Not sure how many of my old jobs have migrated to the category of lost trades. A few. A few more presently transitioning and some that AI will probably hasten the departure of in the not-too-distant future.

Loads of gigs in the AI gun, of course. Everything from advertising buyers through lawyers, forklift operators and various analysts to x-ray technicians and proofraiders … hmm.

Personally, I’ve seen jobs go sideways in journalism, music, art, factory sloggers, tree-trimming, poultry farming, gardening and more. The first was my first full-time job, fresh out of school, while I was still wondering what kind of uni course I wanted to bomb out of.

Job was pumping petrol. I checked oil, tyres, wiper fluid, washed windscreens, poured distilled water into batteries – all disappeared like penny farthings, milk deliveries and dunnymen.

I’d check underground petrol tank gauges synched with truck-driver records. I developed a preternatural skill for finding hidden petrol caps under rego plates, bonnets, bumpers, badges, tail-lights.

These were the days of Caltex, Shell, Golden Fleece, Mobil, Amoco, BP, Ampol, Esso, Neptune. Standard, diesel and super selling at 53 cents. A gallon.

Oils weren’t just oils with STP, GTX, Valvoline, Shell Super, Castrol and Mobil in the lubritorium.

Supermodel Sabrina took grease lessons in Caltex adverts. Golden Fleece’s Stanley the servo attendant had a fan club.

That wasn’t us, of course, in our torn jeans, t-shirts, old school jumpers and runners, but we did have a few fans.

We’d click the hose nozzle and leave cars to fill, in the meantime waging running water-fights, drenching one another with a high-pressure hose.

You surrendered the hose when you went inside to get change for customers and invariably returned to a fireman’s blast from your colleague. Drivers, often lined up on the road, honked their approval, especially as you wrought revenge when your colleague re-emerged from inside.

Passing louts on treadlies played spectator, secretly spying on the shy but smoking hot admin girl inside. Some entertainment-starved girls stopped to watch our shenanigans, too.

Busy place, in truth, with a fuel, new and used cars, and mechanics.

Recall a local chook farmer laughing at Santa Claus paintings across the showroom window advertising Christmas sales.

“What’s all this #$@!%ing bullshit?” he bellowed. “Santa’s gonna bring me a car?”

A spare parts department hosted blokes with brains full of gaskets, widgets, belts, springs and hoses. The mechanics included blokes who also worked racetrack pit-stops and apprentices who rolled their cars same morning they got their licence.

It was an experience. Was it character-building? Dunno. The boss did nick $50 from the float one time and blamed us.

All this for a princely $45 a week, including Saturday mornings. Lousy pay but it’d be nice if AI could replicate that gig.

This article appeared in the Geelong Advertiser 19 August 2025