Coaching for Christmas
Mid-November is here and so Christmas is in full swing. There is no denying it now, and many of us have already sipped from the prohibited-till-advent Yuletide cup and enjoyed a contraband mince pie in greedy privacy.
Mid-November is a good time to start thinking about Christmas because it is not so early that you are branded common by my mother who looks with disdain at folk who have their tree up before December, or that those you keep company with consider you to have too much time on your hands. Leaving it too late risks being branded an ignorant optimist bound only for anxiety and disappointment, however this is more a symptom of the happy-go-lucky male rather than a market-savvy female such as myself.
No, mid-November gives you time enough to put the big day on the backburner and consider it with patience and measurement in that aching crescendo up to Christmas Eve when many females bestowed with responsibility for the happiness of others retreat into their bedrooms, turn off the lights, sit on a roll of wrapping paper crushing its smooth perfection under an arse that has been eating mince pies for five weeks, and have a little cry.
My family Christmas is hugely enjoyable. I think because our family homes have always been in varying states of midden and demolition, we are well versed in the calamity that Christmas brings about. Or else, having a flute of bucks fizz thrust into your hand at 8am in front of the fire and never seeing it empty until it is replaced with some other tipple does much to curb the hysteria.
The run-up begins now for my mother and she shares all this with me in a weird tradition-by-osmosis way. She begins by ordering the turkey and sprouts from the farm (I never see the point as there is a perfectly good selection of frozen bronzes and small cabbages at Waitrose), sighing at the corner the tree will be standing in less than three weeks which is currently decorated with video game paraphenalia and old newspapers, and despairing at the seasonal price hike on Premier Inn rooms as we prepare for the Boxing Day trek up to Scotland for the ‘Christmas Do’.
My father’s side of the family is very civilised and entertains a yearly gathering either at my grandfather’s Glasgow townhouse, my aunty’s Edinburgh family home or my half-sister’s suburban home in Broxburn. The group grows every year and what began as a quiet Boxing Day with the children playing quietly upstairs while the adults sat drinking red wine with Felix the fat Siamese yowling and coursing about their legs like a cross-eyed shark, has now become an affair requiring military-style organisation for a dozen fully-grown and very thirsty twenty-and-thirty-somethings who have no interest in retreating upstairs except to use the toilet, and all the ‘adults’ divide into those who seek shelter in the kitchen (designated drivers, usually) or decide to crack open the single malt and make a night of it.
Because of the exponential rise in what is consumed, last year my Aunty banned presents for those over 20 because providing enough wine, beer and kettle chips was a present enough. Decades have passed, babies have been born, children have grown up and my cousins who have an unmatchable tolerance for vatfulls of lager are ordered to bring their own alcohol, otherwise we would all be left with a single bottle of Cab Sauv between us.
The day can go one of two ways. Either it can be hilarious, everybody has a good time and those who are likely to cause a scene stay away from eachother; or it can be hilarious and people end up crying.
This too requires coaching, for my mother who is invariably the designated driver has to pick up the pieces. Be it telling me off at 18 for wanting to sneak out to Edinburgh town centre with my cousins resulting in a scene in my aunty’s hallway, helping out as one of the many alpha-females my family produces when it comes to doing the washing up, making sure men don’t drink whisky from the bottle etc, and of course sharing the burden of responsibility for the smaller people, or babies to you and I.
Already, this tradition has been inched ever closer to me as I am in fact a member of the family and not a girlfriend who has been brought in for the baptism of fire, and I am to my horror, no longer one of the small people who used to sit at the top of the stairs playing blackjack all day with a packet of crisps and a cup of cola. Men do not have this initiation. Mine began last year when my half sister gave me my niece which I thought would be a temporary hold-the-baby-moment but really I had the little cupcake of a thing fart on me for about four hours.
What next? Being charged with ensuring my father doesn’t drink too much? Actually being responsible for writing Christmas cards from myself and not from my mum and dad and mine and my brothers names scribbled underneath theirs?
Frightening notions.
All this requires training, coaching. That starts now. Mid-November. What better way to kick off the season with the weekend-long preparation of the Christmas cake? I shall write later and tell you all about it.
Filed under: Christmas, family | Leave a Comment
Breaking the ice
Contrary to my previous blog, work is looking up. The ice is breaking, however there are some ponds that simply won’t thaw. Take an instance this week. I sat down with one of the people who runs their days on matters consisting singularly on what customers can complain about. The task in hand was to remove anything which could not be be applicable to the entire year, so statements made about the weather and certain activities had to be scrupulously detected and removed.
