Pither and The Scrapheap of Scribes

I DIDN'T GET THAT JOB!
You know, the one I had been pinning my hopes on? The job I had researched in detail, the one about which I had been to see people who had previously worked for the outfit so as to get the inside track. The job which would have steered me clear of the reefs of bankruptcy once and for all.
My skills and experience were, I learned today, and I quote, "Too journalism focused for the position." The position?.........Chief Press Officer!! Work that fucker out!
If I was a Punch and Judy showman I could understand their reticence at giving me the job. If I had gone in dressed as a milkmaid they would have had grounds for marking me down. If I had spent my life offering donkey rides on Blackpool beach or had been a carpenter, an oil rig worker, a fireman, a ballet dancer or a jockey I could see that I might not be ideally suited to the post....but I kinda fucking thought that being a journalist of 21 years' standing might have stood me in good stead and not, as it turned out, been a major drawback!!
I can't name the employer, obviously, because I wouldn't want anyone who sympathises with me to go round there and burn the premises to the ground or introduce anthrax spores into the water supply.... I shall be doing that in due course.
With hindsight, I should have known I was on a loser when I walked in and was interviewed by one of those ubiquitous directors of communications. She was, as they nearly always are, a mid-50s fluffy with plastic tits and skin artificially stretched so tight around her eyes that she looked like a Japanese sniper. She had spent her "career" bullshitting and smiling falsely for a string of corporate giants, most of them in the motor industry.
She knew as much about journalism as I knew about how she had managed to cram her child-stretched, sagging nether regions into the pencil skirt she was wearing. She smiled inanely throughout the hour-long interview, mostly because she had no choice as her facial skin was evidently gathered up and knotted somewhere at the back of her head. The facade only dropped twice - once when I told her how impressed I was that the company had managed to hush up the fact that it was currently making widescale compulsory redundancies and again when I said "So you're from Yorkshire but now live in Essex since your divorce, I gather?" "How do you know about those things," she asked, ashen faced and incredulous. "Because I asked people," I said. "It's kinda what I do." I had, in fact, picked up these two juicy titbits by chatting to the woman behind the counter in the company canteen while I was waiting to be called for interview.
Well, rest assured that the Press DO now know about the redundancies!!! - Bitter? Not me.

Yeah, bitter, hurt, angry and feeling very, very unwanted - bit like Christ on the cross, only without the imminent prospect of sitting on the right hand of God in paradise.
Ah well, it's time to meet up again with an old, old friend - the drawing board. Quo Vadis? I think my pole dancing days are well and truly over. There's not much call for blokes to measure women for bras and becoming an astronaut is out because I can't stand heights. Still, I'm sure something will come up, as the man said after popping Viagra.
I can't name the employer, as I said, but, as a tantalising clue, programmes like CSI Miami and CSI New York can fuck off to Grantham.