So, anyway, the outcome.
I've been putting off this post, just because it isn't pretty. Some of those who may know poor old Max might even have heard a different story to this one. It's not an easy tale to tell.
Guardian Wealth Management. Ferraris and speedboats. Frankfurt.
It's weird you know, I should have seen the signs. It all started with a road trip to Amsterdam. Now amusing as this may sound the grinding poverty of my time in Germany was interspersed with sparkling interludes of barely believable glamour; impressive sounding episodes of sun, sea, surf, sand and celebrity hobnobbing.
Well not interspersed. The only real occasion was the annual company conference in Nice, which was mostly spent dressed in a full suit in a sweltering hotel meeting room, trying to keep my eyes open and wishing I was walking up and down the (not at all sandy) beach staring at topless old ladies. The hotel allowed us to park the company DB9 on the red carpet outside, because it made it appear as if James Bond was staying rather than, in keeping with the reality of the driver's identity, an ex-copper who had got rich pressure selling dodgy pension products.
The high point of that trip for me was spending the entire final evening seeking out and speaking to, variously, a pacifist, a TV body language expert, a polar explorer and of course the wacky memory guy. I'm pretty sure the idea wan't solely to network with the celebrity speakers, but I figured it would make a better story. Plus I really didn't trust myself not grab one of the journalists present by the lapels and scream at them "Don't you realise???? This is all a sham!!! It's a scam!! a scam!! Tell the world!!!"
Amsterdam was not in this league. It was a 4 hour each way trip in the back of an extremely uncomfortable BMW full of cocks, sandwiched by group humiliation for a day by the king cock they had recently put in charge of Europe. What a cock. A very wealthy cock, mind.
When I got back I discovered that my £1000 retainer had now become a measley £600 due to the fact they wanted to recoup still more of their expenses. That photocopier was ruining my life. I called the finance team in disbelief and fury and explained in no uncertain terms what, in an ideal world, they could do with their expenses. I know this sounds a bit OTT, but I was really under rather a lot of pressure at the time. They weren't happy about that. I had to call back and apologise.
The next week King Cock came to visit, and the first thing he did was fire me. He said that it was nothing against me, he knew I was a good guy and was happy to write me a reference, etc etc. When I pointed out to him that that he had never even spoken to me before and I was fully aware that everything he had just said was facile bullshit, he just smiled. He'd probably experienced this before too, although perhaps not expressed with such wit and vim. Well I like to think.
This kind of outcome was becoming something of a habit. And I was running out of leeway....
Wednesday, 25 April 2012
Wednesday, 4 January 2012
Somebody Elses Money
Anyway. So I flew out to Frankfurt in Germany. No I'm not blogging for money again. This time it all stemmed from a phone call I received from a corrupt and desperate recruitment consultant seeking corrupt and desperate salespeople willing to relocate. The draw was the opportunity to earn unfathomable riches selling innocent expatriates inappropriate financial products. Naturally, I agreed.
Naturally it was all bollocks. I knew this in my soul from the minute she called me, but I wanted to believe. I so wanted to believe that I could be the high rolling, hand squeezing silver tongued lying bastard that I would have needed to become in order to earn the promised 6 figure salary. In my head, I still believe I could do it if I had enough money behind me. I really do.
The attrition rate in the job is about 95% within the first 3 months. It consists of desperately haranguing innocent foreign nationals over the phone whilst they're at work (a practice I soon discovered is actually illegal in Germany) trying to persuade them that meeting with me to discuss their finances was the smartest thing they'd do that day.
Unbelievably some of them would say yes. Even more unbelievably a couple of them agreed, in the middle of a financial meltdown, to commit a monthly amount to one of the outdated and frankly dangerous long term investment plans I was proposing. I'm going to name names here. Skandia. Hansard. Generali.
