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?
Tuesday, 1 December 2009
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.
Wednesday, 11 November 2009
OK, let's all start again..
Right..
So if you read that last post you'll probably think me a liar - 'post again when he's sacked', he said. I hear you say. Or something.
Well, they sacked me. It was tragic really, mainly because I tried my best. I really wanted to do as I was told and play the game and be successful; well successful enough to apply for another credit card and transfer my balance, and maybe in 6 months time start looking for a mortgage...
Unfortunately it all ended in a massive personality clash. My boss was female and had clearly in the past busted her share of balls, plus whatever area of the female anatomy gets busted in a similar way. She was also heavily botoxed, so it was very hard to read her intentions. I thought she liked my waggish wit, rugged charm and questioning nature. Well, she didn't, I discovered. She assumed I was an ego looking for a place to land, and that I wanted to land on her face. That sort of assumption would have been amusing coming from someone who drove a Gold Lexus, if she wasn't handing me my P45.
Being sacked is horrible, however it happens. No matter how much you know you are right, or wronged, it's still a blow to the confidence. No matter how underpaid or miserable or just plain rubbish the job, you still feel annoyed.
I was very annoyed. My reaction to the news would have raised her eyebrows, had she been able to do so. I don't think anyone's spoken to her like that for a while. Didn't help though, because I'm still at home writing this.
I did, by the way, as promised, go to the little recruitment place at the end of the road. It had shut down. Damn credit crunch.
It's time to branch out.
So if you read that last post you'll probably think me a liar - 'post again when he's sacked', he said. I hear you say. Or something.
Well, they sacked me. It was tragic really, mainly because I tried my best. I really wanted to do as I was told and play the game and be successful; well successful enough to apply for another credit card and transfer my balance, and maybe in 6 months time start looking for a mortgage...
Unfortunately it all ended in a massive personality clash. My boss was female and had clearly in the past busted her share of balls, plus whatever area of the female anatomy gets busted in a similar way. She was also heavily botoxed, so it was very hard to read her intentions. I thought she liked my waggish wit, rugged charm and questioning nature. Well, she didn't, I discovered. She assumed I was an ego looking for a place to land, and that I wanted to land on her face. That sort of assumption would have been amusing coming from someone who drove a Gold Lexus, if she wasn't handing me my P45.
Being sacked is horrible, however it happens. No matter how much you know you are right, or wronged, it's still a blow to the confidence. No matter how underpaid or miserable or just plain rubbish the job, you still feel annoyed.
I was very annoyed. My reaction to the news would have raised her eyebrows, had she been able to do so. I don't think anyone's spoken to her like that for a while. Didn't help though, because I'm still at home writing this.
I did, by the way, as promised, go to the little recruitment place at the end of the road. It had shut down. Damn credit crunch.
It's time to branch out.
Monday, 27 July 2009
Chicks for free? Yeah, right.
Hmm, well I know I said last time out I was finished in sales.
So....
I lied.
I admit it. Well, I also admit I don't actually have a job yet, but I did go for an interview. Without divulging too many details it involves a company that sells injecting-into-the-face products for those insecure moments.
I must admit it's a new market to me, but hell, it has got to the point where I need the money. What previously seemed like a terrific blog idea with hilarious consequences dissolves into nothing when you're faced with actually stacking a shelf or cleaning a toilet.
I'd rather spend a year of my life selling something I don't care about and then resume this blog when I'm sacked than end up on the streets using a newspaper as an umbrella, thanks.
But.....
Just for you I'm going to go to the end of my road, and see what the recruitment office can offer me. Just for giggles you know. And if that fails I'll try to become a gigolo. I'm convinced that's never been done on a blog before....
So....
I lied.
I admit it. Well, I also admit I don't actually have a job yet, but I did go for an interview. Without divulging too many details it involves a company that sells injecting-into-the-face products for those insecure moments.
I must admit it's a new market to me, but hell, it has got to the point where I need the money. What previously seemed like a terrific blog idea with hilarious consequences dissolves into nothing when you're faced with actually stacking a shelf or cleaning a toilet.
I'd rather spend a year of my life selling something I don't care about and then resume this blog when I'm sacked than end up on the streets using a newspaper as an umbrella, thanks.
But.....
Just for you I'm going to go to the end of my road, and see what the recruitment office can offer me. Just for giggles you know. And if that fails I'll try to become a gigolo. I'm convinced that's never been done on a blog before....
Wednesday, 15 July 2009
Gone the Dream
Hi there! You don't know me, not until you've read this anyhow. My name is Max Plenty, and I'm unemployed.
Not having a job sounds great, doesn't it? Well, it was for a while. Until the dark times. Yup, until all the money went.
I used to work in sales. Selling means money, if you stick at it. I did, for 5 years. Made enough money to travel around the world. Unfortunately, the global economy collapsed whilst I was away. Very unfortunately. Now no-one wants to employ me because I'm experienced yet slightly mediocre. Damn all these enthusiastic confident people that must be getting all the jobs. I just can't work myself into a lather about exhibition stands or publications of any kind or cosmetic surgery products or various forms of marketing or, to put it frankly, any kind of sales job at all.
Point is I've given up on all that malarkey. Selling is a bit old hat anyway. I've been travelling, but this blog is about my new journey. My journey into the unknown. My search for a new career. I'm willing to do anything for money. And I probably will.
Not having a job sounds great, doesn't it? Well, it was for a while. Until the dark times. Yup, until all the money went.
I used to work in sales. Selling means money, if you stick at it. I did, for 5 years. Made enough money to travel around the world. Unfortunately, the global economy collapsed whilst I was away. Very unfortunately. Now no-one wants to employ me because I'm experienced yet slightly mediocre. Damn all these enthusiastic confident people that must be getting all the jobs. I just can't work myself into a lather about exhibition stands or publications of any kind or cosmetic surgery products or various forms of marketing or, to put it frankly, any kind of sales job at all.
Point is I've given up on all that malarkey. Selling is a bit old hat anyway. I've been travelling, but this blog is about my new journey. My journey into the unknown. My search for a new career. I'm willing to do anything for money. And I probably will.
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