After fifteen or so minutes of literally nit-picking and rendering the text (written by a copywriter and not myself otherwise my pride would have been sorely bruised) devoid of any animation whatsoever, I beseeched with a simper that the job was done, wasn’t that funny pandering to that silly pedantry, aren’t our jobs so crazy they could be made into a sit-com?
I think we’ve got all of that. Haha.
Yes. There’s definitely no remaining text which could advertise activities or features unavailable in some months.
A very weak joke springs to mind.
Oh wait – haha, can we write that the mountain drives are available all year or do they pack up the mountains every September and stash them in the attic until March?
Silence.
No.
A swift clearing of my throat was followed with a mumbled ‘thanks for going through this with me’ and I excused myself to bash my head against the bathroom mirror for thirty seconds.
The rest of my ice-breaking has taken a turn for the better. But maybe that is down to the induction day I had to endure on Wednesday?
You know on films and in American TV shows they parody corporate videos produced with the intention to instill camaraderie in their employees. The sort of thing that begins, “Hi, I’m Troy McLure…” Yup, it was one of those.
Myself and three other corporate worker-bees watched the one-woman show that was our employee training course. The woman in question had company passion oozing from every morsel of skin on her body, it made her extremely likeable, even to a die-hard cynic, if not a little frightening. Her sparkling teeth and glittering eyes, even her patterned blouse all played a part in the brain-washing routine that then culminated in three videos all more-or-less dictated by the lyrics of various balads by M-People.
Rather curiously, as the hours dripped by into the afternoon, the cynicism seemed to evaporate and we were given one of the most baffling yet enjoyable tasks I have ever encountered. The subject matter was that of branding. How important is a brand in making a decision? She kicked off this ‘discussion’ with the unfortunate question which went something like this;
So, we all love a biscuit. That’s right, we ALL LOVE a biscuit. I’m a fan of HobNobs myself. A McVities HobNob is my idea of heaven. Because you know McVities get the oats and crunchiness just right, the chocolate tastes right. So when you go into the supermarket and you see the McVities HobNobs next to the own-brand oat-crunch offering. Which do you choose?
This cunning plug for branding unfortunately worked on all the others in the room, however I am immune owing to my parentage. Having come from Scottish stock I am unecessarily tight and unfortunately, saving 5p comes before brand loyalty every time. So, which do I choose? I choose the own-brand. I didn’t say anything however, because our company cheerleader looked as if she may break down mentally if I scuppered her routine. I have too much heart for that.
This carried on the same vein for a little while and then we were directed towards twin piles of three foodstuffs. Ready salted crisps, fondant fancies and ginger nuts. Each twin was sat on respective halves of a sheet of A4 printer paper with A and B written on each half in black board marker. The task was to taste each foodstuff and then identify which was the brand-favorite blind. Of course the point was that we couldn’t possibly identify which was which without having a comforting label to assure us we were not being fooled by some bastard idol.
Unfortunately, cheerleader had underestimated me and my knowlege of the kingdom of crisps, biscuits and cakes. Being a Leicester girl, I have brand loyalty to Walkers, and Walkers crisps taste better than other brands, for starters there is less evidence of the brownish skin rind on their brand and the crisps are that bit paler and box-fresh tasting.
Similarly with the biscuits. Journalism school taught me a great deal about ginger nuts because in most shops the ginger nut is the cheapest tasty biscuit on offer. So I know my McVities from my Spar own-brand or any other. McVities have less cracks and are more tan in colour. Some shop brands are positively orange.
Identifying Mr Kipling was a separate task as fondant fancies rarely feature in my snack repertoire. That I admit was a complete guess which I got wrong because stupidly I went for the one which tasted better.
Anyway. The induction rolled on and finally came to an end and we all went back to work with a new lease of company zeal to infuse into all our workaday tasks.
As ashamed I am to say it, the day did some good in that it gave me some sort of common ground with my colleagues who were genuinely interested in my day and scoffed while they competed at who was the biggest reprobate at their own induction day. An ice wall was broken and work seemed a bit more normal.
The work itself is improving. Less data entry and more creativity. By no means on the level that I entreat from my ultimate ambitions but enough to see that I am in fact earning my salary and not just copying and pasting like a zombie.
No longer the new girl, two new new girls are due pretty shortly which cheers me up because it means I won’t be the most useless person on the editorial team (until they surpass me after the first week as I have heard my boss refer to them as ‘too over-qualified’).
We are being moved very soon into our new teams. Rather than managing individual areas and dealing with them for huge numbers of publications and brands, we are going to master one brand and all the individual areas. I.E. I currently manage Cyrpus, Tunisia and a handful of others, and I have to adapt each text for the dozens of brands the organisation publishes. Instead, I will be charged with one brand but all the countries. To me this makes much more sense however some of my more long in the tooth colleagues are still bemused.
