Confessions of a milkman!
He’s been shot at and had his tyres slashed, but nothing stops Tony Fowler delivering pintas every day of the year — and with the backlash against plastic, he’s more popular than ever
OVER the past three decades, Tony Fowler has foiled so many burglaries, petty thefts, carjackings and fly-tippers on his local ‘ beat’ near Melton Mowbray, Leicestershire, that he’s lost count.
Some incidents, though, stand out. Such as the time local police were in pursuit of a gang of drug-dealers and he blocked off their getaway car.
Or when he apprehended joyriders who overtook him at speed — only to find an 11year-old driver perched on three cushions at the wheel with his younger siblings egging him on from the back.
‘I’m like Dixon of Dock Green,’ he says. ‘Boots on the ground; the “sixth emergency service”. I’m out in the dead of night, so I see it all and I’m not the sort of person who just walks away when something’s wrong.’
He’s also been shot at (with an air rifle), threatened, and had the tyres slashed on his milk float. Hang on a minute. Milk float? Yes. Tony, 60, isn’t a policeman. He’s a milkman.
He’s been delivering milk, eggs, loo rolls, compost, cockerels, Christmas turkeys, Weetabix, yoghurts, you name it, for the past 30 years. He battles rain, sleet, snow, antisocial hours and — far worse — competition from supermarkets.
In the late Sixties and Seventies, there were up to 45,000 milkmen delivering to more than 18 million British homes — 99 per cent of households.
Today, there are fewer than 9,000, driven out by spiralling costs and low-priced supermarket milk — four pints for a pound, anyone?
They seemed destined for the same fate as street lamplighters and telephone switchboard operators.
But after decades of decline, it’s just possible they might be making a return. Thanks to the backlash against plastic bottles and containers — as highlighted by the Mail’s campaign Turn The Tide On Plastic — the demand for milk in reusable glass bottles (which generally are re-used around 20 times before breaking) is rocketing and, with it, the need for milkmen to deliver them.
Nationwide, they are reporting a rise in demand for their services.
‘It’s a good thing there’s still some of us left,’ says Tony. ‘Let’s hope this is just the beginning. Because lose your milkman, and you lose more than just your milk.’
He certainly knows what he’s talking about.
TONY, whose round covers more than 100 miles, 27 villages and 852 homes, has numerous awards — for services far beyond the call of his milkman duties — and is a tireless fundraiser (over £300,000 for various causes). He has an MBE for services to the community (which he collected from the Queen dressed up as a Friesian cow).
‘I like to help people,’ he tells me. ‘I’ve had a very happy, lucky life, so I enjoy giving a little bit back,’ as I discovered when I joined him on his milk float for a mid-morning shift.
‘You can’t just dump the milk and run, can you?’ he says as we warm ourselves in front of 83-year- old Mrs Woodfood’s fire in the village of Hoby. ‘Not with elderly people who want to tell you what their grandson’s done this week.’
And while he waits for our hostess’s kettle to boil, he’s busy — popping the bins out maybe, changing a light bulb, unsticking a warped window.
Perhaps he’ll give the lawn a quick once over and clip the hedge, sort out the drains, nip to the dump with any rubbish and arrange for the council to pick up an old mattress. And if there’s time, return a bottle of corked wine to the shop and even change a dressing on a gammy leg.
‘Oh, he’s much, much more than a milkman,’ says Mrs Woodfood.
He knows everyone, helping customers who can’t afford their heating bills by showing them how to claim their full benefit entitlement, and reminding others about doctor’s appointments or when to take their pills. Sometimes the cup of tea has to wait. Like the time he arrived at one elderly lady’s house to find her kitchen was on fire.
Or when he discovered Mr Cowman who suffers from Parkinson’s disease and lives alone — collapsed on the kitchen floor.
Last year, he found Mr Haydon unconscious in his sitting room, called 999, and then housed his cat, sorted out all his unpaid bills, helped increase his benefits and fixed his loo during his lengthy stay in hospital.
