Joblessnessness & it’s disgusting consequences (Pt.II)

As Prince once wrote (& that floating baby-no-tears doll’s head Sinead O’Connor once sang) “It’s been 7 hours and 13 days since the temp agency took my job away” – 2 weeks sans work & that niggling creeping tick of self-doubt & lack of direction has burrowed under the skin of my little toe to take root in my wavering telephone voice & illegible freehand pen-scribbling abilities…

Always knew I’d have to continue this thread at some point after first trying to summarise how debilitating & humiliating the reluctant process of seeking employment can sometimes feel. Here I am tossed back onto the heap of the faceless million plus some whom the government sub-texturally seem to accuse of being feckless – just another statistic.

But then I tell myself to lip up fatty & turn that frown upside down (without doing any permanent damage to my face). I try & wait at least 3 weeks before resorting to the ole rock & roll (dole) as previously mentioned in Joblessnessness Part 1 that can actually become MORE disheartening.

Anywho looky here – there’s a whole 8 pages of jobs advertised in this Wednesday’s Evening Post (Notts nightly rag) but in reality they’re actual 2 pages of A3 (if you’re being pedantic & pessimistic which I’ve decided to be for the remainder of this post). The last 2 sides are mostly for highly trained barstards supremoes with several minutes expertise conning already depleting pensions from the fuel-impoverished Osborne-taxed change-fearing elderly.

Trouble is, worthwhile & well-intentioned charity, human rights & other humane causes have no choice but to follow ‘ahem’ the suits as salesperson shysters. Harassing people with all too little to spare would be bad enough, but the only ones interested & in my experience usually less familiar with the ‘no pause for breath’ uninterrupted barrage of persuasive script tend to be lonely, somewhat reclusive, mentalist windbags who launch off into a tirade of tangents about ‘how plums don’t taste like they used to’ & why they’ve become convinced that the jackdaws are stealing their mail’. Actually one of my mates was recalling how his grandad has genuinely started to believe that the Chinese are stealing all our fenceposts – the ‘our’ presumably being Britain. I pondered whether he is mistaking this for agricultural intensification.

"Pssst Oi! Ginger, Pebbles, you both have your characteristic charms now cut that out!"

Hmmm now let’s see…for some reason the first listing under ‘General Vacancies Part Time’ is CATFIGHTERS – Feisty women to compete in new sport. Earn £50-100 per hour – flexi hours (& the women too you’d imagine – oh how you could imagine) Age 16+ (and this bit’s very important) No Upper Age Limit! Hold my cabbage helmet yep, you read that right. Catsitting is one thing, but any society that advocates & even encourages what could essentially result in Granny Wrestling I’d rather not remain a member of – although as I’ve included above, they do presently have plenty to be angry about.

Any just when you figured every civilised hallmark of a virtuous & progressive city such as ours prospects had been flushed down the khazi it reads ‘tryouts to be filmed by Sky TV’. Hosanna! And the world is right again. What the heck happened to my hundreds of letters to Meussrs. Murdoch demanding the overdue reintroduction of Foxy Boxing (Homer’s favourite female sport) to our screens as the pride of Britain’s attitudes to women in time for the upcoming London 2012 Olympics? Proudly sponsored by Loose Women & some shit bacterial yoghurt brand no doubt. They’ve been punching women of all ages squarely in the face for years already.

This could well be the flipside to a Diamond David Lee Roth 12"

Keep ya posted on my progress folks!



Howdy Folks,

I know since all the playlist madness I’ve been awful quiet on the blogger-sphere front but that’s because after nigh on 6 months unemployment I was finally offered a job of all things! I started this week at a wholesale nurseries pruning and maintaining a wide variety of ornamental and hardy tree varieties such as Birches, Hornbeams, Maples, Small-leaved limes, Chestnuts, Plums and Crab-apples to name but a few of their common names.