I remain at arms length from everything I am doing. The guard is aching to come down but I am not comfortable enough yet. The chance to correct, fiddle-with and consult grammatically incorrect text is a real pleasure, if extremely dorky. I long to be challenged, however, and I hope next time I write about work I will be asking for less challenges rather than pining for more.
Filed under: Aspirations, Business, Work, Writing, editorial, employment | Leave a Comment
Tags: awkward, bad jokes, biscuits, Brands, corporate videos, crisps, editorial, employment, enthusiasm, grammar, jokes, M People, New, team building, travel, Writing
Being the new girl
I suppose it would be quite an anticlimax if I didn’t mention how my first week of work went. After all, I did spend months whinging about being unemployed and so surely writing about being employed in the media is much more interesting?
This last week has been one of the longest in my life apart from periods of major examinations at school and university of course.
For those of you who do not know, I have been given a standard lower-end of the pay scale media job as a member of the editorial team for a well-known travel organisation. The building I work in is a large, blue sardine tin nestled around a vast, grey car park fringed with dozens more large blue sardine tins. Unlike Bloomberg’s opulent offices in the Capital or the shiny, modern Guardian Media Group building in Manchester – I am plunged back to reality. This is what the first rung has to be unless your daddy chums it up with the players on Fleet Street. Glamour has very little to do with a job’s appeal to me, after all, I picked Journalism as my choice career and not… well to be honest there are very few jobs out there that are glamourous 100% of the time that spring to mind. Victoria Beckham, whatever she does, that seems to be quite glamorous.
Anyway, meeting, greeting and forgetting names followed by pictures taken for my security pass, a tour of the canteen and the girl’s loos, here’s your desk, ok.
Only a week in and I have been given actual countries to look after and style guides for the differing publications to revise. Style guides like I have never encountered before. Style guides to my mind denote tone of voice, use of certain vocabulary and stock phrases and writing with a particular demographic in mind with the notion of creativity piping into the work you do at the same time. The style guides I have been studying are disected to the point of obsession. The omission of sentences in favour of bullet points, removing full stops at the ends of sentences, not mentioning about hairdressers.
On Friday I found myself wondering if I would ever actually get to do any writing. Considering on journalism work experience you are given reams of picture stories to write up and chase for interviews, I have to admit missing the creativity and speaking to human beings and using my short hand except when taking notes from one of my very sweet senior colleagues.
How much can you tell from a week? I am busy enough to know I am earning my salary but I am not sure how comfortable I am yet. In all honesty, I feel quite different from my colleagues, but maybe that is just down to being the new girl.
And so when I go into work tomorrow I will be combing through ready-prepared text on the system and changing it to fit in with the style guide. No actual writing. More copying, pasting and making sentences into bullet points where applicable.
All of the above misgivings can be put down to being new but at this stage, not only do I miss my journalism classmates from Salford like crazy, but I miss Journalism.
I can relate all of this to being seven years old and starting at my new school in Leicester after moving down from Glasgow. Literally no friends, in the eyes of other seven year olds I might as well have been beamed down from Mars, and I was nervous, looking around for Dairsie House and the teachers that knew me and talked like me. Same feeling but one I haven’t had since moving down to England. Not even moving to Secondary school or Uni replicated this. Secondary school, you go there with loads of other kids from your old school and Uni everybody’s new and drinking heavily to get over the first week. This was cold turkey-style newness and having gone through it before, I know it doesn’t last very long.
But still, I have a nagging doubt.
Maybe I’m not cut out for editorial work, maybe I’m meant to be a reporter. I’m worried that I’m not going to be pushed hard enough.
Still, early days, early days. And at least I get to wear nice shoes (reporters don’t wear heels because there’s to much leg-work) and I’m getting paid more than a trainee reporter. The deadlines are the same with this job which is exciting, speaking to people based all around the world is fun too. The stuff I proofread is incredible and nothing if not inspiring! Touring Borneo, majestic 5* resorts in Dubai, boutique hotels in Paris, sprawling villas on tiny Greek Islands, what adventurous youngster could resist?
Stay tuned, and hopefully my next blog will be full of the exciting people I have spoken to and the amazing places I have written about.
Filed under: Aspirations, Writing, employment | 1 Comment
Tags: Doubt, editorial, Journalism, nerves, new job, reporter, style guides, Work
The reformation of the Government which was promised to us in 1996 has, if nothing else, reversed and regressed back to the bad old days of pomp and hierarchy. The whole ‘us’ and ‘them’ attitude of The Commons stinks. There is no better word to encompass my feeling towards the last weeks of reluctant coughing up of ill-gotten expense claims and wild, almost archaeic and dated notions of what The House of Commons is supposed to be. The clue is in the name.
