In an interesting turn of events, last week I got an email inviting me to attend a job interview. This threw me a wee bit, as I'd applied for the job with a quick, half-arsed application over a month ago. Yet here I am, asked to put on my best shirt to go and attempt to convince them I'm the man for them.
This may take some doing, as I've had the grand total of three interviews. One was unsuccessful, but got me asked back for another six months down the line, in which I did get the gig. Years later, I did well enough in another but the job seemed a crock of shit, so I stuck with what I had at the time.
My current occupation came about after I jacked in the journalist life to spend a year bumming around temp jobs while trying to work it out with a band. After a month spent filing and generally dossing around, the office manager was in need of someone fast. I could use a computer, work a spreadsheet and turned up on time, therefore I got the gig and £250 a week. Result!
Four years later, however, it does feel like I need to move on, hence applying for other jobs in the first place. The plus side, in the unlikely event I'm successful, would be a bit of extra dosh and working closer to home. Excellent. But of course, it'll be more work, which isn't so good, for more than the usual (i.e. I'm a lazy bastard) reasons.
As it may turn out that finally (he says, worried of jinxing the whole thing) I've found a decent bunch of bods to make music with, with the final part of a singer potentially being about to fall into place. This is an issue in that I'm pretty certain my energy levels have taken a huge fall since my mid 20s peak. Back then, I could get up at 6.30am, finish work at 5pm, travel to the darkest corner of Salford to work on songs till close to midnight and get home around 1am, to repeat the next day with no real problems.
Now, aged 31, I get home from work at 4pm and even after a fairly easy day, want to lie down all evening. To quote many a bad film, am I getting too old for this shit? Maybe I should pack in work and use my life savings to commit a whole year to following my dreams. But then, as we all know, it would only mean on my last day that I would end up killed by a bomb of some variety, planted by one of my many enemies. Damn.
Showing posts with label work. Show all posts
Showing posts with label work. Show all posts
Monday, 10 September 2012
Monday, 27 February 2012
Hacked Down
When I tell people I used to be a journalist, the first thing they usually say is "But D.C., I thought you knew who your dad is?" and we both have a good laugh. Because let’s face it, being a hack doesn't come with a good reputation these days – images of scruffy losers digging through Hugh Grant’s rubbish bin springing to mind.
The second thing they might say is "so why did you want to be a journalist?". Well, the thing is, as a young shitkicker, I very quickly worked out that I couldn't play football for squat. To be frank, I was as close to useless as could be. Despite being a good foot taller than everyone else, I was useless in the air, and my pace could be measured by watching landscapes erode. Not that any of this stopped John Terry, mind. Obviously my political views must have held me back. Ahem.
In a moment of clarity surprising in one so young, I decided that if I was never going to be good enough to run out at Old Trafford, I’d have to compensate by *knowing* more about the game than my peers, which I soon was able to say. At some point, someone must have suggested a good use of this, um, skill would be being a football journalist. Seemed logical enough at the time, and I set about it with what for me counts as gusto: just doing well enough in my exams to get the absolute minimum required to go study Journalism at uni.
In three years doing just that, the main thing I learnt was that I wasn't cut out to be a journalist. Concepts such as “house style” were repeatedly emphasised and I picked up very quickly that to get ahead in this game, the most important skill is to shut up and do as you’re told. Even in sports reporting, there’s an agenda beyond what seems a simple matter of writing about a football match.
Despite this loss of innocence, I still wound up spending two years of my life as a professional journalist. At the time, I figured that having spent so long being “trained” to do something, I may as well try to get some use out of my degree.
"So what’s it like?"
The first thing to state is that in 99.999% of working for a publishing company, the glamour is around the zero mark. Most hacks do not work in London for national newspapers. Most work for publications like local rags in nowhere towns or, as I did in the main part, those Business-to-Business magazines that Have I Got News For You like to take the piss out of. Bicycle Seat Sniffer Monthly, that kind of thing.
"So why did you quit?"
The best reason anyone should ever need – I was bored.
Well, bored and skint, really. Journalism is not a well paid way to earn money. My starting salary (albeit seven years ago to the day) was £10,500 a year. The weirdest part was that I had been earning the best part of £50 a week more in my previous job doing menial data inputting, a job that also involved a cheaper and shorter commute.
At first, it wasn't so bad. The editorial and design team was made up of good people and we had a positive atmosphere that made getting through the slog of deadline day a bit easier. I also got some assignments that I actually enjoyed working on and took such a great deal of satisfaction from that I still have the cuttings to this day.
Yet as is such in the industry, turnover is high, not helped by readership appearing to be getting lower. By the time I handed my cards in, I may have seen my salary to rise to £13,000, but I was doing the work of just about two people to earn it. One particular deadline day saw me leave at 2.30am. All part of the job, I know, but when I found myself back at the bus queue some four hours after getting home, I came to the conclusion my life needed to take a sharp turn in a different direction.
The final thing I get asked is “would you ever go back to it?”
To which I reply “no”, for two reasons. One is that I've been out of the game far too long now. As with a lot of jobs, the key is always contacts and experience, of which there are countless others out there with much better supplies of both.
Secondly, as I've stated on here before and is known by anyone with half a brain, print media is dying so fast that the priest is hovering outside waiting to give the last rites. Hence, the industry is still desperately trying to work out ways to make their online services work. Ian Hislop may sneer at the fine work that a lot of blogs do, but he is doubtless worried that the work Private Eye used to deal almost exclusively in is now also done by writers such as those on Tabloid Watch and Zelo Street – both with the advantage of instant publication and costing nothing to the reader.
Of course, I’m also more than aware I may not have had the talent and/or attitude to get ahead in the industry.
I’m quite happy writing this lil’ol blog and the odd thing for No Ripcord – the best thing of all about this medium is that there’s no editorialising. If someone on No Ripcord wants to say the new album by whatever landfill indie band is flavour of the month with the NME is a bucket of shite, then he’ll have the backing of his editor to do just so, not being at the mercy of advertising revenue to toe a certain line. Freedom to write whatever you like (within legal boundaries, of course y'honour) - it's bloody fantastic.
The second thing they might say is "so why did you want to be a journalist?". Well, the thing is, as a young shitkicker, I very quickly worked out that I couldn't play football for squat. To be frank, I was as close to useless as could be. Despite being a good foot taller than everyone else, I was useless in the air, and my pace could be measured by watching landscapes erode. Not that any of this stopped John Terry, mind. Obviously my political views must have held me back. Ahem.
In a moment of clarity surprising in one so young, I decided that if I was never going to be good enough to run out at Old Trafford, I’d have to compensate by *knowing* more about the game than my peers, which I soon was able to say. At some point, someone must have suggested a good use of this, um, skill would be being a football journalist. Seemed logical enough at the time, and I set about it with what for me counts as gusto: just doing well enough in my exams to get the absolute minimum required to go study Journalism at uni.