Although I had been promised as much, I had received no financial training whatsoever. I was given a brochure and told to pick whatever investments on behalf of the clients that took my fancy. The Manager, making a joke, said in one meeting that it was time to get the darts and the blindfold out. He didn't need such a crude approach however, because he just suggested the same investments to every single person regardless of their personal circumstances or attitude to risk. It was unbelievable, truly it was. He described the whole process as the R&P approach. Rape and Pillage.
So the good news is I got some business in. The bad news was all of the commission I 'earned' disappeared on things like paying the telesales staff and office rent, because I was technically self-employed. I soon found out that I was paying over £100 a month for renting the photocopier. The photocopier, for the love of God! That was hard to take. Thus my entire income was my miserable £1000/month retainer, plus I was given free rent at the company flat. Which was nice of them.
Even so, the entirety of my miserable retainer vanished on paying off debts and fortnightly flights back in order to maintain my relationship (the commuting is probably a whole other blog. But if you ever find yourself considering it, don't. That is all.).
I had to ration client visits because I didn't always have the train fare. I spent two months living off pasta that I'd cooked in batches and frozen using rotting ingredients from a rotten shop called Pennymart. Networking was out of the question, along with most of the other lovely concepts I'd included in my business plan. I only had one suit and about 4 suitable shirts for Christ's sake. I couldn't even afford shoe polish.
Now, it's probably clear by now that my time at Guardian Wealth Management didn't really work out, but I think ultimately it can only count in my favour that it ended in absolutely typical fashion. I may have had to leave, but at least by the time I did leave I had reached such a nadir I didn't actually have any dignity left to lose. Well so I hoped at the time, it's amazing though just how low you can go if you try.....
But that, reader, is a story for another day.
Naturally it was all bollocks. I knew this in my soul from the minute she called me, but I wanted to believe. I so wanted to believe that I could be the high rolling, hand squeezing silver tongued lying bastard that I would have needed to become in order to earn the promised 6 figure salary. In my head, I still believe I could do it if I had enough money behind me. I really do.
The attrition rate in the job is about 95% within the first 3 months. It consists of desperately haranguing innocent foreign nationals over the phone whilst they're at work (a practice I soon discovered is actually illegal in Germany) trying to persuade them that meeting with me to discuss their finances was the smartest thing they'd do that day.
Unbelievably some of them would say yes. Even more unbelievably a couple of them agreed, in the middle of a financial meltdown, to commit a monthly amount to one of the outdated and frankly dangerous long term investment plans I was proposing. I'm going to name names here. Skandia. Hansard. Generali.
Although I had been promised as much, I had received no financial training whatsoever. I was given a brochure and told to pick whatever investments on behalf of the clients that took my fancy. The Manager, making a joke, said in one meeting that it was time to get the darts and the blindfold out. He didn't need such a crude approach however, because he just suggested the same investments to every single person regardless of their personal circumstances or attitude to risk. It was unbelievable, truly it was. He described the whole process as the R&P approach. Rape and Pillage.
So the good news is I got some business in. The bad news was all of the commission I 'earned' disappeared on things like paying the telesales staff and office rent, because I was technically self-employed. I soon found out that I was paying over £100 a month for renting the photocopier. The photocopier, for the love of God! That was hard to take. Thus my entire income was my miserable £1000/month retainer, plus I was given free rent at the company flat. Which was nice of them.
Even so, the entirety of my miserable retainer vanished on paying off debts and fortnightly flights back in order to maintain my relationship (the commuting is probably a whole other blog. But if you ever find yourself considering it, don't. That is all.).
I had to ration client visits because I didn't always have the train fare. I spent two months living off pasta that I'd cooked in batches and frozen using rotting ingredients from a rotten shop called Pennymart. Networking was out of the question, along with most of the other lovely concepts I'd included in my business plan. I only had one suit and about 4 suitable shirts for Christ's sake. I couldn't even afford shoe polish.
