Jolly’s Rule Number One about Health & Safety:

Don’t put your finger where you wouldn’t put your D!%k.

I’ve used that metaphor for years.

I’ve used it in interviews with apprentices and mechanics. I’ve used it while training people on the shop floor. I probably say it multiple times a month at work.

Most of my former employees know it. Some can probably quote it word for word. But not one of them knows why. So, let’s go on a little journey back to November 1990.

Italia 90 had finished. Nelson Mandela had been released. Germany had been reunified. Iraq had invaded Kuwait.

And somewhere in the south of England, a tall, slightly chunky kid with what was probably some impressive teenage acne was preparing for his driving test.

Learning to Drive… Sort Of

Back in the 1990s in the UK, getting your driving licence was relatively straightforward.

You got a provisional licence, had some lessons, booked your test and tried not to completely screw it up.

Thankfully, my school had a teacher called Mr. Limburn.

If you were in your final year or so and happened to have detention on a Wednesday afternoon, Mr. Limburn would teach you how to drive his beat-up old car that he parked at school.

Needless to say, this created an interesting incentive to misbehave on a Friday.

A little strategically acquired detention could suddenly become very useful.

Fast-forward a while and I needed three actual driving lessons on the road before my instructor would let me sit the test.

My test was booked for November 14, 1990.

I was ready. I had booked the day off work. Everything was going according to plan. Then came Tuesday.

The Ford Cargo

At the time, I was a brand-new apprentice truck mechanic. Which meant Vinnie had me doing what every new apprentice did:

The bitch work.

Cleaning.

Fetching things.

Doing whatever nobody else wanted to do.

Vinnie did the proper mechanic work.

That afternoon, however, he decided to lower his standards and let the grunt help him put a steering box back into a Ford Cargo. Vinnie was up top, lining everything up. I was down in the pit, taking as much of the weight as I could while he lowered the steering box into position.

Everything was going reasonably well.

Until it wasn’t.

The steering box got jammed in the chassis. Vinnie started doing what Vinnie did best — screaming instructions at me from above. I reached up, twisted it and…

BANG.

It was free.

Well… Almost.

I could feel something warm running down my arm, which was still stretched above my head. And then came the pain. I still remember that pain. After a few more obscenities had been passed my way — because apparently this was somehow my fault — my hand was finally free.

Red.

Crushed.

And very, very sore.

Vinnie didn’t mind taking me to the emergency room and eventually stopped swearing, although he did leave me at the hospital and go home early.

A few hours later I was released back into the wild with a splint, some gauze and a bandage. I then had the pleasure of walking the approximately 1½ miles home.

The Big Day

Wednesday morning arrived. My fingers were throbbing. The rest of my hand was still filthy because I was too scared to get the new bandage wet, so I cleaned myself up as best I could.

But this was the big day.

My driving test.

My instructor arrived, took one look at my hand and said something along the lines of: “WTF have you done? And can you drive?”

Normally, my instructor would let the student drive to the test centre. It was apparently a good way to get all the mistakes out of the way before the actual test. But after looking at my hand, he decided that, due to “safety concerns”, he would drive.

Reluctantly.

We arrived at the test centre. I filled in the paperwork. I struggled to sign my name. Then I sat in the waiting room. A few minutes later, a gentleman appeared and called my name.

He looked at my hand.

Then at me.

Then back at my hand.

“You alright?”

In typical Jolly fashion, I replied:

“Well, I’m not going to get any better standing here.”

Off we went to the car.

I struggled to move the seat back into position.

Then struggled with the seatbelt.

He looked at the pain on my face.

“You sure?”

Well, I’m here now, I thought. Why not?

This Is Going Well

We pulled out of the car park. Turned left. Then left again.

No problems.

I was starting to think maybe I could actually pull this off. We continued down the road and eventually pulled over. The examiner explained the next part of the test.

“Drive ahead and when you get to the bend, I want you to pull up to the curb. Then we’ll park and do our hill start.”

Simple enough. Off I went. Around the bend. Slowing down. Turning towards the curb.

And then…

BANG.

My two heavily strapped fingers hit the windscreen as I turned the steering wheel.

I can’t remember the exact words that came out of my mouth.

Let’s just say I probably experienced a brief episode of Tourette’s.

BANG.

I hit the curb.

And mounted it.

I could feel that warm sensation running down my arm again. My fingers were throbbing. I had probably damaged the car. And I was now fighting back the tears.

The examiner looked over. Wrote something on his clipboard. Then said:

“Ready?”

A thousand things went through my head. I’d messed up.

No.

I’d right royally F**KED up.

Everything I’d been working towards was gone. And why?

Because of a bloody Ford Cargo.

I wanted to cry. I wanted my mummy. For a brief moment, I had turned back into that seven-year-old boy who had fallen off his bike and nearly lost the end of his toe.

I was done. I wanted out. Then suddenly, a voice appeared in my head.

“Oi pansy. Suck it up, princess.”

And strangely enough, that voice sounded a lot like Vinnie.

So I mentally stood back up, brushed myself off, wiped away the tears and carried on.

I did the hill start.

We continued the test.

I did my best to act as though nothing had happened while simultaneously making absolutely sure my fingers went nowhere near the windscreen again.

Eventually, we pulled over and parked. He wrote some more things on his clipboard. The feeling in my stomach got worse.

Then he turned to me.

“Well, after that attempt at parking on a bend, you should fail.”

Brilliant.

Then came the rest.

“However, the rest of the test was immaculate, and given the obvious issues, I’ll pass you. But let the instructor drive you home.”

I had passed.

Somehow.

And That’s Where the Rule Came From

Fast-forward more than 30 years.

I’ve spent most of my working life around trucks, mechanics, equipment and people doing things that occasionally make you wonder how they survived the morning.

I’ve watched people reach into places they shouldn’t.

I’ve watched people take shortcuts.

I’ve watched mechanics put their hands somewhere because they were absolutely convinced that “it’s fine.”

And every time I see someone get a little bobo or need a Band-Aid, I hear Vinnie’s voice.

“Oi pansy. Suck it up, princess.”

Then I say my own version.

Don’t put your finger where you wouldn’t put your D!%k.

It’s crude.

It’s memorable.

And most importantly…

It works.

Because if you wouldn’t put something considerably more important in there, there’s probably a pretty good reason you shouldn’t put your finger there either.

And that’s the story behind Jolly’s Rule Number One.

WHY? WTF? REALLY?