In three years doing just that, the main thing I learnt was that I wasn't cut out to be a journalist. Concepts such as “house style” were repeatedly emphasised and I picked up very quickly that to get ahead in this game, the most important skill is to shut up and do as you’re told. Even in sports reporting, there’s an agenda beyond what seems a simple matter of writing about a football match.
Despite this loss of innocence, I still wound up spending two years of my life as a professional journalist. At the time, I figured that having spent so long being “trained” to do something, I may as well try to get some use out of my degree.
"So what’s it like?"
The first thing to state is that in 99.999% of working for a publishing company, the glamour is around the zero mark. Most hacks do not work in London for national newspapers. Most work for publications like local rags in nowhere towns or, as I did in the main part, those Business-to-Business magazines that Have I Got News For You like to take the piss out of. Bicycle Seat Sniffer Monthly, that kind of thing.
"So why did you quit?"
The best reason anyone should ever need – I was bored.
Well, bored and skint, really. Journalism is not a well paid way to earn money. My starting salary (albeit seven years ago to the day) was £10,500 a year. The weirdest part was that I had been earning the best part of £50 a week more in my previous job doing menial data inputting, a job that also involved a cheaper and shorter commute.
At first, it wasn't so bad. The editorial and design team was made up of good people and we had a positive atmosphere that made getting through the slog of deadline day a bit easier. I also got some assignments that I actually enjoyed working on and took such a great deal of satisfaction from that I still have the cuttings to this day.
Yet as is such in the industry, turnover is high, not helped by readership appearing to be getting lower. By the time I handed my cards in, I may have seen my salary to rise to £13,000, but I was doing the work of just about two people to earn it. One particular deadline day saw me leave at 2.30am. All part of the job, I know, but when I found myself back at the bus queue some four hours after getting home, I came to the conclusion my life needed to take a sharp turn in a different direction.
The final thing I get asked is “would you ever go back to it?”
To which I reply “no”, for two reasons. One is that I've been out of the game far too long now. As with a lot of jobs, the key is always contacts and experience, of which there are countless others out there with much better supplies of both.
Secondly, as I've stated on here before and is known by anyone with half a brain, print media is dying so fast that the priest is hovering outside waiting to give the last rites. Hence, the industry is still desperately trying to work out ways to make their online services work. Ian Hislop may sneer at the fine work that a lot of blogs do, but he is doubtless worried that the work Private Eye used to deal almost exclusively in is now also done by writers such as those on Tabloid Watch and Zelo Street – both with the advantage of instant publication and costing nothing to the reader.
Of course, I’m also more than aware I may not have had the talent and/or attitude to get ahead in the industry.
I’m quite happy writing this lil’ol blog and the odd thing for No Ripcord – the best thing of all about this medium is that there’s no editorialising. If someone on No Ripcord wants to say the new album by whatever landfill indie band is flavour of the month with the NME is a bucket of shite, then he’ll have the backing of his editor to do just so, not being at the mercy of advertising revenue to toe a certain line. Freedom to write whatever you like (within legal boundaries, of course y'honour) - it's bloody fantastic.
Sunday, 4 September 2011
Doing Your Duty
Once again, The Tedious World is lucky to have a guest post from our Tame Social Worker. In an age where websites such as "Name and Shame Your Social Worker" are doing the rounds, I for one think it's vital for the other side of the story to get some airtime, no matter how little.
The curse of any Social Worker on a Duty and Assessment Team is Duty Week. Once upon a time, in the days before budget cuts, there were teams that just did Duty (where you respond to initial concerns about the welfare of children and assess the situation within seven days). Once you had assessed the families, if you decided they needed long term intervention, the case was passed to the appropiate team.
No longer is this the case: our team will have the same family from initial assessment to potential court proceedings and even adoption of children. Technically, one social worker could have the same family on their case load for several years, all the while getting more new cases every three weeks.
Duty week is always a mixture of high energy mixed with deep despair. In an average week we can receive between 15-30 referrals and sorting the wheat from the chaff is difficult and time consuming.
Over the summer holidays, the silly season occurs. My advice to parents would be, don’t have any parties, ensure your children play inside the house or, if you’re lucky enough to have one, your own back garden. And don’t fall out with any of your neighbours (especially if you’re a housing association tenant) - malicious referrals from neighbours and, on occasion, extended family members rise to a ridiculous level during school holidays.
Last duty week saw many such referrals from neighbours claiming their next door neighbour and mother of two young children was a drug addict and prostitute who was also engaging in anti-social behaviour. Upon investigation, it turned out the ‘concerned neighbours’ reporting this were in fact the type you see on those ‘Neighbours From Hell’ programmes on ITV2 who had repeatedly broken into this woman’s house, set fire to her garden and thrown bricks through her window. Thankfully, our intervention will ensure this woman gets to move home.
Then there’s the family who had the audacity to have a birthday party for their 17 year old. When an uninvited guest was ejected from the house and proceeded to rant and rave in the street, the family’s neighbour, who they had long standing issues with, called the Housing Association and the police claiming that the parents were encouraging their underage children to drink alcohol. That’s one family who won’t be having any more parties soon. And finally, there’s the case of the three children playing outside their own home when their football accidentally hit a neighbours car. A quick call to Children’s Services claiming their parents are neglecting them and we show up on the doorstep.
Needless to say, all these cases were closed after Initial Assessment, but it is indicative of the time and resources we waste investigating either trumped up or completely fabricated accusations against parents. Since Baby P, councils are terrified of anything going wrong on their watch, so again and again, Social Workers are sent to investigate every family who we receive a referral about, regardless of whether it appears to be malicious.
Obviously most of the referrals we receive do warrant our investigation, but it bugs me that people who make malicious referrals about their neighbours (and are allowed to remain anonymous) ensure that we can spend time following up false claims to the detriment of spending extra time with families who really need our help.
The curse of any Social Worker on a Duty and Assessment Team is Duty Week. Once upon a time, in the days before budget cuts, there were teams that just did Duty (where you respond to initial concerns about the welfare of children and assess the situation within seven days). Once you had assessed the families, if you decided they needed long term intervention, the case was passed to the appropiate team.
No longer is this the case: our team will have the same family from initial assessment to potential court proceedings and even adoption of children. Technically, one social worker could have the same family on their case load for several years, all the while getting more new cases every three weeks.
Duty week is always a mixture of high energy mixed with deep despair. In an average week we can receive between 15-30 referrals and sorting the wheat from the chaff is difficult and time consuming.
Over the summer holidays, the silly season occurs. My advice to parents would be, don’t have any parties, ensure your children play inside the house or, if you’re lucky enough to have one, your own back garden. And don’t fall out with any of your neighbours (especially if you’re a housing association tenant) - malicious referrals from neighbours and, on occasion, extended family members rise to a ridiculous level during school holidays.