Now, it's probably clear by now that my time at Guardian Wealth Management didn't really work out, but I think ultimately it can only count in my favour that it ended in absolutely typical fashion. I may have had to leave, but at least by the time I did leave I had reached such a nadir I didn't actually have any dignity left to lose. Well so I hoped at the time, it's amazing though just how low you can go if you try.....
But that, reader, is a story for another day.
Tuesday, 12 July 2011
Wage slave no more
Now, I must apologise. I know that the gap has been a full year this time.
Thing is, I spent an entire year actually in a job, which also had the effect of taking away all of my free time and will to live. Add to that a highly volatile relationship and general mental health issues, and I’m sure you will forgive me…. Do you forgive me?
Anyway, to be frank I don’t care. I was working on a permanent temporary contract at a nameless company in Richmond. What this means in practice is that, by assuming the right to get rid of you at a minute’s notice, they had earned the facility to threaten you with your job whenever you didn’t do exactly as they pleased. I had already learned from the old lady gig that this is how life works in the job market in this part of the 21st century, since there were actually people approaching me in the corridors at one point begging for work. I decided to grin and bear it, because things are only going to get worse… trust me.
I was good at my job, because it was all about taking money off estate agents, which I viewed as an inherently righteous occupation. The bastards. However it was only when I was offered promotion and came to consider it that I realised how the trap can fall. If I hadn’t had swine flu that led to me going deaf in both ears and the resultant series of hilarious misunderstandings and emotional breakdowns which ended in me effectively dismissing myself from employment by text, then I would probably still be there now. I would probably still be there in another year’s time. That really would have been unfortunate.
So, it was a rubbish job anyway, a 1hr 30 commute each way, uncomfortable hours, and mediocre pay, but it was a job. So I needed another job… which leads to the question, which I hear you ask idly as you’re watching something else on the telly….what am I REALLY doing now?
Well, I’m glad you’ve asked me that… I’ll tell all in the next thrilling instalment. And it won’t be that long, honest.
Thing is, I spent an entire year actually in a job, which also had the effect of taking away all of my free time and will to live. Add to that a highly volatile relationship and general mental health issues, and I’m sure you will forgive me…. Do you forgive me?
Anyway, to be frank I don’t care. I was working on a permanent temporary contract at a nameless company in Richmond. What this means in practice is that, by assuming the right to get rid of you at a minute’s notice, they had earned the facility to threaten you with your job whenever you didn’t do exactly as they pleased. I had already learned from the old lady gig that this is how life works in the job market in this part of the 21st century, since there were actually people approaching me in the corridors at one point begging for work. I decided to grin and bear it, because things are only going to get worse… trust me.
I was good at my job, because it was all about taking money off estate agents, which I viewed as an inherently righteous occupation. The bastards. However it was only when I was offered promotion and came to consider it that I realised how the trap can fall. If I hadn’t had swine flu that led to me going deaf in both ears and the resultant series of hilarious misunderstandings and emotional breakdowns which ended in me effectively dismissing myself from employment by text, then I would probably still be there now. I would probably still be there in another year’s time. That really would have been unfortunate.
So, it was a rubbish job anyway, a 1hr 30 commute each way, uncomfortable hours, and mediocre pay, but it was a job. So I needed another job… which leads to the question, which I hear you ask idly as you’re watching something else on the telly….what am I REALLY doing now?
Well, I’m glad you’ve asked me that… I’ll tell all in the next thrilling instalment. And it won’t be that long, honest.
Saturday, 24 July 2010
Who let the blogs out?
Right following one of my by now accustomed 6 month breaks, Max is back. And do I ever have some stories to tell. Now the reason for my absence can easily be explained by an extraordinary cashflow crisis, a relationship breakdown, a forced relocation and two further job roles... I'd probably better tell you about what happened to the last job I had before all that though, eh?
Well inevitably I got fired from the ripping off old ladies gig. This was partly because I didn't turn up, but that wasn't enough on its own. It wasn't because I was shit at it, even though I was, really. It was at least partly because the faceless sickline voicemail turned out to be staffed by radical incompetents, which meant that I could have left a message saying that I had been abducted by aliens and was being cruelly dismembered on one of the moons of Jupiter and it wouldn't have made a blind bit of difference.
