I am a reporter with 22 years' experience working on daily newspapers and I am going for a journalisty-type job - so who is interviewing me? Some advertising-type bint!! You know the sort? This one is called Shiona and she has, as they invariably do, landed the job of "Communications Manager". That fits the pattern. Others of that ilk are called Jakasta, Fiona-Louise, Moonchild-Grace, Sunny-Flower-Pants or Heather-Morningsunshine-Daddy-Won-The-Derby. Recognise them?
There are two things which nark me about this interview. Firstly, as I said, they want a journo sort. How the fuck, then, can the best journo be judged by some half-brained, advertising fluffy who knits her own yogurt, grows her own denim and continually chirrups out lines like "Miss you already", "Ciao", "Let's do lunch" and "Ok sweetie"? Fuck off and die, NOW!!! I want to be quizzed by some grizzled thing who reeks of stale tobacco and alcohol and who has betting slips sticking out of his or her jacket pocket. Someone who slyly slurps at a half-bottle of vodka in a brown paper bag during our chat. Someone who says "Fancy a livener? The Duck and Gynaecologist is just round the corner."
The soon-to-be ex-Mrs Pither has berated me for my attitude. She says "It is life", "That is the way things are" and, most annoyingly, "You have to learn to jump through hoops for these people". Bollocks, I say! I never did "hoop-jumping" when I was alive and I'm buggered if I'm going to start now. Besides, my proverbial cranial legs won't take it at my age.
My argument is, imagine you are running a specialist, cardiac hospital and you want to recruit a heart surgeon - would come in handy, don't you reckon? Dr Christian Barnard duly turns up to be quizzed for the post. Do you send one of the plumbers and electricians knocking about the joint or that woman from the canteen to interview him? I don't fucking think so!! What the Billy Bollocks would they know about what constitutes excellent open-heart surgery? Why, then, send some money-obsessed, vacuous, shoe-buying devotee who thinks The Apprentice is a really good programme and to whom breaking a nail is a catastrophe to rival Krakatoa to interview someone whose lifeblood is finding stories and writing them?
I know, I know, I know. I am not alone. This has happened to greater men than me. I imgagine Mr M Buonarroti was a tadd miffed when he put himself forward for the job of giving the Cistine Chapel a lick of paint, only to find Pope Julius II was doing the interview! "What was the last fucking thing you painted, you God-bothering sonofabitch?", I can imagine he asked.
Secondly (yes, I am keeping count), they apparently want me to write a press release as part of the interview so that they can see if they approve of my style. Double fuck off!!! I have been in the business for a long time - do they honestly think I don't know how to do it? Also, who is going to judge whether it is "good" enough? Jakasta? Shioana? What the fuck do they know about it? Also, who fucking cares if they approve - the releases are not for them! They are for newspapers and the broadcast media. They, in turn, want something their readers/viewers/listeners can understand. If Shiona and her mob like the releases and the media do not they it is pointless writing them. God, this shite makes me so angry!!
Would you ask interviewee Dr Barnard to perform open-heart surgery in the interview room on some hapless passer-by? Would you not assume that he knew how to do it? Would you even criticise him afterward saying "I don't like your style. You could have put prettier stitches in and I would have worn a trendier surgical gown?"
My eyes are bleeding again. I need to lie down. I have a feeling this interview might not go very well - I just have a habit of telling people what I think. Never mind. In the meantime, fuckwit, waste-of-time interviews with no-mark, talentless, arse-licking fluffies can go to Grantham.
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18 comments:
Reg: Um, try to exude a little bit that there might be something about the job and the interviewer you like. Even if there isn't. Unless of course, you don't want the job. Interviews suck. We know that. You just have to survive it, get the job offer, and then you will probably never deal with Shiona again. Good luck.
Thanks for the advice, Foily. I think, as I am not overly bothered about the job - even though it is for a very worthy cause - I shall just stick to my standard, interview technique. That involves dropping my trousers half-way through, breaking wind and saying "Did you know, you've got bit tits for a vegetarian?"
Sarah-Marigold says "leave Mr Pottymouth at home when you come to see me for the interview tomorrow".
I hope that this helps.
Dear Ms S-Marigold,
Sorry, honeybunkins, Mr Pottymouth will be slopping out when he sees you.