I was watching Question Time’s Llanndudno edition last night and praying the demon pumping citric acid up Jacqui Smith’s rectum would stop because her face alone was a sour enough response to the fire she was under from an insightful man in the audience who had clearly done his homework and taken the MP quite by surprise. The audience member lobbed huge numbers at her and, for a period which must have felt like a long drawn-out colonic to residents of Spin Land, the camera switched from the audience to Smith to the audience to Smith exaggerating her incredulous expression all the more.
The question was more or less, why didn’t she have to pay back the sum equivalent to a journalist’s salary, on the expenses she claimed on her sister’s house? Smith’s answer was that the committe overseeing all duck-pond type expenses had let her off (lots of reasons, none of which the public are likely to remember or care about). So why, the gentelman says, is she listening to what a committe thinks and not what the voters think en mass? Jacqui Smith deflected this with another milk-curdling expression that she was doing what she was told by the committee, they had decided what would happen. A huge reel of stoney-faced ‘unreserved apologies’ cascaded out when the audience piped up, predictably, about adult videos, and the matter was swiftly muffled by that which serves a such a magnificent distraction – sleeze.
That did not make reassuring viewing. It is no good only making changes to a corrupt system when people take notice, and not the other 99.9% of the time. Just as it is no good apologising and writing a healthy summed cheque just because a committee tells you to, or indeed the opposite and puting the cheque book back in your handbag when a committee lets you off, much like offering to buy a drink for a friend in the pub and they tell you they’ll get this round. Purse goes back in the bag, you get the G&T you would have bought anyway and had the money for but your mate puts it on his tab. Bob’s your uncle. All of the Government’s money is just one huge bar tab now anyway, isn’t it? Too bad we’re a trillion pounds in debt.
I can’t put my finger on what out of the whole segment of QT that bothered me the most – after all it could have just been the expression on Smith’s face, but overall it was like watching a really bad parallell park that you know is never going to happen but the bloody driver keeps shifting anyway rather than drive off and find a better parking space.
Perhaps it was the shocked reaction and ‘this is ridiculous’ attitude that could have so easily been spluttered by my own MP, Alan Duncan, during his August rant about MPs living on ‘rations’ now all eyes are on their claims and extravagances. To them it is like the builders are in to work on their member’s club and they’re coming inside and using the newly carpeted upstairs toilets.
This attitude was then refreshed while listening to a breakfast report on today’s milestone Youth Parliament debate taking place in the Commons. Forgive me, but I can’t remember the name of the politician being questioned as I was flinging together what ended up being a really disgusting salad, however, the gist was that he didn’t believe the UKYP holidng a debate in the Commons was appropriate.
Hello? Democracy calling! Who does he think the Commons belongs to? It’s not his mother’s front room reserved for the vicar and the president of the gardening club! The UKYP are a legitimate, political organisation supporiting mainstream parties and their views and voicing the needs and suggestions of a young generation which is frequently misconstrued or ignored by patronising, snobby, old fogies. The Commons belongs to the people, it is the place the MPs we have elected get across our best interests and it is not a private members club. Because that is what needs to be changed otherwise more serious problems will arise at the next election, namely extreme parties growing in popularity because extreme changes do need to be made where the system is concerned.
The more we dig up, the more politicians seem to receed back into this little club, be it relying on a committee to give them an excuse and a get-out-of-jail-free card (a mere board-game trifle that seems very apt given the current mood) and the Houses of Parliament and all the perks that come with it. It is a giant members-only lounge for some people who need to be made aware that even without the perks, with just their basic net earnings they still have it a whole lot better than most of the people in this country and so they can afford to release some of their hot air and float back down to earth and understand just what we, the people, think of them.
Filed under: News, Politics, Writing | Leave a Comment
Tags: Alan Duncan, committee, Commons, election, expenses, House of Commons, Jacqui Smith, members club, pomp, Question Time, UKYP, voters
The advent of social networking has exploded the traditional media field. The last week has demonstrated this fact beautifully, proving all the more pointedly that the popular voice can now shout louder than any headline. This has rung true in the case of Jan Moir’s misguided column on the speculated drama surrounding the death of Boyzone’s squeaky clean Stephen Gately, as well as the debate surrounding BNP leader Nick Griffin’s invitation onto today’s watershed edition of BBC Question Time.