Last duty week saw many such referrals from neighbours claiming their next door neighbour and mother of two young children was a drug addict and prostitute who was also engaging in anti-social behaviour. Upon investigation, it turned out the ‘concerned neighbours’ reporting this were in fact the type you see on those ‘Neighbours From Hell’ programmes on ITV2 who had repeatedly broken into this woman’s house, set fire to her garden and thrown bricks through her window. Thankfully, our intervention will ensure this woman gets to move home.
Then there’s the family who had the audacity to have a birthday party for their 17 year old. When an uninvited guest was ejected from the house and proceeded to rant and rave in the street, the family’s neighbour, who they had long standing issues with, called the Housing Association and the police claiming that the parents were encouraging their underage children to drink alcohol. That’s one family who won’t be having any more parties soon. And finally, there’s the case of the three children playing outside their own home when their football accidentally hit a neighbours car. A quick call to Children’s Services claiming their parents are neglecting them and we show up on the doorstep.
Needless to say, all these cases were closed after Initial Assessment, but it is indicative of the time and resources we waste investigating either trumped up or completely fabricated accusations against parents. Since Baby P, councils are terrified of anything going wrong on their watch, so again and again, Social Workers are sent to investigate every family who we receive a referral about, regardless of whether it appears to be malicious.
Obviously most of the referrals we receive do warrant our investigation, but it bugs me that people who make malicious referrals about their neighbours (and are allowed to remain anonymous) ensure that we can spend time following up false claims to the detriment of spending extra time with families who really need our help.
Tuesday, 15 March 2011
Working Day (And The Rest...)
As I've said before, and will say again, Social Workers never get the credit they deserve. Chances are that if you read about them, it's due to a mistake, which are (sadly) inevitable, as they are in any caring profession. Following on from an earlier post, The Tedious World's own Social Work correspondent offers an insight in the kind of challenges they face.
I thought that for my next insight into the life of your average Social Worker, I would look at what we actually do day to day. Unlike Doctors or Police Officers, there are no TV shows about Social Workers and the nature of their work, so I imagine most people don’t really know what we do on an average day. The following example is not typical of every day, and I intend to write about what a typical day is like when we are on Duty and get new referrals at a later date.
So today, I get up at 7am, though I was actually awake long before that as usually I wake up in the middle of the night worrying about work. I have to admit that I don’t often worry about the children on my caseload, more about the paperwork I need to do that day, the assessments I need to complete and the many phone calls and emails I haven’t had time to return.
After only having had three or four hours sleep, I drive to work. It was recommended to me that if you work in Child Protection, it’s best not to live where you work. I stupidly took this advice so I now face a 40 mile round trip every day through heavy traffic to get to and from the office. Frankly, if I could get a job nearer home now I’d take it and not care about whether I would be bumping into Service Users whilst doing my weekly supermarket shop, but hey, you live and learn.
After battling through the traffic, I arrive at a Primary School for a Core Group meeting. These meetings are for children who are on a Child Protection Plan and happen every four weeks. Whilst parking, I over estimate the distance and bang into some metal railings. Having no time to inspect the damage, I rush into the meeting to find several people haven’t turned up. Our manager has insisted lately that at these meetings we should ‘encourage’ other professionals to take the minutes instead of it always being the Social Worker. Unfortunately, the attitude is generally ‘that’s your responsibility’, therefore I end up minute taking as usual.
The meeting doesn't go well; the teacher of the youngest child is concerned about their behaviour. School claim they have tried everything to control the child’s behaviour at home and are now looking at me to find the magic solution. It is suggested that I should make a referral to Educational Psychology, which I reluctantly agree to despite the fact this child is five years old and the psychology team will recommend parenting classes for the parents despite the fact they have already completed these.
After the meeting I inspect the damage to my car. I've managed to dislodge the rubber trimming around the bottom of the bumper. As it is hanging off I decide that the best option is to pull it off. However, this results in me cutting my hand. I then drive back to the office where luckily there are actually plasters in the First Aid box for a change. My hands are shaking, so I quickly have two cups of tea before turning on the computer.
This is always the part of the day I dread, I always check the incoming contacts on open cases first to get the worst part over with. This is where you see if anything has happened overnight to one of your families. Today’s a good day, nothing on any of my cases.
On an average week, we would have five social workers, an Advanced Practitioner, who has lots of valuable experience, and a manager for each team. On our team, however, we have the manager and another member of staff on holiday all week with another Social Worker on holiday from Wednesday. We have one Social Worker off sick and another who left several months ago and is yet to be replaced. This leaves me, one other Social Worker and the Advanced Practitioner.
We check the long email sent to remind us of all the work we need to pick up on other people’s cases this week. This list doesn't include the work we have to do on our own cases, as it’s expected that we know what we’re doing and have planned our time accordingly. We do usually manage our diaries effectively, however it doesn't help when you have to go out and visit other Social Worker’s families or attend meetings on their behalf. We manage to divvy up the work without too much complaining.
Today my challenge is to complete five Initial Assessments on new cases which came in recently. We get seven working days to complete these but still we end up feeling rushed and today I try to track down people from the children’s schools and their school nurses. I leave messages several times with not much hope of getting called back.
Due to being on essential training two days last week, I’m now behind with these assessments, meaning that of the five assessments I completed, they will all have to go on to Core Assessments where more information can be gathered, partly as I've not had as much time as usual to complete them and partly by other professionals not returning my calls.
The afternoon is interrupted by a false fire alarm which leaves us stranded outside for a good ten minutes. I then field a stream of phone calls (several not for me but they couldn't get hold of anyone else). Most of the calls are to remind me of things I haven’t had time to do yet, however one I feel is symptomatic of how the supposed ‘multi-agency working’ that is supposed to be the basis of what we do does not work. The call is from a Nurse on a Disability Team. She’s working with a teenager with learning difficulties who is at risk of being sexually exploited due to her lack of understanding about danger and risk.
The Nurse wants to talk to her and explain to her what sex actually is, but is worried that if this girl then goes off of her own accord and has sex, then she will be held responsible. The Nurse wants me to speak to my manager about the implications for her. Technically, this should be discussed between her and her manager, but she points out that I am the ‘lead professional’. I’m annoyed when I hang up the phone as to me it feels like another incidence of ‘back-covering’ (again something I intend to go into in another post).
The day ends with me cancelling an appointment which would be a 20 mile round trip as I honestly tell the Service User that I cannot afford the petrol to come and see them until I get paid later in the week. Luckily, they are very understanding and the appointment is rearranged.
I finish the day with a home visit. They’re not in. I breathe a sigh of relief and head for the motorway to begin the long commute home.