So even though, from their perspective, I had been AWOL for days before turning up late and out of the blue for a poxy 4 hour shift, they were still prepared to give me the benefit of the doubt.
In short, I had to make them fire me. The prospect of remaining actually paniced me because it would firstly mean another four hours of Old Lady hell, but it also would probably have forced me into leaving of my own accord. Unfortunately sacking is an essential first step on the road to jobseeker's allowance; resigning doesn't cut it unless there's a court case pending. Fortunately they asked me what I had been doing, so I told them about the job interview I had been preparing for
"Hang on a minute", my superviser said, and went off to get the HR manager.
The gravel voiced hatchet faced crone with whom I was eventually faced had obviously engaged in a vast number of these conversations. The patronising smile and firm demeanour told of someone ready for dissent, itching to crush her enemies beneath her sensible shoed heels. Her broad shoulders clearly carried the weight of many ruined lives and shattered dreams. She loved it.
As I was once again escorted from a premesis I could reflect on a job well done (getting sacked), and a princely 150 quid in the bank for a job badly done (erm... the job). Being fired still shears away a bit of your soul though, however it occurs.
Talking of jobs badly done, you're probably wondering what happened on the trip to Ireland. Well, possibly. Anyway, what happened is this:
I never even got my fiver. Philistines.
Well inevitably I got fired from the ripping off old ladies gig. This was partly because I didn't turn up, but that wasn't enough on its own. It wasn't because I was shit at it, even though I was, really. It was at least partly because the faceless sickline voicemail turned out to be staffed by radical incompetents, which meant that I could have left a message saying that I had been abducted by aliens and was being cruelly dismembered on one of the moons of Jupiter and it wouldn't have made a blind bit of difference.
So even though, from their perspective, I had been AWOL for days before turning up late and out of the blue for a poxy 4 hour shift, they were still prepared to give me the benefit of the doubt.
In short, I had to make them fire me. The prospect of remaining actually paniced me because it would firstly mean another four hours of Old Lady hell, but it also would probably have forced me into leaving of my own accord. Unfortunately sacking is an essential first step on the road to jobseeker's allowance; resigning doesn't cut it unless there's a court case pending. Fortunately they asked me what I had been doing, so I told them about the job interview I had been preparing for
"Hang on a minute", my superviser said, and went off to get the HR manager.
The gravel voiced hatchet faced crone with whom I was eventually faced had obviously engaged in a vast number of these conversations. The patronising smile and firm demeanour told of someone ready for dissent, itching to crush her enemies beneath her sensible shoed heels. Her broad shoulders clearly carried the weight of many ruined lives and shattered dreams. She loved it.
As I was once again escorted from a premesis I could reflect on a job well done (getting sacked), and a princely 150 quid in the bank for a job badly done (erm... the job). Being fired still shears away a bit of your soul though, however it occurs.
Talking of jobs badly done, you're probably wondering what happened on the trip to Ireland. Well, possibly. Anyway, what happened is this:
Max
The blog posts you have written are not suitable and I am sure you can understand why.
Kind Regards,
I never even got my fiver. Philistines.
Tuesday, 1 December 2009
Old Ladies are Easy
Now, if you read my last post, you're probably wondering how my hypothetical trip to Ireland went. I'll go into that a bit later. I'd imagine you've worked out by now how that one ends in any case...
Angway, I have more important, and certainly less fictional tales to relate. Oh yes, for I had secured an interview for a job in a call centre, ripping old ladies off. No matter how you looked at it, I was suffering major career regression.
I have worked 3 shifts so far, before calling in to excuse myself from the following 2, which included Sunday and a hellish 10 hour Monday shift. This job is not, I've concluded, the way forward. I am going to work 4 hours tomorrow though, on the grounds that if I give up now I don't get paid for large chunks of my efforts. Unfortunately this single fact meant I had to choose option 2 when I phoned in on Sunday morning, which was by far my least favoured course of action.