On the eve of Stephen Gately’s funeral, Daily Mail columnist, Jan Moir, published an article which needn’t be repeated but the general gist insinuated that the pop icon’s natural death was allegedly not as such, and the rest of the article reeked of homophobia and presumptuous scandal sniffing. While the country was still reeling from the death of a man whose public persona was take-home-to-meet-your-mother-immaculate and whose good-boy image had never faltered under the long-lenses of the paps, what journalist would ever write something so upsetting without even a moment’s consideration for public opinion? Or indeed the back-handedness of writing an antagonising column about a man who can’t retort?
Nevertheless, the article was published and those more left-of-the-middle of us were blissfully unaware of the poisonous thing until Twitter King Stephen Fry alerted us all:
I gather a repulsive nobody writing in a paper no one of any decency would be seen dead with has written something loathesome and inhumane.12:27 PM Oct 16th from Tweetie
After that post, the internet caught fire and every news outlet wanted a piece of the action. I was tweeting live while this all took place. It was like throwing a chunk of rump steak into a pool of sharks. The Twitter-frenzy that occurred in the hour following the point (and points that superceded) was thrilling to watch and to participate in.
Some critics have speculated that Stephen Fry played a Peid Piper role, maybe so, however Mr Fry does post regularly and never before has one micro-blog of his generated so much interest. And the more interest that accumulated the more the distaste for Jan Moir snowballed. With not a little bit of cunning, Mr Fry reminded us all of the Press Complaints Commission whose website crashed within seconds as the complaints hurtled off keyboards and into inboxes. The incident according to The Guardian has warranted 2,200 complaints and rising, and it would be naive to think that was without a little bit of Twitter hysteria.
There is something so inclusive about joining in with the cyber angry mob. Marching on Parliament Square it ain’t but the invincibility it grants you transforms you into a lap-top activist!
A similar mood is occurring today as the media prepares for Nick Griffin’s appearance on Question Time. There has been great opposition to the invitation the BBC offered to the leader of the British National Party to appear on the respected political broadcast. Quite rightly, why should the re-branded National Front with the same roots to Nazism and fascism have the privilege of airtime courtesy of the licence payer? The public is divided and I can sympathise with both sides.
However, I do believe were I not a journalist I would be firmly in the outrage camp. Thanks to the little, obnoxious, curiosity bug that journalism implanted in my system, I am interested in watching Griffin squirm under the fire of the public in the audience and of course the panel consisting of Secretary of State for Justice, Jack Straw, Shadow minister for Community Cohesion, Baroness Warsi, Lib Dem Home Affairs spokesman, Chris Huhne and writer Bonnie Greer.
My father is firmly in the outrage camp and is unconvinced that Chair, David Dimbleby will make the debate as tough as possible for Griffin in favour of mediation. My mother the lawyer, quite uncharacteristically, is awaiting the contretemps with a glint of blood-lust in her eye.
Freedom of Speech gives the BNP the right to spout their undeniably racist, prejudiced and backward venom, however many people do not want to see their representatives on their televisions (let alone consider the perks of the green room). There is a fear that the publicity the BNP will receive will attract disenfranchised protest voters, lasso increased support and by putting them alongside mainstream parties validates their organisation. All of these are very real factors to consider. It is also to be noted that many BNP supporters will be in the audience. Regardless, the debate tonight will make history and hopefully the lashes of indignation Griffin will openly suffer will be enough to change the minds of those on the cusp of putting their votes in the hands of fascism. This is surely the point of this remarkable edition of Question Time rather than just a sordid ratings-booster?
As a journalist, I want to see what happens. Twitter is already simmering with anticipation and many, myself included, have resolved to live-action tweet as the show is broadcast live on air.
It’s a beautiful thing when democracy shouts the loudest and Twitter appears to be a lot more powerful than any of the other social networking functions we may or may not subscribe to. Twitter pools public opinion and gives people the chance to say, without fear of being shouted down or refused a right of reply, to express themselves.
Follow me as Rosebiscuit and join in on the debate tonight at 10.35pm as Question Time airs on BBC One. Watch live on BBC iPlayer http://www.bbc.co.uk/iplayer/
I’d also like to draw your attention to a rather more glamorous writer’s similar blog entry regarding Jan Moir’s unfortunate column. Please visit Ms Coco LaVerne’s blog at http://mscocolaverne.blogspot.com/
Filed under: Journalism, News, Politics, Twitter, Uncategorized | Leave a Comment
Tags: Twitter, tweeting, Jan Moir, Daily Mail, Stephen Gately, Nick Griffin, BNP, British National Party, Boyzone, Question Time, David Dimbleby, Politics, racism, fascism, democracy, outrage
Last Thursday I went to the Job Centre for the very last time. I was pleasantly surprised that I can keep claiming Jobseeker’s Allowance right up to the day before my new job starts. For everything I have said about the Job Centre regime, that’s a pretty decent little perk. After all, it is £50 a week more than one would be getting otherwise! As my mother would say:
“It’s better than a poke in the eye with a blunt stick.”