I thought that for my next insight into the life of your average Social Worker, I would look at what we actually do day to day. Unlike Doctors or Police Officers, there are no TV shows about Social Workers and the nature of their work, so I imagine most people don’t really know what we do on an average day. The following example is not typical of every day, and I intend to write about what a typical day is like when we are on Duty and get new referrals at a later date.
So today, I get up at 7am, though I was actually awake long before that as usually I wake up in the middle of the night worrying about work. I have to admit that I don’t often worry about the children on my caseload, more about the paperwork I need to do that day, the assessments I need to complete and the many phone calls and emails I haven’t had time to return.
After only having had three or four hours sleep, I drive to work. It was recommended to me that if you work in Child Protection, it’s best not to live where you work. I stupidly took this advice so I now face a 40 mile round trip every day through heavy traffic to get to and from the office. Frankly, if I could get a job nearer home now I’d take it and not care about whether I would be bumping into Service Users whilst doing my weekly supermarket shop, but hey, you live and learn.
After battling through the traffic, I arrive at a Primary School for a Core Group meeting. These meetings are for children who are on a Child Protection Plan and happen every four weeks. Whilst parking, I over estimate the distance and bang into some metal railings. Having no time to inspect the damage, I rush into the meeting to find several people haven’t turned up. Our manager has insisted lately that at these meetings we should ‘encourage’ other professionals to take the minutes instead of it always being the Social Worker. Unfortunately, the attitude is generally ‘that’s your responsibility’, therefore I end up minute taking as usual.
The meeting doesn't go well; the teacher of the youngest child is concerned about their behaviour. School claim they have tried everything to control the child’s behaviour at home and are now looking at me to find the magic solution. It is suggested that I should make a referral to Educational Psychology, which I reluctantly agree to despite the fact this child is five years old and the psychology team will recommend parenting classes for the parents despite the fact they have already completed these.
After the meeting I inspect the damage to my car. I've managed to dislodge the rubber trimming around the bottom of the bumper. As it is hanging off I decide that the best option is to pull it off. However, this results in me cutting my hand. I then drive back to the office where luckily there are actually plasters in the First Aid box for a change. My hands are shaking, so I quickly have two cups of tea before turning on the computer.
This is always the part of the day I dread, I always check the incoming contacts on open cases first to get the worst part over with. This is where you see if anything has happened overnight to one of your families. Today’s a good day, nothing on any of my cases.
On an average week, we would have five social workers, an Advanced Practitioner, who has lots of valuable experience, and a manager for each team. On our team, however, we have the manager and another member of staff on holiday all week with another Social Worker on holiday from Wednesday. We have one Social Worker off sick and another who left several months ago and is yet to be replaced. This leaves me, one other Social Worker and the Advanced Practitioner.
We check the long email sent to remind us of all the work we need to pick up on other people’s cases this week. This list doesn't include the work we have to do on our own cases, as it’s expected that we know what we’re doing and have planned our time accordingly. We do usually manage our diaries effectively, however it doesn't help when you have to go out and visit other Social Worker’s families or attend meetings on their behalf. We manage to divvy up the work without too much complaining.
Today my challenge is to complete five Initial Assessments on new cases which came in recently. We get seven working days to complete these but still we end up feeling rushed and today I try to track down people from the children’s schools and their school nurses. I leave messages several times with not much hope of getting called back.
Due to being on essential training two days last week, I’m now behind with these assessments, meaning that of the five assessments I completed, they will all have to go on to Core Assessments where more information can be gathered, partly as I've not had as much time as usual to complete them and partly by other professionals not returning my calls.
The afternoon is interrupted by a false fire alarm which leaves us stranded outside for a good ten minutes. I then field a stream of phone calls (several not for me but they couldn't get hold of anyone else). Most of the calls are to remind me of things I haven’t had time to do yet, however one I feel is symptomatic of how the supposed ‘multi-agency working’ that is supposed to be the basis of what we do does not work. The call is from a Nurse on a Disability Team. She’s working with a teenager with learning difficulties who is at risk of being sexually exploited due to her lack of understanding about danger and risk.
The Nurse wants to talk to her and explain to her what sex actually is, but is worried that if this girl then goes off of her own accord and has sex, then she will be held responsible. The Nurse wants me to speak to my manager about the implications for her. Technically, this should be discussed between her and her manager, but she points out that I am the ‘lead professional’. I’m annoyed when I hang up the phone as to me it feels like another incidence of ‘back-covering’ (again something I intend to go into in another post).
The day ends with me cancelling an appointment which would be a 20 mile round trip as I honestly tell the Service User that I cannot afford the petrol to come and see them until I get paid later in the week. Luckily, they are very understanding and the appointment is rearranged.
I finish the day with a home visit. They’re not in. I breathe a sigh of relief and head for the motorway to begin the long commute home.
Saturday, 18 December 2010
The Last Mile is the Longest Mile
An early Christmas present came my way when, through a friend, I received my very own Mr. Bill. Thanks go to Richard Feltoon at www.gumbystore.com/ for shipping out to the UK and for showing excellent customer service.As I vowed, I've been treated the little fellow with a lot of respect and compassion and in return, he's been helping me out with my work, as you can see. What a helpful chap.
It's just as well as he has too, as the last week seemed to drag on forever, in no small part due to being the countdown to a long-needed ten days off. Matters weren't helped by picking up a bit of bug in midweek which left my skeleton feeling like it was made of metal and giving me berserk fever dreams on Wednesday night.
Still, all over now and I can afford to relax a little. Or I could, if it weren't for the sodding snow making a unwelcome comeback. Quite how I'm going to get back to West Cumbria is something of a mystery unless we get a rapid thaw. Not to worry about that now, though: I've got a week and a bit of freedom to try and do some writing and play some games. Bliss.
Friday, 3 December 2010
Paper and Ink
I can't tell you exactly when I decided I wanted to be a journalist, but I can tell you why. It was because I was crap at football.
This was a conclusion I came too fairly early, probably around the age of seven or so. I was gangling, hopeless at just about all the basic skills except the ability to hit the ball very hard with my left foot. In hindsight, I should have stuck at it, as I can't have been any worse than some of the chancers who've been tried on the left wing for England over the last 20 years.
So, taking on a pragmatic attitude, I resolved to know more about football than anybody else at my school, which evolved into a desire to write about. The idea of being paid to be a footy journalist seemed pretty sound back then, so I ensured that every birthday and Christmas, I got at least one or two football stat books, which I'd pore over and have ensured that to this day I have an incredibly amount of useless information in my head. Outside the confines of a pub quiz, it's unlikely I'll ever need to know Alan Taylor scored both goals in West Ham's 2-0 victory over Fulham in the 1975 cup final.
What it did provide me with was something of a focus to get me through troubled teenage years. I needed to stick in at school to some degree, just so I could get to university to study Journalism. Somehow, despite a complete lack of interest in studying, I managed to get a place at a small university in the South of England.
