Following another one of my famous difference of opinions (I’ve yet to meet anyone who has the same opinion on anything as me in business) I have finally found myself in the Job Centre with it’s hallowed sick stained carpets and dead eyed purveyors of potential employment. I am here due to completely running out of money following the aforementioned difference of opinion. I have no income whatsoever and none on the horizon for at least the next six weeks. I had to get an emergency crisis government loan in order to eat for the next nine days, which transpired to be £27.
That’s £3 a day to eat, drink and try and be a human being. The problem was that I had to travel to High Barnet in order to collect the loan, a journey you wouldn’t wish upon an employed man let alone an unemployed one. The woman on the phone assured me that a thing called a yellow ticket existed that gets broke unemployed people to the dole office, what she didn’t tell me was that it was only valid on a magic carpet driven by an Octopus, well it might as well of been as both the bus and tube drivers looked at me like I was mad when I demanded to be let on with my “yellow ticket”. They looked even less impressed when I explained what I thought a yellow ticket was and what it entitled me to.
I’ll make sure to mention this episode if I am lucky to get a job interview in the next few weeks.
As William Shakespeare once said, “Not even being able to afford your bus fare to the dole office is the great leveller” there is nothing quite like standing in the street claiming to be the owner of a yellow ticket in order to collect £27 to make you reconsider your chosen career path in the entertainment industry.
The woman on the phone assured me that a thing called a yellow ticket existed that gets broke unemployed people to the dole office, what she didn’t tell me was that it was only valid on a magic carpet driven by an Octopus.
For the last seven years I have skilfully avoided the need to have what is known in the trade as a proper job. A combination of self employment success, ex-girlfriends supporting me and stealing has meant I’ve avoided the fate I had suffered in my earlier years. Six years of hard labour was enough to put me off them for life. Even when I was employable I had a 100% sacking record, which has left a massive reference shaped hole in my current attack on the jobs market. Some of the sackings were undeserved, like when I was sacked from a well know fast food chain for eating a 5p flake “gross misconduct”, not even a full flake half a flake you stick in an ice cream.
Another time a famous High Street coffee chain fired me for being “too sarcastic” this didn’t stop me picketing outside and getting two A4 pages of signatures in my defence. Some sackings were deserved I suppose, like putting an authoritarian cinema managers prized mountain bike in Loot for five pounds with the cinema’s phone number. This lead to a lifetime ban and a letter being sent to all members of staff entitled Procedure For If Harry Enters The Building (Step one: Ask him to leave – Step Five: Call the police). The time I was fired from a supermarket was fair enough. Using the excuse my granddad has died, for not showing up to work three times was one time too many, even if the third was my “step granddad”.
The problem I find myself with now is that the jobs on offer to someone who has pursued a career as an artist at the expense of qualifications are tantamount to being a slave for rich people. So instead of coffee slave you are a Barista, and you work on Box Office and are not a cinema slave, restaurant slaves are waiters or waitress's. I think I’d be more inclined to take a job like this if we just reverted to calling a slave a slave.
I had a 100% sacking record, which has left a massive reference shaped hole in my current attack on the jobs market.
For one thing you’d be a much more interesting guest at dinner parties if you referred to yourself as a slave “Honey come and meet Harry he’s a slave.” Plus slaves have some good songs Like “Hoe Emma Hoe” and “Chained To The Land”. Lets not forget you get a slave name, (First name: the month you were purchased. Surname: how many rocks you can lift at a time) mine would be October Five.
Songs and slave names aside you can see why this is hardly appealing for someone who has spent the last seven years sitting at a laptop in their pants during the day and sitting at the pub in their trousers in the evening. I may have earned a pittance in those years but I worked hard doing something I love and the freedom was of more value than any amount of money.
So in order to survive the next 6 weeks until I can get back on my feet as a freelancer it seems to me that I have three options. Become a slave, continue to sign on or drink bleach. Alternatively I could get another government loan in nine days time and travel round town with my yellow ticket until I get some work in. So whilst I deliberate Sophie’s choice I might as well fill in my CV, if you hear of any jobs for an outspoken, anti-authoritarian slave, let me know...
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