Hmm, yes. But then many things are.
After everything we have gone through together, the Job Centre and me, we’ve had some good times. Getting my travel expenses back for unnecessary appointments regarding my ‘progress’ or ‘return to work seminars’ was definitely a high point as was having to repeat all of my close and personal details after they lost my file putting back my first payment by a week. The letter of apology after the fight with the two harpies who berated me for continuing to write irregardless of the fact I was neither part of an arrangement no would I have received payment was a fun note to read.
The rest of it was a nightmare.
Hoop-jumping and bureaucracy aside, there are still people sitting on those rough, navy sofas near the powered doors who go every week at the same time to collect their benefits and catch up with their buddies who have been going at the same time as them every two weeks for months or even longer.
How I shall miss listening in on the overweight woman, the gigantic teenage lad with hands like saddles, the older lady with the pram, the middle-aged man with long, greasy hair and uniform leather jacket… They are the ensemble cast of Job Centre which airs every fortnight on a Thursday afternoon and I see now that I was only ever going to have a cameo appearance.
Although the crowds are getting smaller, hopefully because all the University and school leavers have found work rather than been defeated by the ogres defending their precious system, one group remains. Stubbornly clinging on to the benefits system like the greasy stains cling to the inside of a china teapot, there are those who quite blatantly do as much as possible in order to keep from joining the work-a-day majority.
Having gone through this tedious system for a quarter of a year, I have an understanding of the sorts of tests you are put to in order to deserve your allowance. The fortnightly guilt for having no interviews, the interrogation process which makes your story of tedium, rejection and disappointment sound incredible even though every word is the truth, the thankless effort, the little curve balls they throw in here and there, and the boxes you have to tick. Those who have no inclination to work and every intention to keep on receiving benefits certainly bust a gut to ensure that never changes.
Take last Monday, my 13 week review (thank you for my £4 travel expenses, Mr Government, it went towards some bubbly on Wednesday). Luckily for me I had a customer services job lined up before I got my media job offer because otherwise I sensed that I was going to be placed somewhere for minimum wage just to keep the books looking healthy. The man interviewing me had a list of job titles and phone numbers on the desk, ready to hand over with a little nudge of the telephone as if to spoon-feed me work like my efforts thusfar had been misguided and demonstrably unsuccessful as a result of lofty ideas and a haughty attitude.
Similarly, I was not treated like a Jobseeker, more a sponger and job-dodger. Thankfully the recession job-freeze is beginning to thaw, although it will take some time before things return to normal as unemployment is a lagging indicator. From my experience, the Jobcentre were completely unprepared for the flux of educated, disenfranchised young people with skills and ambition. The Jobcentre’s remit is to help and counsel people having difficulties in the job market and I saw very little advice geared towards those who already had the experience, skills and student debt who were merely caught up in this plague.
So I got a lot out of my relationship with the Job Centre, less than I had deducted for tax at my last job which is comforting to know because in theory I paid for myself. It was like a needy, sour relationship one inch away from Jeremy Kyle. Hopefully I won’t ever have to return, I never say never but hopefully.
All I know is that leaving that beige, carpeted office with the desks and the couches and the pictures of frighteningly normal-looking people smiling out of brushed steel frames on the walls, it felt exactly the same as graduating.
Filed under: Work, job hunt, money, rite of passage, unemployment | 3 Comments
Tags: employment, expenses, graduating, Job Centre, job hunt, jobs, jobseekers allowance, tax, unemployment
The ring from the first rung
Incredibly and after four months of futile searching, disappointment and destitution I have been offered a real job.
Bzzzzzz bzzzzz bzzzzz Fucking handbag, where’s my fucking phone? Hello?
Hello, is that Rose?
Speaking.
Rose it’s **** calling from ****** ****. We met on Monday.
Oh hi! Shiiiiit, I’m not emotionally prepared for rejection today.
Rose, how did you think you got on at Monday’s interview?
Uhmmm. Yes, I enjoyed it. That sounds lame. It was a challenge, hahaha. I was a bit nervous. Why are they asking me that? Did I get it? If not that is a mean question to ask. Hope I played it down enough so that a rejection isn’t too much to handle and if I got it it doesn’t sound like I am hysterical.
Well would you be interested in the position?
Yes, absolutely. Did I get it? Tell me NOW.
We have you down to start on the 2nd November, is that ok? And we’ll send your HR stuff on to you. We are really looking forward to working with you.
