SPECIAL REPORT

Factory Worker Swindles
Nelson Peanut Butter Buyers

To his workmates and employer, Ahmed Crundlestein was a man of few words, a conscientious worker whose life revolved around his job at Pic's Really Good Peanut Butter factory and a tattered collection of early issues of the Invercargill Tribune. A man of simple needs, his main meal of the day was a peanut and diced beetroot soup that he prepared on Monday mornings in the company tea room, and drank cold during the week.

Crundlestein preparing peanut soup in the staff canteen

"He was certainly furtive" Dawkins reports. "Never looked you straight in the eye - and God help anyone who touched his bags of old lids and label scraps. I collected those labels myself for a time. A lot of them used to have quite good poems on the back. But those old lids .... " Dawkins shakes his head in a mixture of disgust and disbelief. "Who would have thought it eh?"

Dawkins' incredulity is typical of the thousands of New Zealanders who have followed Crundlestein's dubious career from the backs of their peanut butter labels l to the front page of the Invercargill Tribune and a dramatised television documentary funded by NZ on Air.

One of the worst affected victims of Crundlestein's illegitimate activities, Nelson peanut butter magnate Pic Picot, takes up the story:

"In 2008 we hired a Clinton printing company, Clinton Print And Rubber Goods Distributors, to produce our new labels. The guy who owned it had a brother, Bill Smith , who wasnt quite the full quid,  but who wrote passable poetry. Anyway we ended up buying some of Bills poems for the backs of our labels. It kept him in tea bags and paid for his Listener subscription, and the odd customer quite liked them.

The labels come in huge self adhesive rolls with a peel-off backing. They go straight into tha labelling machine, so nobody here gets to see the backs of them. Bad mistake."

Picot sighs and pushes a yellow plastic clearfile across the desk. Inside the first puoch is a wholesome, brown paper Pic's Peanut Butter label, but on the back of it, in 10 point arial, is a chilling message:

 

    Please help me please. I am Ahmec Crundlestein, captive in secret peanut buttering factory which has no windows. I can hear cars, so near road. At night I hear dog barkings and cat fightings and Hoo Hoo of owls. I eat only peanut butter and peanuts, sleep on plastic bags. All day scrape, scrape, washing clean recycle jars for Mister Pic who beats me with spurdling stick and swears bad words in my ears. But I will, God Blessing and with your kind help, collect money for ESCAPE! If you wish to help, very well, heres how: Take the lid of the empty jar from what you removed the label in your hands and with chewing gum, fix a gold coin to its inside. Return the lid to the jar and the jar to Pic at the market for reusing (he is fat and lazy, and will not look inside). Your jar will come to me to wash and inside I will find your merciful gift! Imagine my delight! Imagine my gratitude (especially if you have also carefully cleaned your jar)! Many entrestments such as this have I sent to no avail alas! But I pray that you, kind sir or madam, will hear my sincere calling and God Bless You.
 

"What really hurts" says Pic "Aside from being called fat and lazy on the back of my own labels - I'm well under 90 kilos - is the suggestion that I was keeping him here against his will. I've had the Department of Labour and the police crawling all through the place and now some whacko anti-slavery groups picketing our stockists. All I ever did was to try to help the guy. I admit we locked him in at night, but we keep a lot of valuable gear here, and he had nowhere to go anyway. And we were going to pay him at the end of his contract, but now ..... "

Picot shakes his head in disbelief, pulls a couple of letters from a battered manila folder.  

"Take a look at these. The first one arrived hidden in an empty jar with a gold coin attached. Some dope-addled hippy from out the Moutere way is offering the guy a place to stay! And he's suggesting that if the money is missing I would probably have taken it."

The money, a $1 coin,  was still attached to the letter he proffered (see below)..

He produced another letter. It was written in German, but was clearly addressed to Mr Picot.

"I had no idea what this one was about" he sighed, "but I knew Crundlestein had some German blood somewhere, so I spent $45 plus GST on getting the thing translated. Its from his sister apparently, wanting me to put her in touch with him. Unbelievable! As if I'm suddenly some kind of welfare agency. If I ever get my hands on that scoundrel I wont be sending him off for a nice cup of tea with his sister and that's for sure."

TO BE CONTINUED

SIDELINED - Bill Smith, Poet

1. Who is Bill Smith?
2. Why should I care?
3. How do I get the label off?
4. How often do the poems change?
5. Where can I read more of Bill's poetry?
6. Can I get a book of Bill's poetry?
    

Who is Bill Smith?
Bill Smith is a peanut butter aficionado and an  almost-famous poet. Tear him off a chunk of crispy French bread, slap a dollop of Pic's Really Good Peanut Butter into it and words just tumble out of him.

Why should I care?
You should care, firstly because your are a caring sort of person and secondly because under (almost) every label of Pic's Really Good Peanut Butter, is one of Bills poems.

How often do the poems change?
Quite often, yes. Although it can be tricky aligning the labels properly in our $70  printer with the $90 ink cartridges, so sometimes there's nothing there at all.

How do I get the label off?
Our labels are carefully hand fixed using 2 pieces of very sticky double sided tape (except for the baby 200gram jars, which, oddly enough, have 3). The labels are wide - the width of an A4 sheet of paper to be precise - and are stuck at their ends only.

	1 About 20mm from the end of the label, the tip of a sharp knife slides between the paper and the glass ...		2 The blade plunges deep behind the label ....
	3 The flimsy paper rips apart under the relentless pressure of the knife ....		4 Bill's words are laid bare for your private pleasure.

Can I get a book of Bill's poetry?
Like so many of our most gifted artists, Bill is a modest man, and has yet to be convinced that his poetry is worthy of being seen in a book. We originally planned to print his poems on the outside of the label, but the thought being read by thousands in the aisles of busy supermarkets alarmed him, and we compromised.

What Bill needs, dear reader, is encouragement. Drop him a line through the link below. Tell him how his words brightened your day, sent a tiny tear rolling down your cheek or simply made coming to the end of your peanut butter just a little more bearable.

So, drop him a line here, tell him how clever he is and you never know, he might send you a new work.

Where can I read more of Bill's Poetry?

Right here! Here are a few from the back of some earlier jars:

DRUNK

(Dawn)

This will pass soon enoughjust a little more time…
theres a market next week;
my appointments will keep
and I really
really
really
need sleep

 (Noon)

That bastard Bacchus stole my morning
left this shitty afternoon
a rainy coffee.

Bloody awful (thanks for asking)

Mothers Cats Fleas

One day when mother found a flea
she knew, just knew it had to come
from all the filthy flats where I
stayed with my dirty friends

I heard her with a stoic grunt
until I came across her cat
asleep in its favourite chair 

I shook that chair in sad despair|
shook it, tipped it upside down
within its nasty cotton folds
I came across some tiny eggs
and showed them to my mother

Look! There! I shouted - Look at this!
Your cat's nests filled with vermin

Don’t talk nonsense they’re not fleas
They’re spiders, moths or maybe bees 

I fetched a needle, opened wide|
an egg and found, asleep inside
a flea a flea as sure as day
and showed it to my mother

Mother looked and in disgust
said that she had never trusted
me around the cat and could I
please not touch it any more

And stroked her stupid pussy