Option 1 was:
"Hi, it's Max Plenty. I won't be coming in today because I can't face 7 hours of hoodwinking vulnerable people, old ladies and assorted other individuals who can't say no into renewing their contracts with what in my personal experience is the single least competent and cost effective telecomms provider in the history of the universe (and that includes NTL). I abhorr the total moral vacuum that exists in your call centre, and every fibre of my being rejects the way you treat both customers and employees like blocks of meat. You are everything that is wrong with this country in 2009. Plus, I'm actually earning less money than I did 10 years ago for doing exactly the same job, and the hours you have given me don't even pay my sodding rent. I don't blame you (the faceless sick-line voicemail) or the majority of your employees, because this is genuinely what you think life is like. But I know there is some evil genius behind your organisation, some deeply malevolent force for harm and hate who is coining it in from this sordid operation, and I sincerely hope they rot in hell forever."
As you can tell, the wounds are still fresh.
Anyway, I went for Option 2 after much, much (much) deliberation:
"Hi, this is Max Plenty. Sorry, I can't come in today - I think I've got food poisoning. Cheers"
Well, you've got to keep your options open, I figure...
So, how did I get back from Ireland then? Well I hitchhiked, theoretically, from the abandoned cottage to the centre of Dublin in the back of the sort of livestock wagon normally only used on the set of Stella Artois advertisements. In my first stroke of good fortune, my labouring progress meant it was already past the yardarm when I finally arrived, which meant I could go to the nearest bar completely legitimately for a spot of the black and a bit of Irish Stew. On entering the bar I immediately found myself surrounded by surly men in short-shorts, wearing Sombreros. After eyeing me up and deciding I wasn't dangerous, the lads started slapping me of the back, speaking some obscure dialect which I could only catch the odd word of.
After much consuming of Guinness, I established that I was daytime drinking with a lower league hurling team who had just got back from their summer holidays, which didn't give me much street cred by which certainly meant I was somewhat the worse for wear as daylight faded and evening drew in. Although my state of inebriation didn't help my predicament, a final twist of fate gave me an unlikely escape route. A man whose name I discerned was 'Spazza' (or something, again it's only worth a fiver this) handed me a small grimy business card, and the logo read upon the card read 'Dublin airport car hire'. I took it as a sign from the Gods, even though the business was probably run by his illigitamate half brother fathered by the family ass.
To cut a long story short, I was soon back behind the wheel and heading for home, albeit in a rather paraletic state and driving a vehicle which veered violently towards the kerb whenever I so much as brushed the brake pedal.. what could possibly, hypothetically, go wrong?
Angway, I have more important, and certainly less fictional tales to relate. Oh yes, for I had secured an interview for a job in a call centre, ripping old ladies off. No matter how you looked at it, I was suffering major career regression.
I have worked 3 shifts so far, before calling in to excuse myself from the following 2, which included Sunday and a hellish 10 hour Monday shift. This job is not, I've concluded, the way forward. I am going to work 4 hours tomorrow though, on the grounds that if I give up now I don't get paid for large chunks of my efforts. Unfortunately this single fact meant I had to choose option 2 when I phoned in on Sunday morning, which was by far my least favoured course of action.
Option 1 was:
"Hi, it's Max Plenty. I won't be coming in today because I can't face 7 hours of hoodwinking vulnerable people, old ladies and assorted other individuals who can't say no into renewing their contracts with what in my personal experience is the single least competent and cost effective telecomms provider in the history of the universe (and that includes NTL). I abhorr the total moral vacuum that exists in your call centre, and every fibre of my being rejects the way you treat both customers and employees like blocks of meat. You are everything that is wrong with this country in 2009. Plus, I'm actually earning less money than I did 10 years ago for doing exactly the same job, and the hours you have given me don't even pay my sodding rent. I don't blame you (the faceless sick-line voicemail) or the majority of your employees, because this is genuinely what you think life is like. But I know there is some evil genius behind your organisation, some deeply malevolent force for harm and hate who is coining it in from this sordid operation, and I sincerely hope they rot in hell forever."