Over three years, I learnt that I had neither the attitude not the application to crack the journo game. Even back then, the process of 'churnalism' was being taught in some form and the importance of toeing the line was emphasised. Don't be creative, don't be individual, do as you are told.
After graduation, I spent a long time on the dole applying for various jobs on papers and the like, to no joy. Eventually, I wound up in Manchester and while working the cricket ground job I wrote about recently, applied for a journalist job I saw in the local rag, thinking nothing of it. Instead, I got an interview, in which I got down to the last two. Bummer not getting it, but nice to get that close for the first time.
Some months later, out of work again and wondering what the fuck to do with my life, I was sat in the Castle pub, in Manchester's Northern Quarter, when the phone rang and I was asked to return to the aforementioned publishing company. I trooped up a couple of days later, if I remember right it was Valentine's Day, and talked to the publishing manager. I got the job.
The money was peanuts, it involved about three hours of bus journeys a day and there weren't many perks, but the point was that I was a fully paid up journalist. A professional writer, of sorts. It was the first of four major ambitions that I managed to fulfill between 2005-2007.
Seeing my name on a byline was a huge thrill, even if the stories were all on the business-to-business theme of the company's publications and extremely boring. But what made it worthwhile was that the production team (designers and editorial staff) were a great bunch of lads. It helped we were all, but one, United fans and it helped getting up at 6.30am knowing there might be a few laughs to have.
Over time, the crew was broken up due to frustrations with the directors and the chance to make a proper wage elsewhere. I hacked it for two years before my own frustrations spilled over. Despite the chance to take my manager's job and earn a bit more wedge, the workload seemed too much and I bailed.
I've been asked a few times whether I'll go back to the journo gig full-time, and it seems incredibly unlikely. I've been out of the game three years now, in an industry where contacts are everything. And I never really enjoyed the work anyways. The vast majority of hacks do batter farm work, endlessly knocking out passionless articles that are barely read. Much as this blog is probably read by about five people, it's giving me a much better sense of self-fulfillment.
This was a conclusion I came too fairly early, probably around the age of seven or so. I was gangling, hopeless at just about all the basic skills except the ability to hit the ball very hard with my left foot. In hindsight, I should have stuck at it, as I can't have been any worse than some of the chancers who've been tried on the left wing for England over the last 20 years.
So, taking on a pragmatic attitude, I resolved to know more about football than anybody else at my school, which evolved into a desire to write about. The idea of being paid to be a footy journalist seemed pretty sound back then, so I ensured that every birthday and Christmas, I got at least one or two football stat books, which I'd pore over and have ensured that to this day I have an incredibly amount of useless information in my head. Outside the confines of a pub quiz, it's unlikely I'll ever need to know Alan Taylor scored both goals in West Ham's 2-0 victory over Fulham in the 1975 cup final.
What it did provide me with was something of a focus to get me through troubled teenage years. I needed to stick in at school to some degree, just so I could get to university to study Journalism. Somehow, despite a complete lack of interest in studying, I managed to get a place at a small university in the South of England.
Over three years, I learnt that I had neither the attitude not the application to crack the journo game. Even back then, the process of 'churnalism' was being taught in some form and the importance of toeing the line was emphasised. Don't be creative, don't be individual, do as you are told.
After graduation, I spent a long time on the dole applying for various jobs on papers and the like, to no joy. Eventually, I wound up in Manchester and while working the cricket ground job I wrote about recently, applied for a journalist job I saw in the local rag, thinking nothing of it. Instead, I got an interview, in which I got down to the last two. Bummer not getting it, but nice to get that close for the first time.
Some months later, out of work again and wondering what the fuck to do with my life, I was sat in the Castle pub, in Manchester's Northern Quarter, when the phone rang and I was asked to return to the aforementioned publishing company. I trooped up a couple of days later, if I remember right it was Valentine's Day, and talked to the publishing manager. I got the job.
The money was peanuts, it involved about three hours of bus journeys a day and there weren't many perks, but the point was that I was a fully paid up journalist. A professional writer, of sorts. It was the first of four major ambitions that I managed to fulfill between 2005-2007.
Seeing my name on a byline was a huge thrill, even if the stories were all on the business-to-business theme of the company's publications and extremely boring. But what made it worthwhile was that the production team (designers and editorial staff) were a great bunch of lads. It helped we were all, but one, United fans and it helped getting up at 6.30am knowing there might be a few laughs to have.
Over time, the crew was broken up due to frustrations with the directors and the chance to make a proper wage elsewhere. I hacked it for two years before my own frustrations spilled over. Despite the chance to take my manager's job and earn a bit more wedge, the workload seemed too much and I bailed.
I've been asked a few times whether I'll go back to the journo gig full-time, and it seems incredibly unlikely. I've been out of the game three years now, in an industry where contacts are everything. And I never really enjoyed the work anyways. The vast majority of hacks do batter farm work, endlessly knocking out passionless articles that are barely read. Much as this blog is probably read by about five people, it's giving me a much better sense of self-fulfillment.
Thursday, 25 November 2010
The Summer of 2004
My first job in Manchester set the tone for the next six years in that it was boring as fuck. Having moved here in a desperate shot at finding work and escaping the dole queue, I'd spied an advert in the Evening News asking for people to work event security. Stewards, basically.
I rang the number and was invited to an interview straight away. This seemed a good sign and I figured it would pay crap, but enough to ensure I could get myself somewhere more permanent to live than the student digs I was crashed in while the usual occupiers were away for summer. Perhaps I'd get to see the odd band or football game as a bonus.
After the briefest of interviews, which seemed to me to be an exercise to prove I could speak decent English and wasn't a complete lunatic, I was invited to start the next day. All I needed to do was wear a white shirt, black trousers and 'smart' shoes. I didn't have the shirt, so on my way home I stopped at BHS and bought the cheapest one possible.
I'd been told to report to the cricket ground at 10am, the first of working at many games there. I hate cricket. Eventually, I settled into it over the remainder of the summer. Four day test matches came around every other week, depending on the rain, working from 10am to 6pm for £5 an hour. Occasional night 20/20 matches brought in an extra £20 or so, enough for me to pay the £60 a week rent for the tiny bedsit I'd found by chance.
After a little while, we were invited to sit this Health and Safety exam that gave us some vague qualification to earn an extra 50p per hour. I copied the answers from the guy next to me, who said he was studying an NVQ in Sport Science, and got the raise.
Generally, I worked around the non-smoking section of the ground, doing a loop of the four exits and the club museum with six other people, doing half an hour at each before a rest period. I soon arranged it so that my break came straight before or after the spell in the museum, where all you had to do was ensure nobody broke anything. I would position myself in a corner that allowed me pre-warning of any incomers (i.e. the boss) through the reflection of the glass boxes that contained prizes and memories of LCCC past.