Oh my God, you’ve made my year! Veeeeering into hysterical, Rose. It’s a job, not the lotto jackpot for feck sake, woman!
That’s a bit dramatic. Shit, picking up on hysteria. Can’t let her know I’m mental before I’ve even been sent the contract, they need to find that out in their own time.
Err. What I mean is, I really really wanted this position, thank you so much. I’ve been unemployed for four months and I have the loan collectors practically climbing into my purse and this position means I can start my career!
Well I’m pleased to hear that. So we’ll see you on Monday the 2nd November. What did she just say? That sounded like important information but I was too busy listening to the sound of my own heartbeat thumping my rib cage. Better not ask her to repeat herself in case I sound mad.
Thank you so much, ****! Bye then.
Bye, Rose.
Hee hee!!!
There was other stuff too that she said but that was the general idea.
So now my blog will be changing tack somewhat, my gripes about the Job Centre are soon going to end and I can now write about what it is like working on the bottom rung of the journalism ladder.
If I can get a job in this crazy industry, anybody can. Trust me, I am not the shiniest penny in the piggybank. I am just a normal girl, from a normal family, with average GCSE results trying to make a career for herself and I’m really looking forward to telling you about how it all starts.
Filed under: Work, Writing, job hunt, unemployment | 2 Comments
I am back in my comfort zone. A lovely, white, ovular swivel chair with my lovely, white iBook on the desk in front of me, after a trying day. At least I made some money from it in Government subsidised travel expenses.
0900hrs at Stamford Job Centre for my 13 week review. I hate going to the Job Centre at the start of the business day because I swear they open it late purely to dangle us in front of the public for a few minutes longer out of spite.
Anyway, for those of you who are lucky enough not to know; the 13 week review is a proactive way of identifying the flaws in your job search and generally what you’re doing wrong. I am lucky enough to have been offered some Christmas Season work for a relatively well-known camping/hiking/outdoor-type retailer as of next week so I could saunter into this meeting knowing they needn’t bother as I will be signing off on Thursday.
In addition, just to fully establish my innate (even if dormant until very recently) employability to the Job Centre chap who kept on leering at my chest, I was booked in for a job interview this very afternoon.
Luckily, with one bird in the hand and another one in the bush, I was off the hook and merrily made my way home with travel expenses jingling in my pocket. I very nearly whistled a jovial tune upon exiting the Job Centre but resisted.
The job interview was the first career-relevant I had been invited to since June. Yes. I have applied to over 70 jobs in Journalism, Media, Publishing and PR and this was only job interview #2. I won’t divulge what the position is or where it is but it’d set me up in a nice little editorial career for a well known organisation in a branch of journalism I’d honestly love to be more involved in.
I had been rehearsing my stock interview phrases since last night. I have entered all my bung job interviews with a relaxed attitude knowing I am capable of the task and if I don’t get it, I won’t be crying myself to sleep but today I had true stage fright. Today’s interview was for a job I actually want. P r e s s u r e.
My interviewers were both fashionable, young and clearly successful women. In my freshly ironed, specially bought blouse and trusty black trouser suit I felt like the misfit at school trying to convince the really cool girls who didn’t know me that well that I wasn’t a freak and was actually completely normal. Let me join your gang!
Panic set in and the ability to form complete sentences started to escape me. I think I rambled on about how I came to know my previous employer for a long time but that’s only because it was a left-field question about techniques you use to settle in to new environments. Luckily the more senior of the two interviewers was a Manchester girl! Rambling on about Salford, The Manchester Evening News and living in my beloved Northern city struck a chord – I hope.
Then, after the probing questions ran out, a Competency Test. To be completed in 30 minutes sharp. It is important to bear in mind that I had no time piece, lacked the sense to switch on my mobile lest precious moments escape me, and generally assumed that my internal awareness of time would be an accurate enough measure.
The first element of the test, as far as I could tell, was to prove that I was not dyslexic. Ask me any other day of my life if I am dyslexic and I’d say no. Today I appeared to be afflicted with an acute and short-term bout of the learning difficulty. This first task involved finding the correctly spelled word out of the four options, all of which look like they could be correct. I know how to spell, lets just clarify that now, but the pressure got to me and I began honestly thinking that ‘accommodate’ was actually spelled ‘acomadate’ – which could work?
The next part involved synthesizing the sort of copy the job required me to be able to write. Without having the sense to check how I was doing for time, I worked on guessing the passage of time according to my words per minute average… a risky venture. I did the main part of that exercise before moving on to the next section to ensure the test at least looked finished when I handed it in.
