very little money and spend all of it living in shit hole flats run by crook landlords. Now they seem like the most important people in London.

When I was doing this job before 10 years ago, I got a flat, so I check the other scooter they had and that tyre was worn down to the canvas so I refused to ride it. Not safe. They asked me to do just one delivery on my own bike, I agreed but got a puncture myself, in the side of the tyre which couldn’t be repaired. I had to get a new one which cost me £80, more than the days work, and the company wouldn’t pay for it. That’s completely standard.

A note about these delivery riders. It is very unusual for them to have adequate motorcycle clothing. They wear helmets they get off Amazon for £30 which don’t meet safety standards and the cheapest gloves they can get, flimsy ones that might be ok in summer (unless you crash), or thin wool ones, or no gloves at all. Even with good gloves, after a while your hands go numb in the cold. And if your head hits a curb at 30 miles an hour you want to be wearing a helmet that’s been tested, but if you can’t afford it, you won’t, and people want cheap pizza. If you ever come off a bike, the first thing you do is put your hands out, if you’re wearing a pair of wool mittens, your hands will get shredded. I see delivery guys lying in the road waiting for ambulances all the time, always gives me a chill.

In and out without a break from 4 till twelve. That’s eight hours straight riding in the cold. When the streets are empty is the only people who stay out are the real dodgy ones, and the only people that drive, drive like utter lunatics. I noticed a lot of delivery guys riding in a way I wouldn't consider safe too. I took it easy.

Both phones in the shop were ringing off the hook all night and were never answered. This was happening in other branches too. There was no way we could do all the orders, so the manager rang head office several times to try and stop them but they never answered. So more and more orders kept coming in.  

The customers seemed to understand what we were going through. I got £8 tips over the evening, which is actually a lot more than most nights.

At one point a cash order came in and I refused to take it. I said a few days previous I didn’t want to handle cash, but that request was ignored, so I just said no. Every other restaurant worker is told it’s too dangerous to work, but I’m supposed to carry on as normal? Nope.

Quite a few pubs in Islington were still busy, most of all the Weatherspoons as were a few posh restaurants. I thought that was selfish, they’re risking lives and things are hard enough for the doctors already. In Dalston I saw a group of generation Z’ers queueing up to get in a nightclub. Dickheads.

About 12 the boss and a manager from another store showed up with two bottles of flavoured vodka. I said I’d have a taste and he poured me half a mugful. Candy apple Smirnoff. I was glad of it.

The trains unexpectedly finished early that night. The streets didn’t feel safe. The pizza place turned over over three grand, I made about £70, ten of which went on an Uber home. I was physically exhausted, too tired to speak, but I knew the Uber driver must have had a shitter too.

I’m looking into a job delivering groceries. I saw everyone at Tesco got a 10% bonus today. Meanwhile I’m on minimum wage, in other words, if they could pay me less they would. It pisses me off when very clever sensible people tell you capitalism has given us the greatest standard of living in history. Doesn’t feel like it if you’re one of the ones providing that standard. I’ve applied for a job I actually want to do, but I can’t see it happening. I think working at a supermarket is probably the best I can hope for for a while.

The transient nature of my employment and freelance work means I’m not sure if I can join a union. I wish there were unions reaching out to people like me.