As you can tell, the wounds are still fresh.
Anyway, I went for Option 2 after much, much (much) deliberation:
"Hi, this is Max Plenty. Sorry, I can't come in today - I think I've got food poisoning. Cheers"
Well, you've got to keep your options open, I figure...
So, how did I get back from Ireland then? Well I hitchhiked, theoretically, from the abandoned cottage to the centre of Dublin in the back of the sort of livestock wagon normally only used on the set of Stella Artois advertisements. In my first stroke of good fortune, my labouring progress meant it was already past the yardarm when I finally arrived, which meant I could go to the nearest bar completely legitimately for a spot of the black and a bit of Irish Stew. On entering the bar I immediately found myself surrounded by surly men in short-shorts, wearing Sombreros. After eyeing me up and deciding I wasn't dangerous, the lads started slapping me of the back, speaking some obscure dialect which I could only catch the odd word of.
After much consuming of Guinness, I established that I was daytime drinking with a lower league hurling team who had just got back from their summer holidays, which didn't give me much street cred by which certainly meant I was somewhat the worse for wear as daylight faded and evening drew in. Although my state of inebriation didn't help my predicament, a final twist of fate gave me an unlikely escape route. A man whose name I discerned was 'Spazza' (or something, again it's only worth a fiver this) handed me a small grimy business card, and the logo read upon the card read 'Dublin airport car hire'. I took it as a sign from the Gods, even though the business was probably run by his illigitamate half brother fathered by the family ass.
To cut a long story short, I was soon back behind the wheel and heading for home, albeit in a rather paraletic state and driving a vehicle which veered violently towards the kerb whenever I so much as brushed the brake pedal.. what could possibly, hypothetically, go wrong?
Tuesday, 24 November 2009
Hypothetical Holidays, and Fields.
I've always fancied myself as a bit of a writer. Whether I'm any good or not is not for me to say. It's quite subjective, really. Some people enjoy reading Geoffrey Archer, for example. To be honest, I enjoyed reading Geoffrey Archer, if only because in the book I read the main character was so clearly a glamourised version of Geoffrey Archer. It was almost like some bizarre wish fulfilment fantasy on his part.
So making money from writing then.....
I started by drawing on my academic background. Applying for a role in academic writing actually involves quite a significant amount of effort. You have to fill out a lot of forms, and send a lot of information. Whilst I was applying the application process changed twice. In the end they told me that they alrady had far too many writers in my field. It was actually quite flattering to imagine myself belonging to a 'field'..
Although not surprised, I found the whole process slightly dubious. I have this horrible feeling that they're asking desperate people for examples of their work and then using those for some nefarious purpose I have as yet been unable to identify. Either that or it's some massive identity fraud scam. Whatever, it's probably not the way forward - I hate writing bloody essys anyway.
So I explored the blogging option instead. Now, I always assumed that in order to make money from a blog you had to be a prostitute, or a criminal. Not so, apparently. I've found a job where I can make 5 pounds a month from blogging about purely hypothetical trips to Ireland.
So here goes.
My job search has led me to become desparate, so I drove to the Emerald Isle after visiting a friend's house and leaving in a hurry. It was late at night by the time I arrived, and I was rather fuzzy around the edges to say the least. I was aiming for a small village near Dublin, where I knew of a Traveller's Tavern with a highly reliable quality of fried breakfast, in traditionally abundant Irish style. I have a feeling I could use this as a reason to go to Ireland every month, just because I can.
As I pulled up outside the worthy tavern, I was comforted by the crisp crackle of the car's tyres as they rolled across the primitive car park. I grabbed my overnight bag and made my way inside; the frienly matronly type on the reception swiftly checked me in, and following brief enquiries regarding the aforementioned breakfast I made my weary and still jobless way to bed.
