SEASONAL FACTORY OPERATIVE, 8.30 – 4.30 Monday to Friday, that’s what the advert said. How difficult can packing smoked fish be? I filled in the application form. A week later, I got a phone call. Could I come down for an interview at 10.30 on Tuesday? Sure, see you then.
Five minutes into the interview, and oh, by the way, the girl with the showercap on her head says, all the factory operative jobs have been filled. Do you have any experience of hygiene procedures, because we thought we’d interview you for the hygiene supervisor’s job. The hours are eight at night till eight the next morning. Including the odd weekend. Interested?
So, let’s get this straight, you are interviewing me for a completely different job from the one which I applied for, with drastically different hours? Could you not have mentioned this on the phone?
Welcome to the margins of society. That’s where you end up as an unemployed person. It’s a buyers’ market out there. When it comes to recruitment practices, employers can get away with just about anything. I’ve previously been rejected by employers on the grounds of not being in possession of my English GCSE certificate from 1977; including a photograph with my CV; and asking if there was any possibility I could have my “10-minute, preliminary interview” on the phone, rather than spending time(two days) and money(£250) travelling to the other end of Britain.
Five minutes into the interview, and oh, by the way, the girl with the showercap on her head says, all the factory operative jobs have been filled. Do you have any experience of hygiene procedures, because we thought we’d interview you for the hygiene supervisor’s job. The hours are eight at night till eight the next morning. Including the odd weekend. Interested?
So, let’s get this straight, you are interviewing me for a completely different job from the one which I applied for, with drastically different hours? Could you not have mentioned this on the phone?
Welcome to the margins of society. That’s where you end up as an unemployed person. It’s a buyers’ market out there. When it comes to recruitment practices, employers can get away with just about anything. I’ve previously been rejected by employers on the grounds of not being in possession of my English GCSE certificate from 1977; including a photograph with my CV; and asking if there was any possibility I could have my “10-minute, preliminary interview” on the phone, rather than spending time(two days) and money(£250) travelling to the other end of Britain.
REJECTED
I’ve also been rejected(for a job as an “explainer” at a local science centre) because I wasn’t available to work at weekends during the football season(their £5.31 an hour not being as attractive as the £16-an-hour I earn on Saturdays and Sundays as an amateur football referee), despite having wiped the floor with my job rivals with my presentation about the Stroop Effect and having stated clearly on my application form that I wasn’t available at weekends. (I eventually won a £750 out-of-court settlement from this employer after taking them to an Employment Tribunal on the grounds of age discrimination. A confidentiality clause and non-admission of liability means I can’t name them, but if any reader is concerned about their own application for similar-sounding jobs in the east of Scotland, feel free to email me and I’ll tell you who they are).
Meanwhile, back at the fish factory – R R Spink & Son of Arbroath, by the way – the dreary girl in the shower cap couldn’t even summon up the ability to proffer an apology for dragging me all the way down to this grim industrial estate under false pretences. She looked at me blankly, with not even a flicker of remorse, just the merest hint that she might be suffering some kind of mild brain seizure. (One indignant letter to the managing director later, and I’d received a full apology and a box of smoked salmon, trout and mackerel).
Meanwhile, back at the fish factory – R R Spink & Son of Arbroath, by the way – the dreary girl in the shower cap couldn’t even summon up the ability to proffer an apology for dragging me all the way down to this grim industrial estate under false pretences. She looked at me blankly, with not even a flicker of remorse, just the merest hint that she might be suffering some kind of mild brain seizure. (One indignant letter to the managing director later, and I’d received a full apology and a box of smoked salmon, trout and mackerel).
SKELETAL
And so to my local job centre, a veritable bastion of benevolence, sympathy and skeletal skagheads drowning in their shellsuits. This morning was my three-monthly interview, which consisted of an overweight, wrinkled-beyond-her-years clerk reading the details of my Jobseeker’s Agreement from her computer screen at me and me showing her a list of all the jobs I’d applied for recently(23 in total). I mentioned my experience at the fish factory to her. Didn’t they have a code of conduct for employers to follow when it came to recruiting staff? No, she said. They had very little contact with local employers. They dealt mainly with the dregs of society like me instead(okay, she didn’t say that exactly, but she might as well have). Nor could she tell me what the Plus in Jobcentre Plus was for.
While there, I’d printed off the details of a job. It was exactly the same job I’d applied for three months earlier. (I even had a copy of the original letter of application I’d written. I’d brought it and the list of other jobs I’d recently applied for with me to prove to the Jobcentre that I had actually been looking for work) The local butchers, Fleming and Sons, were looking for a van driver/salesman. Three months earlier, I’d bounced into their main shop looking as smart and enthusiastic as possible and handed in a letter and my CV to a bored-looking twentysomething sat behind the window of an office separate from the display of steaks and chicken thighs. I never received an acknowledgement, let alone an invitation to an interview. Back then, they’d advertised via the local paper and asked for CVs. Now they were advertising through Jobcentre Plus and wanted you to fill in an application form. What does this tell you? It tells me they must have previously got so many barely legible letters scrawled in brightly-coloured crayon – including one from the person who eventually lasted only three months in the job - that they had decided to make their own lives easier by filtering out the illiterates through Jobcentre Plus. Meanwhile, my beautifully-typed letter and lovingly-crafted CV had probably ended up wrapped around a leg of pork.