Hope you don't die in a car crash on the way to our interview,
Much love,
Miss you already. X
P.s. Vicus, there are times when you really worry me.
Reg: I worry about you. Remember: employment is generally thought to be a good thing. It's much easier to afford trips to Borneo or whereever to see the orangutangs (or whatever lives in Borneo) with money one has earned during a paid vacatation than as an unemployed but high-minded raconteur. Also, you can afford much better plonk.
And Foily? That's "Your worshipfulness" to you.
My Dear Foilwoman,
1. Never fear. I shall never again try to be friendly in addressing you. Foilwoman you shall be.
2. When I need a fucking lecture on bastard work ethics I will ask for one.
3. I already HAVE fucking money to see orangutans, without having to jump through hoops for twats.
4. Trust an American to call "intelligence" high mindedness. It is, after all, such a fucking rare quality over there.
5. I am not a fucking raconteur. I just write for a fucking living. If you choose to see it that way well.......NMP, YP.
Bye.
Is it safe to come in?
Can you can afford not to turn up? I'd go for a pint instead.
Old Foily is a bit touchy isn't she?
Employment a good thing? Yes, being downtrodden by the fascist heel of the running dogs of capitalism is my idea of a fucking good time. Bring it on. Line up the arses for me to kiss, please.
Reg: Sorry. Once again tone just doesn't come across that way over the internet. My humblest grovelling etc. I just want you to have good booze and a trip to Borneo. That's all.
I think people who work in the Health Service might have something to say about your misplaced confidence in their selection procedures, Reg.
I'm sure that Shionas and Jacastas have been earnestly evaluating the competence of surgeons of Barnard's calibre at interview ever since the NHS was sold by Thatcher to Kerry Packer and General Pinochet in 1985. The selection process probably also involves performing a series of complex surgical procedures on a "conveniently available" spare corpse (observed by a load of unqualified hangers-on, of course), followed by an exercise in buck-passing when the relatives of the deceased demand a public inquiry into a) why their permission wasn't sought, and b) how much compensation they're entitled to from taxpayers who should have burnt down the Houses of Parliament, their local town hall and the Scout hut years ago.
But you got the job anyway! Huzzah! See you when you sober up!
Dear Doris,
Thanks for the congrats.You are, as ever, my heroine. Did indeed have a couple of tinctures to mark the event. Inside of head now resounding to Somme battlefield noises. Ho hum.
Dear Arabella,
I got the job, as you may have gathered! Hurrah! Am now Work Droid in Sector Seven once more. Small cog in capitalist machine. Goodbye principles, hello dosh. As you may have also gathered I did go for a pint - but after the event.
Vicus,
I know, I know, I know. I have rejoined the rat race. Your sentiments are, however, wholeheartedly endorsed by this brother in the struggle, as ever. You too are, again, my hero.
Dear Anon,
Superb prose and well put. In fact, I wish I had said it (I will, Oscar, I will).
Dear Foilwoman,
I believe my response to your earlier comment might be judged by some to have beeen, how shall I put it, a little rude and testy? Apologies. You caught me at a bad time. Kiss, kiss.
Reg, my love, my sweeting, my pumpkin pie of pulchritude*: It's perfectly okay to let me know if I've annoyed you or whatever. I can be tone deaf at times and mix the humor key and the serious key badly and to ill effect all over the place. Never fear that I shall stop stalking and harassing you. You'll need to do a lot more than that to offend me (I easily offend others, but do not easily offend myself, which is probably why I do have a deaf ear to what would irk a man of above average intelligence -- or a man of below average intelligence, but that clearly doesn't apply here). Hugs and kisses, not that that will do you any good trans-atlantically or whatever. Til my next harassment attempt . . . .
*I know it makes no sense, but I like the alliteration.
Well, aren't YOU the bringer home of the bacon.
Congratulations!
Hem hem. Congratulations or commiserations are in order. Hope there are plenty of people who reek of stale tobacco and booze where you work (although hopefully sitting downwind and not at the desk in front of you of course).
Um, anyway, good luck. You'll need it.
Dear Arabella, Betty and Foilwoman,
Many thanks for being thoughful and for the kind words. Now, I don't suppose you know where I left my satchel and my Postman Pat lunchbox? - it's been a while.
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