I had driven to Ireland without a plan of action, and it was only when I awoke that I recalled what had happened the day before. I remembered a major argument that I have been having with my friend, just prior to my departure. I vaguely remembered the context of the argument, that I had just found out that my drink had been heavily spiked with acid for kicks...
As I rose, blinking and filled with dread, I had no choice but to take in my surroundings. Straw fell from my bedraggled hair, and there was a strong smell of dung. I appeared to be in some kind of stable. Staggering outside, I observed my car overturned in a ditch and seemingly integrated into a dry stone wall, a wheel slowly rotating in forlorn fashion - it no longer resembled a car at all, really. A ruined stone cottage and a road sign which read 'Dublin, 8km' were the only indications of human existance. Oh, and the road, obviously.
The Traveller's Tavern had all apparently been some kind of monumental acid based illusion - even the nice lady was a product of my crazily tripping mind. A pony clopped past, full of curiously. It stopped to lick my face, quite improbably. Well that explained it. Well, not really, not totally, but it would do for a fiver.... I was still in Ireland though. I knew that much. I was going to need some kind of Dublin car rental to get home, that was for sure. Or possibly an air ticket. Well, you know.
Next time: More fun in Dublin, possibly involving a police station, a hurling team and a great deal of Guinness. Oh, and I may actually have found yet another job - imagine that, eh?
So making money from writing then.....
I started by drawing on my academic background. Applying for a role in academic writing actually involves quite a significant amount of effort. You have to fill out a lot of forms, and send a lot of information. Whilst I was applying the application process changed twice. In the end they told me that they alrady had far too many writers in my field. It was actually quite flattering to imagine myself belonging to a 'field'..
Although not surprised, I found the whole process slightly dubious. I have this horrible feeling that they're asking desperate people for examples of their work and then using those for some nefarious purpose I have as yet been unable to identify. Either that or it's some massive identity fraud scam. Whatever, it's probably not the way forward - I hate writing bloody essys anyway.
So I explored the blogging option instead. Now, I always assumed that in order to make money from a blog you had to be a prostitute, or a criminal. Not so, apparently. I've found a job where I can make 5 pounds a month from blogging about purely hypothetical trips to Ireland.
So here goes.
My job search has led me to become desparate, so I drove to the Emerald Isle after visiting a friend's house and leaving in a hurry. It was late at night by the time I arrived, and I was rather fuzzy around the edges to say the least. I was aiming for a small village near Dublin, where I knew of a Traveller's Tavern with a highly reliable quality of fried breakfast, in traditionally abundant Irish style. I have a feeling I could use this as a reason to go to Ireland every month, just because I can.
As I pulled up outside the worthy tavern, I was comforted by the crisp crackle of the car's tyres as they rolled across the primitive car park. I grabbed my overnight bag and made my way inside; the frienly matronly type on the reception swiftly checked me in, and following brief enquiries regarding the aforementioned breakfast I made my weary and still jobless way to bed.
I had driven to Ireland without a plan of action, and it was only when I awoke that I recalled what had happened the day before. I remembered a major argument that I have been having with my friend, just prior to my departure. I vaguely remembered the context of the argument, that I had just found out that my drink had been heavily spiked with acid for kicks...
As I rose, blinking and filled with dread, I had no choice but to take in my surroundings. Straw fell from my bedraggled hair, and there was a strong smell of dung. I appeared to be in some kind of stable. Staggering outside, I observed my car overturned in a ditch and seemingly integrated into a dry stone wall, a wheel slowly rotating in forlorn fashion - it no longer resembled a car at all, really. A ruined stone cottage and a road sign which read 'Dublin, 8km' were the only indications of human existance. Oh, and the road, obviously.