With the chance to spend an hour out of every two-and-a-half sat on my arse doing nothing, it seemed a good time to get in some reading. I read Love On The Dole over a couple of days (thanks, Red), and a few others.
My main memory of a lot of the games was that the first two days (Thursday and Friday) would generally be mainly attended by pensioners, as most other people would be at work. Part of the job was checking on any spectators who may have dozed off in the sun, just to check they were still breathing. Getting close enough to clarify this, as in enough to hear snoring but not so that you looked like you were trying to rob them, became an art form.
As the summer ended, I finally got a 'proper' job in an office, with a desk and a computer, and I've rotated around several others like this since. When I think back to my first summer in Manchester, I'm sometimes surprised by how much I've changed and whether the distance I've covered has been for the better or not.
I rang the number and was invited to an interview straight away. This seemed a good sign and I figured it would pay crap, but enough to ensure I could get myself somewhere more permanent to live than the student digs I was crashed in while the usual occupiers were away for summer. Perhaps I'd get to see the odd band or football game as a bonus.
After the briefest of interviews, which seemed to me to be an exercise to prove I could speak decent English and wasn't a complete lunatic, I was invited to start the next day. All I needed to do was wear a white shirt, black trousers and 'smart' shoes. I didn't have the shirt, so on my way home I stopped at BHS and bought the cheapest one possible.
I'd been told to report to the cricket ground at 10am, the first of working at many games there. I hate cricket. Eventually, I settled into it over the remainder of the summer. Four day test matches came around every other week, depending on the rain, working from 10am to 6pm for £5 an hour. Occasional night 20/20 matches brought in an extra £20 or so, enough for me to pay the £60 a week rent for the tiny bedsit I'd found by chance.
After a little while, we were invited to sit this Health and Safety exam that gave us some vague qualification to earn an extra 50p per hour. I copied the answers from the guy next to me, who said he was studying an NVQ in Sport Science, and got the raise.
Generally, I worked around the non-smoking section of the ground, doing a loop of the four exits and the club museum with six other people, doing half an hour at each before a rest period. I soon arranged it so that my break came straight before or after the spell in the museum, where all you had to do was ensure nobody broke anything. I would position myself in a corner that allowed me pre-warning of any incomers (i.e. the boss) through the reflection of the glass boxes that contained prizes and memories of LCCC past.
With the chance to spend an hour out of every two-and-a-half sat on my arse doing nothing, it seemed a good time to get in some reading. I read Love On The Dole over a couple of days (thanks, Red), and a few others.
My main memory of a lot of the games was that the first two days (Thursday and Friday) would generally be mainly attended by pensioners, as most other people would be at work. Part of the job was checking on any spectators who may have dozed off in the sun, just to check they were still breathing. Getting close enough to clarify this, as in enough to hear snoring but not so that you looked like you were trying to rob them, became an art form.
As the summer ended, I finally got a 'proper' job in an office, with a desk and a computer, and I've rotated around several others like this since. When I think back to my first summer in Manchester, I'm sometimes surprised by how much I've changed and whether the distance I've covered has been for the better or not.
Sunday, 3 October 2010
Lost Weekends
Personally, I find the weekend begins at 4pm on Friday, when I get out of work, and ends at the same time on Sunday, when the day becomes like any other, waiting for the next day rolls around. It's the 48 hours the Clash sang about on their first album: "Short space of time and a heavy scene/Monday is coming like a jail on wheels".
A friend of mine made a perceptive observation last week, when the topic of weekends came up. She said that having spent most of Monday to Friday looking forward to it, it can never live up to the expectation. Certainly true in my case, having spent many a time feeling I should be doing something with the freedom I have, but usually end up staying in bed till noon on Saturday and Sunday.
Of course, there's always the football to get me out of the flat for a few hours but even that is starting to lose it's ability to get me through the week. The obvious conclusion is that I, as with everyone I would imagine, need some kind of purpose and motivation.
It seems to be a modern problem, this. Someone at work was banging on about a "course" she attended a few weeks ago and was urging others to go to some forum they hold. I won't mention the name (you never know who's reading) but some investigation led me to the conclusion it's one of those quasi-cults that essentially take hundreds of pounds off you under the guise of "helping you achieve your goals and ambitions".
Not my scene at all, especially as part of the whole course seems to be when the leader hurls abuse at you in some vague form of reverse psychology that would be more likely to lead me to smack them round the chops. Yet I imagine that in the modern world, where concepts of god and church no longer mean much to a large part of the population, people are looking elsewhere for their spiritual fulfillment.
Having never been one to follow anyone, or be a leader myself, I can't help but feel I'm at a very important junction in my life. I try to tell myself it's a big world, and that there's something out there. Then I worry I'm too cynical/lazy/easily bored to actually get up off my arse and start looking. Ah, the troubles of 21st century man.
A friend of mine made a perceptive observation last week, when the topic of weekends came up. She said that having spent most of Monday to Friday looking forward to it, it can never live up to the expectation. Certainly true in my case, having spent many a time feeling I should be doing something with the freedom I have, but usually end up staying in bed till noon on Saturday and Sunday.
Of course, there's always the football to get me out of the flat for a few hours but even that is starting to lose it's ability to get me through the week. The obvious conclusion is that I, as with everyone I would imagine, need some kind of purpose and motivation.
It seems to be a modern problem, this. Someone at work was banging on about a "course" she attended a few weeks ago and was urging others to go to some forum they hold. I won't mention the name (you never know who's reading) but some investigation led me to the conclusion it's one of those quasi-cults that essentially take hundreds of pounds off you under the guise of "helping you achieve your goals and ambitions".
Not my scene at all, especially as part of the whole course seems to be when the leader hurls abuse at you in some vague form of reverse psychology that would be more likely to lead me to smack them round the chops. Yet I imagine that in the modern world, where concepts of god and church no longer mean much to a large part of the population, people are looking elsewhere for their spiritual fulfillment.
Having never been one to follow anyone, or be a leader myself, I can't help but feel I'm at a very important junction in my life. I try to tell myself it's a big world, and that there's something out there. Then I worry I'm too cynical/lazy/easily bored to actually get up off my arse and start looking. Ah, the troubles of 21st century man.
Tuesday, 7 September 2010
Where I Feel Safest of All
The other week, whilst lugging an old TV over to a friend's digs in Rochdale in the evening, I spent an unpleasant 20 minutes of so waiting to get on the motorway.
Nothing exciting in that, of course, but the thought that occurred to me, watching traffic crawl along both in and out of Manchester was "fucking hell, some people must do this every single day they go to work". Spending an hour or so a day chugging along at five mph, stopping and starting constantly.
I'm lucky in that where I work is a fairly smooth 15 minute drive. The prospect of timing that by four or five both ways every day would bring about a rapid decline in mental health, much as I love driving my car.