As an arboriculture practitioner I am armed with secateurs and string at all times in my trouser pocket (so i can tell the boss “Sorry but I’m a little tied up right now” etc.). Without wishing to sound too suggestive it has become like an extra appendage or limb which I am training myself to ‘ahem’ whip out and sharpen at ever faster speeds as a sort of fifth finger & second thumb. With the secateurs as my weapon of choice after only 5 days I almost feel naked (underneath my clothes as Shakira sang of course) without them. The drawback is that in winter conditions with constant physical labour, my scratched and brittle hands now do look worse than Les Dennis’ CV and require just as much padding.

Now just to learn several hundred subspecies and genus of immature saplings before spring prematurely rolls around…

Try to write soon my lovelies

“Got any jobs yet treaclecakes?” OR Impending Joblessnessness Part 1

When you are jobless you are never more purposeful yet incapable” Phil Swift, 2011

Nothing like a thorough buttering up of one’s own ego by starting a piece with a quote from thineself; Crumpets anyone? Just wipe them along me. And yet, in today’s bat race with record joblessnessness (2.57 million between June & August according to The Guardian) nobody else will oblige you with encouragement except a former B&Q Floor Manager & security doorman at your local Ingeus (ok fine just mine then).

Trouble is you’re pulling & being pulled in so many alternating directions as to how to best use your time thus it never becomes free (time) in your mind. I doubt this would apply to the majority of unemployed but out of work I feel just as imprisoned as when serving time on the inside of some office heckle hole: a slave to the excesses of your own imaginative pursuit of hobbies/dreams/accomplishments.

The only way you'll grow from eating those is outwards

I have discussed this with a few friends and we have always come to the same conclusion. Even for only 10 minutes every other Tuesday, the Jobcentre instils enough fear into the hearts of decent menfolk made to feel worthless that they swear to themselves to find something in time never to return like a crack junkie to his soiled mattress. A disturbing vision of what can happen over time without reassurance or non-polyester based clothing allowance (other than the obvious fire risk). I sometimes enjoy dressing smartly as if for a job interview to readdress the balance not so they might mistake me for someone who works there or actually has an interview but to alter their expectations of what any self-respecting unsporting charity shop lurking Iceland pizza chomping modern-day chap can achieve on £68.

It doesn’t help matters that my job adviser also has the same name as my 10 month old niece which can be somewhat confusing in terms of our relationship and my language with her. Describing my job search methods in babytalk doesn’t seem to swing it and rubbing noses gleefully only confirmed her worries upon referral.

Manager position available for rodent with own dressing gown

Do I learn Spanish? Well too late I already started. Te puede ser util! Tambien puedes ver la tele pero no comprendo Jeremy Kyle cuando mucha gente sufre. Do I write about how many decent festivities are on during October which we’re somehow already through??? Or in a third party system: Do I make myself a midnight club sandwich to rival the height & dexterity of the Chicago Skyline? Only club that ever let me join. Ah well at least i learned to drive & they can’t take that away from me (for now as i haven’t even received my license yet: apparently points DON’T win prizes).

I think Stevie said it best on Living For The City; ‘to find a job is like a haystack needle ‘cause where he lives they don’t use coloured people’; killer lyric which addresses themes of inequality and racial prejudice in New York’s employment sector circa 1970. In my scenario of course the ‘coloured’ would be replaced with ‘principled’ although ironically haybaling is something I’d be perfectly happy doing. Lest not forgot the only factor to apply to the equation is that I am considerably more fortunate than a boy born in hard time Mississippi. Thus Stevie’s words whilst being funky & subtle socio-political commentary sadly do not aid my cause.

I have more to say on this subject so as a thread to post any thoughts I wish to leave the backdoor porchlight on. I’ll close with one of those supposedly inspiring wall posters that quote the great success of a man who died last month after telling his closest trustees virtually naff-all about how to continue his great legacy of unfinished work…a bit like Lenin on his deathbed or Michael Jackson with his freakfest of a family:

I'm really glad he includes the word 'somehow'. I only hope Kevin Smith doesn't feel trapped by Dogma either