The Traveller's Tavern had all apparently been some kind of monumental acid based illusion - even the nice lady was a product of my crazily tripping mind. A pony clopped past, full of curiously. It stopped to lick my face, quite improbably. Well that explained it. Well, not really, not totally, but it would do for a fiver.... I was still in Ireland though. I knew that much. I was going to need some kind of Dublin car rental to get home, that was for sure. Or possibly an air ticket. Well, you know.
Next time: More fun in Dublin, possibly involving a police station, a hurling team and a great deal of Guinness. Oh, and I may actually have found yet another job - imagine that, eh?
Thursday, 19 November 2009
This isn't as easy as I thought
Today I really really tried to go and visit a recruitment agency. A big one this time, that hadn't closed down already. Although I still have enough money stashed to make it pointless signing on, a combination of mounting credit debts and the escalating need to be doing SOMETHING has taken its toll already. I'm not keen to actually get another job you see, but I would like to be seen to be doing something about it, for form's sake.
I wend to Reed's office, locally. Yup, actually visited them in person. There was a time when that was the only way. Their office was long and straight, with a row of seats opposite a row of young-ish girls at desks. They looked at me as if I wasn't wearing any clothes. Their horror was such I actually felt moved to check. I asked them if they might have any roles to suit someone of my particular transferable skills set. They looked bemused, then told me to go and register on their website. So much for that.
I had a back up plan anyway, because I had another job already. Working from home, selling media. The people I was working for seemed unbelievably excited that someone who had actually sold something before wanted to work for them. I managed to negotiate double the initial salary, which was still paltry but a definite improvement. I set up my little Skype headset, and looked at the list of leads they had provided me with.
The 'leads' consisted of a list of company names copied and pasted directly from the alphabetical listing of a conference website. The 'salary' was only payable when certain ridiculous conditions had been met. I'm not normally a quitter, but after 6 hours at this I had earned about one hour's pay. I had this horrible feeling I was being used. I was being used. I don't like that, so I quit.
Actually I didn't quit, I just ignored them until they wondered what the hell I was doing and called me. Then I quit.
Of course that would earn the title 'least time I've spend in a job ever' if I didn't already have that nailed down with a near unbeatable record. Five minutes, in case you were wondering. Although I didn't really view it as a proper job, largely because they didn't pay me anything, and were unlikely to ever pay me anything. If we're talking jobs I actually got money for, it's 3 hours - and they went as far as to fire me. But, hell, this isn't meant to be a history lesson.
Next time I'll try harder.
I wend to Reed's office, locally. Yup, actually visited them in person. There was a time when that was the only way. Their office was long and straight, with a row of seats opposite a row of young-ish girls at desks. They looked at me as if I wasn't wearing any clothes. Their horror was such I actually felt moved to check. I asked them if they might have any roles to suit someone of my particular transferable skills set. They looked bemused, then told me to go and register on their website. So much for that.
I had a back up plan anyway, because I had another job already. Working from home, selling media. The people I was working for seemed unbelievably excited that someone who had actually sold something before wanted to work for them. I managed to negotiate double the initial salary, which was still paltry but a definite improvement. I set up my little Skype headset, and looked at the list of leads they had provided me with.
The 'leads' consisted of a list of company names copied and pasted directly from the alphabetical listing of a conference website. The 'salary' was only payable when certain ridiculous conditions had been met. I'm not normally a quitter, but after 6 hours at this I had earned about one hour's pay. I had this horrible feeling I was being used. I was being used. I don't like that, so I quit.
Actually I didn't quit, I just ignored them until they wondered what the hell I was doing and called me. Then I quit.
Of course that would earn the title 'least time I've spend in a job ever' if I didn't already have that nailed down with a near unbeatable record. Five minutes, in case you were wondering. Although I didn't really view it as a proper job, largely because they didn't pay me anything, and were unlikely to ever pay me anything. If we're talking jobs I actually got money for, it's 3 hours - and they went as far as to fire me. But, hell, this isn't meant to be a history lesson.
Next time I'll try harder.
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