A few years ago, I did have to spend about three hours a day commuting, but at the time I was stuck on the buses. This does actually make it slightly more tolerable, as at least you can read a book or drift off into a daydream. In a car, you have to constantly keep eyes out and your foot on the clutch, which is quite frankly a bit tiring.
In conclusion: I'm writing this to remind myself that while my job may be incredibly dull, it does have some positives.
Nothing exciting in that, of course, but the thought that occurred to me, watching traffic crawl along both in and out of Manchester was "fucking hell, some people must do this every single day they go to work". Spending an hour or so a day chugging along at five mph, stopping and starting constantly.
I'm lucky in that where I work is a fairly smooth 15 minute drive. The prospect of timing that by four or five both ways every day would bring about a rapid decline in mental health, much as I love driving my car.
A few years ago, I did have to spend about three hours a day commuting, but at the time I was stuck on the buses. This does actually make it slightly more tolerable, as at least you can read a book or drift off into a daydream. In a car, you have to constantly keep eyes out and your foot on the clutch, which is quite frankly a bit tiring.
In conclusion: I'm writing this to remind myself that while my job may be incredibly dull, it does have some positives.
Sunday, 8 August 2010
Crime and Punishment
Something that having to spend your seven plus hours a day in the workplace does, for me at least, is lower your tolerance for the human race in general. Petty things become issues of grave importance and it becomes half the job keeping your mood in check.
It's not even stuff like other people nicking your milk. That's personal. What is happening to me is that irrelevant matters are starting to gnaw at my brain like some freakish alien parasite. Recently, everytime I've had to bob into the Gent's WC (which happens to be quite often these days due to the increased amounts of coffee I need to stay awake), the sink tap is always running. Sometimes it's just a dribble, which I can pass off as not deliberate, but others it's fully on.
And this is really, really irritating me now. I wish I could say it was a fit of environmentally-friendly pique, but it's not. It's just getting to the point of obsession causing me to have daydreams of taking on a Columbo persona, dusting the taps for fingerprints or setting up a hidden camera outside the door so I can view just who was last in before me.
Quite what I'd do if I actually did know, I can't say. Nothing, probably, except perhaps aim a really contemptuous stare at the guilty party when they weren't looking. That'll learn them.
It's not even stuff like other people nicking your milk. That's personal. What is happening to me is that irrelevant matters are starting to gnaw at my brain like some freakish alien parasite. Recently, everytime I've had to bob into the Gent's WC (which happens to be quite often these days due to the increased amounts of coffee I need to stay awake), the sink tap is always running. Sometimes it's just a dribble, which I can pass off as not deliberate, but others it's fully on.
And this is really, really irritating me now. I wish I could say it was a fit of environmentally-friendly pique, but it's not. It's just getting to the point of obsession causing me to have daydreams of taking on a Columbo persona, dusting the taps for fingerprints or setting up a hidden camera outside the door so I can view just who was last in before me.
Quite what I'd do if I actually did know, I can't say. Nothing, probably, except perhaps aim a really contemptuous stare at the guilty party when they weren't looking. That'll learn them.
Tuesday, 3 August 2010
Wearing Blue and Brown
Joe Strummer and Mick Jones had it spot on when, in Clampdown, they sang "so you've got someone to boss around, makes you feel big now".
Back to work, this was brought to sharp focus when overhearing one confrontation at my desk this morning. To explain: we've recently had a few new bods starting due to some scheme to get people off the dole. What happens is that they're dumped in offices like ours and put on minimum wage to do whatever they are told.
In this instance, one (understandably) bored and unmotivated young fellow was photocopying some documents when one of the hacks from admin bowled up and started dishing out a bollocking over some incredibly trivial matter. At first this seemed odd to me, but then I clicked on - see, beforehand she was only to be on the receiving end of such treatment, but now there was someone 'below' her in the food chain, and it was time to some payback.
No doubt this is common in offices and workplaces across the world. The worry is, of course, that you'll end up the same sometime. At the age of 29, I've yet to experience having to manage anybody and my chronic lack of career ambition may ensure I'll escape it for a fair while yet. Yet the idea of being a wanker of a boss is a terrifying one.
Office politics is one of the more tedious aspects of modern living. If you're like me, you just turn up to work, do your job and go home, trying to get it over with the absolute minimum amount of fuss and hassle. Some people, for reasons beyond me, decide that this isn't enough and create situations if they don't get their own way. Makes me wish I'd studied psychology so I can perhaps get some insight into why this is so, as it baffles me.
Back to work, this was brought to sharp focus when overhearing one confrontation at my desk this morning. To explain: we've recently had a few new bods starting due to some scheme to get people off the dole. What happens is that they're dumped in offices like ours and put on minimum wage to do whatever they are told.
In this instance, one (understandably) bored and unmotivated young fellow was photocopying some documents when one of the hacks from admin bowled up and started dishing out a bollocking over some incredibly trivial matter. At first this seemed odd to me, but then I clicked on - see, beforehand she was only to be on the receiving end of such treatment, but now there was someone 'below' her in the food chain, and it was time to some payback.
No doubt this is common in offices and workplaces across the world. The worry is, of course, that you'll end up the same sometime. At the age of 29, I've yet to experience having to manage anybody and my chronic lack of career ambition may ensure I'll escape it for a fair while yet. Yet the idea of being a wanker of a boss is a terrifying one.
Office politics is one of the more tedious aspects of modern living. If you're like me, you just turn up to work, do your job and go home, trying to get it over with the absolute minimum amount of fuss and hassle. Some people, for reasons beyond me, decide that this isn't enough and create situations if they don't get their own way. Makes me wish I'd studied psychology so I can perhaps get some insight into why this is so, as it baffles me.
Friday, 4 June 2010
The Certainty of Chance
Some days ago, I was summoned by my managers to the head office for a meeting. The main reason for this was to meet "The Big Cheese". The guy with the purse strings.
When you work for a large organisation, you rarely get to meet the people who essentially can hold your fate in their hands, especially when you're at the bottom of the heap. Not that I was actually bothered by this, but at least it gave me an opportunity to stop by the bank on my way to cash in my coppers in their handy sorting machine.
After the usual babbling about trivial crap that basically had the net result of us getting lumped with more work in order to cut costs, Big Boss strode into the room with his corporate haircut and business speak. The words filtered through my skull as I instead stared at the clock as it ticked past four. Thanks for the hard work, emphasis on how times will be tough for all of us in the coming months. All of us? Yeah, right.
What I did wonder, though, was how somebody gets to the position where they earn a huge fuck-off salary, an air condition office for themselves and a PA to pretty much organise their working life. Do you actually have to work hard, get lucky or kiss a biblically huge amount of arse? Or a combination of all three?
