All movers have yarns and rattling good stories to tell, here is one of the editor's from when he worked in the industry.

Leave two or more movers together and before the first pint of Theakstons Old Wollop has left the glass, they’ll be swapping stories.  Most will be embellished over years of telling, some will be untrue, many will involve sex or the threat of it, and all will be rattling good tales.  This is your opportunity to get one of your many yarns into print.  No need to keep them to yourself any longer: tell all.  Here’s one of the editor’s to get you started …

The Smellys by Steve Jordan

It was in the mid 1980s.  I was a very young, inexperienced salesman working for Avalon Overseas in London (now part of TEAM).  I was the proud owner of an Ansafone on which my calls for the following week were recorded by the office every Friday night for the following week.  After a long day on the road, and with the sounds of my Vauxhall Cavalier and the M1 motorway still ringing in my ears, I listened to my messages while pouring my first Scotch of the weekend.

What was that?  Smelly!  Sure enough my first call on Monday morning was for a Mr. and Mrs. Smelly from Norfolk.  No surely, it couldn’t be.  It must be Smiley, Snell, Smallely, or something but nobody could be called Smelly – could they?

All weekend I fretted.  What was I to do?  I couldn’t knock at the door and say, “Good morning Mr. Smelly.”  I just couldn’t. I had no opportunity to check with the office.  The call was at 9.00am.  If I waited to find a phone box in rural Norfolk so I could check with the office, I’d be late. Even then they could have made a mistake. They must have.

Monday morning came.  I set off at 6.30am in great trepidation. By 8.30 I was looking for the address in a small village just outside Norwich.  The address not being obvious I called at the Post Office for directions.  “Who lives there?” said a distracted, rather surly, roll-up smoking shopkeeper, “I only know the names not the addresses.”

“Er, the name I have is Smelly,” I spluttered.

“Well why didn’t you say so,” he said with a grin of recognition and none of amusement. “The Smellys live at the top of the hill.  Big house on the left.  Red pick-up in the yard probably.”

Magic!  Not only had I found the address, I knew they were really called Smelly.  I’d be fine now.

A pretty blonde woman in her 30s came to the door. “Good morning Mrs. Smelly,” said I, “Steve Jordan, Avalon Overseas.” 

“Good morning Mr. Jordan,” she replied with a beaming smile.  “Do come in.  Tea?”

I’d cracked it.  The rest would be easy.  “I’ll give Smelly a call, he only works down the road, he’d like to see you.” Fine thought I.  I didn’t even crack a grin when he walked through the door.  A handsome man of around 40, smartly dressed but with hands that said he knew what hard work was about.  He was powerfully built but athletic.  If he played rugby he’d be wearing the No:10 shirt.

I even kept a straight face when introduced to the little Smellys.  The girl, about eight, blonde like her mum; and a boy, two years younger with food in his hair and a swagger that suggested he was probably better on your team than against you.

I surveyed the house, discussed their forthcoming move to New Zealand, worked out the price and even converted the job before the second cuppa was cold.  I was feeling pretty pleased with myself.  Then I went too far.  I should have quit while I was winning.

“Why are you moving to New Zealand?” I asked as I repacked my briefcase ready to leave.

“I am joining my brother’s business,” said Smelly. “He’s been there for nearly five years now and doing very well.”

“What line of work is he in?” I said, ignoring the deafening clang of alarm bells that were going off in my head and all my instincts that told me to get out before I put my foot firmly in the brown stuff.  But, it was too late.  The point of no return had been reached.

“Pig farming!” explained Smelly with a kind grin. “My family has been in pigs for years.”

It was about now that I lost control of my bodily functions.  A weekend of tension followed by two hours of miraculous self control was too much for me.  I exploded. I coughed.  I wheezed.   My eyes bulged in my effort to retain some sort of cool, but I failed.  The Smellys and their children laughed with me.  They had enjoyed the game as much as I had revelled in my misplaced pride.  When I asked about the business, the Smellys must have internally leaped for joy at yet another victim reeled into their lifetime’s joke.  I didn’t disappoint.

What a hoot!  Nice people.  Great job.  Never forgotten.

E-mail your stories to: editor@themover.co.uk.