While there, I’d printed off the details of a job. It was exactly the same job I’d applied for three months earlier. (I even had a copy of the original letter of application I’d written. I’d brought it and the list of other jobs I’d recently applied for with me to prove to the Jobcentre that I had actually been looking for work) The local butchers, Fleming and Sons, were looking for a van driver/salesman. Three months earlier, I’d bounced into their main shop looking as smart and enthusiastic as possible and handed in a letter and my CV to a bored-looking twentysomething sat behind the window of an office separate from the display of steaks and chicken thighs. I never received an acknowledgement, let alone an invitation to an interview. Back then, they’d advertised via the local paper and asked for CVs. Now they were advertising through Jobcentre Plus and wanted you to fill in an application form. What does this tell you? It tells me they must have previously got so many barely legible letters scrawled in brightly-coloured crayon – including one from the person who eventually lasted only three months in the job - that they had decided to make their own lives easier by filtering out the illiterates through Jobcentre Plus. Meanwhile, my beautifully-typed letter and lovingly-crafted CV had probably ended up wrapped around a leg of pork.
WORTHLESS
So I strode up the hill from the Jobcentre Plus to the butchers. It was only a short walk, but in that distance I spiralled down the evolutionary ladder from outgoing and confident adult to worthless piece of shit.
The bored-looking twentysomething wasn’t there, but a small, moustached man with a stony, battered-by-life expression on his face was serving an old lady a nice piece of rump. After she’d checked her change and left, I asked the man if I could speak to Louise Henderson, the name on the Jobcentre print-out, who I suspected had been the bored-looking twentysomething all along. “She’s busy,” he said, cocking a look in the direction of the office window.
So I explained how I’d applied for the van driver’s job three months ago but had never heard back, and now the position was vacant again so I wanted to know if they still had my CV?
“We must have had about 50 applicants so couldn’t acknowledge them all,” said the man with the battered face.
“That’s a shame,” I said. “There’s lots of us unemployed out there, a lot of us are honest and reliable, and we never hear back from jobs we apply for.”
He said nothing, but absent-mindedly caressed the cleaver on the chopping slab in front of him.
“Well, I still haven’t got a job,” I said as cheerfully as if I’d just won a couple of grand on the lottery. “So I’m still available.”
“You have to fill in an application form,” he said.
“But you’ve already got my CV. And look, here’s the letter I originally sent you.”
He made no attempt to take it from me, as if the effort of reaching across those glistening pieces of freshly-jointed animal anatomy would be too much.
The bored-looking twentysomething wasn’t there, but a small, moustached man with a stony, battered-by-life expression on his face was serving an old lady a nice piece of rump. After she’d checked her change and left, I asked the man if I could speak to Louise Henderson, the name on the Jobcentre print-out, who I suspected had been the bored-looking twentysomething all along. “She’s busy,” he said, cocking a look in the direction of the office window.
So I explained how I’d applied for the van driver’s job three months ago but had never heard back, and now the position was vacant again so I wanted to know if they still had my CV?
“We must have had about 50 applicants so couldn’t acknowledge them all,” said the man with the battered face.
“That’s a shame,” I said. “There’s lots of us unemployed out there, a lot of us are honest and reliable, and we never hear back from jobs we apply for.”
He said nothing, but absent-mindedly caressed the cleaver on the chopping slab in front of him.
“Well, I still haven’t got a job,” I said as cheerfully as if I’d just won a couple of grand on the lottery. “So I’m still available.”
“You have to fill in an application form,” he said.
“But you’ve already got my CV. And look, here’s the letter I originally sent you.”
He made no attempt to take it from me, as if the effort of reaching across those glistening pieces of freshly-jointed animal anatomy would be too much.
WET
My humiliation was complete. I was practically begging a butcher’s assistant to take my application for a van driver’s job from me. I placed my letter on top of the glass display cabinet and walked out of the shop. It was wet and cold outside. I looked at the list of jobs I’d recently applied for: press officer, postman, coffee shop assistant, water meter reader. I screwed it up and put it in a litter bin and began walking back down the hill, revelling in my endless holiday.
2 comments:
Don't let the bastards grind you down.
Okay, so Steve McClaren has just trousered £2.5 million - that's the equivalent of exactly 100 of your own fancy cars - for being a complete and utter useless failure.
But ask yourself, if he happy?
Must dash. Just off to place my order for McClaren's ghost-written best-selling diary of his England years - or was it days?
Jack - what's wrong with you! Why are you looking for a job in the first place? Just live off the benefits you get for doing nothing in this country and go on the rob once in a while when you need more cash. That's what most people seem to call a living.
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