In turn, this led me to consider how some bands or artists are less successful than others, in terms of recognition. The Chameleons, for example, seem to me to have all the power and passion of U2, but without the pious bollocks spouted by Bono at any given opportunity. Did they not 'play the game' like U2, or was it just a succession of bad luck/choices?
Of course, recognition isn't what any creative person should be seeking, first or foremost, but I'd imagine it certainly helps when the rent needs paid.
When you work for a large organisation, you rarely get to meet the people who essentially can hold your fate in their hands, especially when you're at the bottom of the heap. Not that I was actually bothered by this, but at least it gave me an opportunity to stop by the bank on my way to cash in my coppers in their handy sorting machine.
After the usual babbling about trivial crap that basically had the net result of us getting lumped with more work in order to cut costs, Big Boss strode into the room with his corporate haircut and business speak. The words filtered through my skull as I instead stared at the clock as it ticked past four. Thanks for the hard work, emphasis on how times will be tough for all of us in the coming months. All of us? Yeah, right.
What I did wonder, though, was how somebody gets to the position where they earn a huge fuck-off salary, an air condition office for themselves and a PA to pretty much organise their working life. Do you actually have to work hard, get lucky or kiss a biblically huge amount of arse? Or a combination of all three?
In turn, this led me to consider how some bands or artists are less successful than others, in terms of recognition. The Chameleons, for example, seem to me to have all the power and passion of U2, but without the pious bollocks spouted by Bono at any given opportunity. Did they not 'play the game' like U2, or was it just a succession of bad luck/choices?
Of course, recognition isn't what any creative person should be seeking, first or foremost, but I'd imagine it certainly helps when the rent needs paid.
Wednesday, 19 May 2010
Model Worker
Despite a deep set resentment towards the whole 'work' thing, I almost pride myself on having never took a day off sick in my six years as a wage drone. Never been late, either.
I'm not sure why this is but despite waking up every morning with a groan of 'fuck, fuck, fuck', I always manage to get out of bed and to the bus stop. Perhaps I should blame my mother, who always kicked me out of the house to school throughout my youth, ensuring I only missed five days in seven years. It must be that Methodist work ethic: it's a small mercy she just passed that on, and not any of the actual religious side of things.
Related to that is that despite my work-shy, dossing ways, I always ensure the work gets done on time. Principals mean that I won't mess up some other poor sod's day by being a lazy bastard. In the same way, much as I would love to spend my days at home eating chocolate bourbons and watching episodes of Monk and Ironside, I won't do so unless I have the money to do it off my own back. I've spent time on the dole, and it's no fun at all.
Part of my spotless attendance record is that I'm lucky(?) enough to never really get sick. Bar a bout of tonsillitis when I was 23 (and I was unemployed then anyways), I've never had anything worse than a bad cold. And while I can be a bit pathetic when this happens, it's not enough to keep me away from my desk. Unlike some people, who'll claim it as flu and enjoy an extended weekend. At times, I'm almost jealous of them.
All this reminds me why I never liked the magazine "The Idler". I read through a couple of copies once and it seemed to me to celebrate a certain kind of middle-class laziness, for people who had enough money to get away with it. While I embrace being an idle get, I know it requires a certain kind of style to get away it when you also have to work to pay for rent and beer tokens. For example, the simple act of me writing this right now would suggest that I'm busy at work to unsuspecting others.
This was a lesson I learnt in my sixth form days. During free periods, we would be expected to study. Fuck that, thought I, I'd rather stare into space. One particular teacher would wander round, check what we were studying and test us to ensure we were working, the bastard. Therefore, I took one of my geography textbooks, learned three pages and kept the book open at that point. So when I was picked up on my apparent slacking, I was easily able to explain population patterns in post-war Europe.
My slacker idol was always my grandfather. An odd choice when you consider he spent the best part of 50 years working down a coal mine. However, by the time I entered the world, he was long retired and had resolved to spend his remaining days (all 20 years of them by then), lounging on the sofa and studying the racing form in the Daily Mirror with occasional trips to the pub/bookies.
Some people try to use their retirement to travel the world, do the things they always wanted to, etc etc. Granddad basically sat on his arse (in my lifetime, he only left his hometown once that I can think of) and played tricks on my mother to amuse my brother and I. Now, everytime I slump into my sofa with a bottle of beer to watch 70s detective shows, I salute his memory.
I'm not sure why this is but despite waking up every morning with a groan of 'fuck, fuck, fuck', I always manage to get out of bed and to the bus stop. Perhaps I should blame my mother, who always kicked me out of the house to school throughout my youth, ensuring I only missed five days in seven years. It must be that Methodist work ethic: it's a small mercy she just passed that on, and not any of the actual religious side of things.
Related to that is that despite my work-shy, dossing ways, I always ensure the work gets done on time. Principals mean that I won't mess up some other poor sod's day by being a lazy bastard. In the same way, much as I would love to spend my days at home eating chocolate bourbons and watching episodes of Monk and Ironside, I won't do so unless I have the money to do it off my own back. I've spent time on the dole, and it's no fun at all.
Part of my spotless attendance record is that I'm lucky(?) enough to never really get sick. Bar a bout of tonsillitis when I was 23 (and I was unemployed then anyways), I've never had anything worse than a bad cold. And while I can be a bit pathetic when this happens, it's not enough to keep me away from my desk. Unlike some people, who'll claim it as flu and enjoy an extended weekend. At times, I'm almost jealous of them.
All this reminds me why I never liked the magazine "The Idler". I read through a couple of copies once and it seemed to me to celebrate a certain kind of middle-class laziness, for people who had enough money to get away with it. While I embrace being an idle get, I know it requires a certain kind of style to get away it when you also have to work to pay for rent and beer tokens. For example, the simple act of me writing this right now would suggest that I'm busy at work to unsuspecting others.
This was a lesson I learnt in my sixth form days. During free periods, we would be expected to study. Fuck that, thought I, I'd rather stare into space. One particular teacher would wander round, check what we were studying and test us to ensure we were working, the bastard. Therefore, I took one of my geography textbooks, learned three pages and kept the book open at that point. So when I was picked up on my apparent slacking, I was easily able to explain population patterns in post-war Europe.
My slacker idol was always my grandfather. An odd choice when you consider he spent the best part of 50 years working down a coal mine. However, by the time I entered the world, he was long retired and had resolved to spend his remaining days (all 20 years of them by then), lounging on the sofa and studying the racing form in the Daily Mirror with occasional trips to the pub/bookies.
Some people try to use their retirement to travel the world, do the things they always wanted to, etc etc. Granddad basically sat on his arse (in my lifetime, he only left his hometown once that I can think of) and played tricks on my mother to amuse my brother and I. Now, everytime I slump into my sofa with a bottle of beer to watch 70s detective shows, I salute his memory.
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