A
Maze with no Exit
By
Dominic Horton
As
part of my redundancy package I was referred to an employment advice
firm who will use all of their expertise and know how to help me find
a suitable job. This week I had my first session with an advisor
from the firm, an hour long telephone meeting. Among many other
things the advisor told me that if I want to be successful in
obtaining employment that I have to develop a 'brand'. It makes me
sound like a packet of fags; fitting, as this gizza job lark is a
right old drag and my CV has gone up in smoke as the advisor said I'd
be better off not just revising it but starting from scratch.
 |
| The Pirate, the Author & Harry Stottle, by request of Toby In-Tents |
I
said to the advisor I thought that only people like David Beckham
have a brand but she said no anyone can have one. The advisor and I
discussed all sorts of things and she left me a lot of tasks to get
my teeth into, which is just as well as my brand is probably about as
popular as Luis Suarez's is right now. As least during the call the
advisor didn't use the words “scrapheap”, “unemployable” or
say “you have anxiety disorder? If I were you mate I would apply
for disability living allowance because in all honesty there is more
chance of Rolf Harris being granted day release from prison to play
his didgeridoo in infant schools than you getting a job.”
The
advisor enlightened me with the fact that the vast majority of jobs
these days are gained through networking. When I think of networking
in my mind's eye I see a lot of be-suited executives in a cordoned
off area of a hotel bar, drinking white wine and eating canopies,
chatting and mingling, pretending to like each other for the sake of
their careers when in actuality they hate each others guts and would
much rather be down the local at the quiz night. Dreadful, soul
destroying stuff.
 |
| Luis Suarez |
But
the advisor said, no, networking can mean a whole host of things, as
long as you are communicating to others (by any means) that you are
looking for a job and telling them what your qualities and skills are
then it is networking. Telling people what an ambitious, driven and
talented person I am would be mere bluff and bluster but if I do it
in the public bar of my preferred networking venue of the Flagon &
Gorses then, according to the advisor, it will count as invaluable
work towards gaining employment. And the inmates of the Flagon are
more than used to hearing such bullsh*t as it is part and parcel of
bar-room talk and pub life.
I
am not gifted at the kind of self promotion and delusion that is
necessary these days to be successful in hoodwinking a prospective
employer into welcoming me into their firm. Smoke and mirrors has
never been my thing and it never will be. Of course I will earnestly
try to create an attractive curriculum vitae and to impress in an
interview (if anyone is foolhardy enough to give me one) but the
rules of the job hunt game are more than likely to overwhelm me as
like the rules of the game of life itself they are complex and
elusive.
No
one ever tells you the rules of the game of life so you just have to
pick them up by yourself as you go along. And it is a difficult,
challenging game with complicated regulations which can frequently
change without any prior notice. You are born and it is a case of
'just get on with it'. As a child nobody really prepares you for
adulthood and if anyone tried to it would be most likely be futile as
you have to go into it headlong by yourself and learn by your own
mistakes and experiences.
 |
| The Grim Reaper |
Whether
life is a game or not is up for philosophical discussion. Maybe I
should ask my crony Harry Stottle to adjudicate on the matter in the
Flagon & Gorses. But to me life feels more like a club, of which
I am not a member. And when I apply to join I keep getting rejected.
A riddle with no meaning, a maze with no exit. As I've seemingly
been thrown into this world by mistake I long to go to the parallel
world where I will feel comfortable and at ease.
If
someone has similarly been erroneously thrown into my parallel world
instead of this Earth then maybe a swap could be organised, like an
exchange of prisoners between parties at war. A swap of any sort
involving a person always seems to be conducted in a disused and
derelict warehouse by a defunct dock. At the hand over the
officials of the parallel world will undoubtedly say, “hang on a
minute, we are not having him, before we know it he will be writing
all sorts of nonsense in a weekly blog and upsetting our harmonious
apple cart. You can have the trouble making f*cker back.” I
would be back in the Flagon & Gorses by tea time with my tail
between my legs and a pint of bitter in my hand.
Pub
life allows its players to escape, suspend or even deny the reality
of things but even the steady flow of booze is not enough to fend off
the ultimate truth that we are all going to die. In the end King
Canute could not turn back the tide. But when the Grim Reaper comes
along to undertake his grisly duly you might as well be three sheets
to the wind. Reality has no place in a public house. If reality
approaches the bar for a pint it is given short shrift. “Who are
you?” “I'm Escapism, can I have a large G & T please?” “No
you are not, you are Reality, I am not going to serve you, get out,
we have told you before that we don't want you in here.”
No
one talks about heavy drinking and its harmful effects for instance.
Oh no, that talk is not for us squire, not today, not tomorrow, not
any time. Tell humorous anecdotes about drunken escapades by all
means but don't become all serious and analytical about it. Just
laugh it off and have another drink. And when your glass is empty
have another and another until it is time to go and you are
catapulted out into the night to dash off home before reality catches
up with you and taps you on the shoulder.
But
at least if you are lucky you will have had enough drink to get to
sleep so you can drift off into another type of uneasy oblivion.
Until reality ungraciously wakes you in the morning and stares into
your bleary, bloodshot eyes from an inch away, whispering the
menacing words, “remember me do you? You can run all you want dear
friend, but try as you might you cannot hide. I will hunt you down
and find you in the end. Always.”
Barty
Hook, Lowlife's
London correspondent, informed me this week that pub going as a way
of life is more prevalent in the West Midlands than down in the
Smoke, where things are a bit more cosmopolitan. In the West
Midlands if men meet socially to do anything that does not involve
alcohol it is mostly seen as odd or even downright wrong. It is of
course acceptable to undertake an activity that is preceded by,
followed with or involves alcohol such as going for a curry, playing
football or fishing (if the activity is sport based all the better)
but without booze being included somewhere in the equation it would
be viewed as suspicious. Two men having a lunchtime pint who decide
to also have a cob each is fine; men meeting for lunch is not, as it
is considered effeminate and therefore objectionable. Attitudes
among younger people in the locality may be more liberal and less
Draconian but many of my peers still hold a “traditional”
outlook.
I
was having a mid afternoon cup of tea in a café the other day,
waiting to pick my dear son Kenteke up from school, when a group of
twentysomething lads walked in to have a coffee and a chat and good
on them. To the mind of the traditionalist this behaviour is of
course improper as any time after lunch should be strictly pub
territory. Men enjoying bacon and eggs and a cup of tea the morning
after a skin full is fine whereas an afternoon “catch up” over an
cappuccino is not.
I
suppose that over time that traditional male attitudes to socialising
and drinking and the like will change (for the better) but some
things are best left as they are. Civilisation as we know it would
unquestionably jolt to a sudden halt if ever I walk into the Flagon &
Gorses late afternoon and see the Pirate daintily sprinkling
chocolate powder over his fancy skinny latte.
©
Dominic Horton, July 2014.
*
EMAIL: lordhofr@gmail.com.
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