Two enormous pages of copy. Spot the typos. A document of that size and a test such as this, what did I expect to find… 10? I found two. I bloody hope there were only two otherwise I’m going to look even more stupid that I felt.
Time enough to scribble down the remainder of part two. Interview over.
Did it go well? I haven’t the foggiest. All I know is that I want this job. Not only is it interesting, engaging and relevant but the place and people are… for want of a better phrase… really cool.
Whatever the outcome I am signing off on Thursday, which has been my dream ever since I opened those brown, powered doors into the God of bureaucracy’s S&M themed wet dream AKA the Job Centre.
And the good news is if the career job doesn’t pan out then I can give my family outdoor leisure wear for Christmas with my staff discount.
Filed under: Work, Writing, job hunt, unemployment | 1 Comment
Who these days has the inclination to use their influence to change what ought to be changed?
Barack Obama’s historic parade into power resounded with optimism and promises of change. The three political party conferences over the last month left the echoes of stirring keynote speeches orating notions of solidarity and fortitude ringing in our ears.
When are we going to see any of this? When will an individual such as Gary McKinnon benefit from this?
Gary McKinnon’s unfortunate stumble into the realm of terrorism seven years ago was a product of a talent for coding or as the US press would have it believed, ‘hacking’. Using comparatively basic software, McKinnon managed to break into the heart of the US Pentagon’s computer network using standard passwords and his own knack with computing. Dangerous territory for any foreigner to trespass onto, whatever the excuse.
McKinnon has been branded a terrorist despite never intending to hurt anybody nor actually doing any harm or indeed having any apparent motive despite satisfying a compulsion to worry away at the thread that was leading him into serious trouble.
It seems to me that the only damage as a consequence to McKinnon’s ill-fated project was done to both the prides of American security chiefs and to McKinnon’s livelihood and that of his family. The Pentagon have stepped up their network passwords, firewalls have been fortified, and McKinnon remains (inexplicably) Public Enemy Number One for the interim.
McKinnon has Asperger Syndrome. Whether you believe this mitigating circumstance to be immaterial or not, this is his Defence’s choice hook. I am not going to venture in to the ins and outs of the syndrome as I am sure enough of us know how it affects somebody we know and how greatly it can vary in seriousness, however, even without this playing a factor in the case, 70 years in an American penitentiary seems to be a hysterical punishment given the crime.
McKinnon’s fate, after several failed appeals including to the American Supreme Court, appears before him and the news reading public like a bottomless pit. 70 years and a terrorist charge stamped to your forehead while being frogmarched into an American prison with paedophiles, murderers and rapists is equivalent to a death sentence. Add Asperger Syndrome into the increasingly unbelievable cocktail and it spells the end for McKinnon.
One particularly Fox-News fueled demographic of the US is already crying our for him to be fried, motored by the biased and injust reporting style of some far-right, Nationalistic broadcasts. Such broadcasts have rendered McKinnon’s ‘trial’ unfair as American law does not account for Contempt of Court with the same stringent legislation as in the UK.
I am not suggesting that McKinnon should be let off. I am not a law-maker, nor am I a politician. But if you compare McKinnon’s crimes with those alleged of Abdelbaset Al Megrahi, AKA the Lockerbie Bomber who was released last month, then a balance must be struck by the West.
The British legal system works on the basis of protecting the vulnerable and seeing that justice is done according to the merit of each case. We do not operate on an eye-for-an-eye or a capital punishment system. Our cross-Atlantic cousins are demonstrably less merciful. Talking of which, Hilary Clinton is in the UK today, I wonder if McKinnon’s case will be raised over a cup of PG Tips in the refreshments room at one of her appointments? Or are we all too polite to raise our voices in front of the self-titled Super Power preferring to be meek and subservient lest we piss off the biggest kid in the playground?
Which brings me to my next point. Why hasn’t more been said by our Government? I took it upon myself to write to my MP, Alan Duncan and to all my MEPs. I have thusfar received two replies. Please remember, I wrote to them because of their influential position in British, nay world politics, and not because of their job specification.
Hmm… And?
Many thanks for your letter to Emma McClarkin, raising your concerns about the Gary McKinnon case.
Please be assured that we are looking into the matter and will contact you as soon as possible with a more detailed response.
Best wishes,
Neelam Cartmell
Assistant to Emma McClarkin MEP
Again, can I be blamed for thinking that those with power haven’t a clue when to use it? We vote politicians into power for their integrity. There is nothing to be said of looking over one’s shoulder all the time.
Watch this space.
Filed under: Journalism, News, Politics | Leave a Comment
Tags: British government, change, crime, current affairs, Gary McKinnon, hacking, MEP, News, penitentiary, Pentagon, punishment, USA
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