‘Six months ago, I wanted to die,’ Mr Haydon, 70, tells me. ‘Now I’m thinking of going on holiday — all thanks to him.’
Tony’s cheeriness is all the more extraordinary when you consider his hours: three nights a week he leaves home at 11pm and works until noon the next day. The rest of the week, he heads off at about 2am and returns mid-afternoon.
Does he ever get to spend time with his wife Anne and their 12year- old daughter, Anna, in their lovely home in the village of Grimstone? How much shut-eye does he manage to fit in?
‘I usually like to get at least two hours sleep, but I don’t really need much,’ he says. ‘Sometimes, if it all catches up, I’ll have a five-minute power-nap in my milk float in the middle of the night and then press on.’
It’s at night, of course, that he does most of his crime-busting. ‘When I started 30 years ago, doors would be open, cars unlocked and I’d see the police patrol car with two policemen in it at least four times every shift,’ he says. ‘But there’ve been so many cuts I can go three weeks and not see them at all.’
Luckily for locals, Tony’s on patrol. His hit-rate is startling. Just this morning, he dialled 999 at 1.14am after seeing something suspicious.
HE’S also seen more than his fair share of illicit activity in steamed-up cars and isn’t afraid to get involved if he thinks something’s amiss.
‘I’ve seen husbands in laybys with other women and I’ll tap on the window and say: “Oi! I thought you were married!”’
As for himself, he’s not tempted — despite the bored housewives who’ve dropped heavy hints over the years.
‘They say things like: “Ooh, I could do with a real man about the place. My husband’s useless...” ’
Anne, 57, neither worries about predatory housewives or his vigilantism, saying: ‘It’s a miracle he’s not been punched more.’
But Tony was always tough. He grew up with his mum, a hairdresser and single parent, on Nottingham’s notorious Meadows estate.
He was cheeky and constantly in trouble but found his salvation in horses, hanging out at the stables of a local race horse trainer and discovering a gift for bringing out the best in tricky animals.
As a jockey, he had two Cheltenham Festival wins before a smashed arm, a shattered leg ‘and too many falls on the head’ ended his racing career.
He and horse-mad Anne met at Ayr races. Tony was an assistant racing trainer and they dreamt of running their own yard.
He only took on the milk round as a sideline to pay for their own race horses, but it rather took over. Anne does all the admin and the orders. ‘To go from horses to this!?’ she laughs. ‘If I’d known!’
For Tony, though, it’s a dream job — fresh air, meeting people, chatting and doing his bit to stem loneliness and isolation.
‘More and more old people are lonely and in need,’ he says.
‘Their families live hundreds of miles away. Some don’t even visit for Christmas!’ So Tony does. He works 365 days a year — yes, including Christmas Day — and has never had a day off.
‘Holiday!?’ squawks Anne, when I ask. ‘We’ve never had a family holiday!’ It’s an incredibly tough life for the whole family.
Last year his suppliers’ prices went up by six-and-a-half pence a litre while some supermarkets sell two litres for 99 pence.
‘I can’t compete. So I have to provide a premium service,’ he says. ‘If they want Weetabix, I’ll get it. Some want almond milk, others want soya — though they don’t stick with it for long. But I’ll get it.’
His least favourite conditions are ice and snow — he refuses to wear either a coat or gloves — but keeps the cabin of his milk float heated to tropical temperatures and does his round at a run. ‘It once took me 28 hours to do my round, but I’d never abandon it,’ he says.
No wonder he’s so loved and has won so many awards. Though it’s tough for Anne, who copes with a mixture of bursting pride and burning exasperation. Particularly when he got his MBE in 2010.
‘Did I really want to go down and meet the Queen with him dressed as a cow?’ sighs Anne. ‘No, I was not thrilled.’ He’s an extraordinary man and his customers are lucky to have him, but...
‘Oh yes, I’m completely obsessed!’ he says. ‘But it’s a wonderful life.’
TOM UTLEY IS AWAY