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February 2001: Paul Smith writes... Of urine and smiles.
When a man you've known for a scant few minutes starts taking the piss out of you it's hard to know how to react. When that man is conducting a job interview, it's even harder. That's right, I've been doing the Job Interview thing. I could only bum around in a heterosexual way for so long, and now I'm back on the job-hunt treadmill. The urine extraction happened when my motivations for a sales job were called into question. He felt that a firm having to buy my enthusiasm with cold hard cash was tantamount to my prostituting myself. I felt like asking him why he was offering £17k basic and £27k O.T.E. if that was that case, but one has to bite ones tongue, doesn't one? (My posh interview voice...it's good, innit?)
The questions that get asked never ceases to amaze me; “Where do you see yourself in ten years time” still seems to be in vogue. Perhaps I'm alone in planning for my future up to the weekend, and hoping to play it by ear beyond that. Some might say this where I've gone wrong with my life. I would reply that by having no goals other than to be happy, I'm not regularly facing disappointment. In my experience it's pointless to try to explain this. Instead I project the nub of my gist by saying that when I was 19 (I'm now 29) I hoped by 2001 to be an Astronaut approaching Jupiter. That usually shuts them up.
I had more fun at Ingram Micros where I was very effectively evaluated with nine other wannabe sales people, some of whom it's not my pleasure to report couldn't sell a donut to Homer Simpson. Still, we can't all be born prostitutes...sorry, sales people. They held a Getting-to-know-you session where the corporate grins were solidly in place. Perhaps it's something the management put in the coffee? All concerned need to be congratulated for not once having a dialysis moment with any of the candidates, despite being taunted with frequent opportunities. Oh, and here I discovered Role-play doesn't necessarily involve anyone dressing in a latex nurses uniform. Believe me, my face must have been a picture of disappointment.
Apart from doing the rounds, as it were, I've been thinking about moving to Cuba. You can see the Manic Street Preachers live there shortly for 29 cents. You think I'm kidding, don't you? I'm serious. With the contents of my savings account I could set myself up for life in a big house overlooking an unspoilt bay...sigh. My research so far tells me Havana is a nice town (my research has involved playing Driver 2) populated with wheeled 50s Americana. Sounds good to me. So there you go. A bit like Paul Daniels threatening to leave the UK if New Labour got in about 4 years ago, if I don't get a job soon I’ll be off to lie in the sun on a coconut strewn beach. One last thought: I’ll make a point of not taking the piss out of any locals, for fear that they'll exact a terrible revenge by writing about me in a trade magazine.
5xx words Dale. The usual 'I hope it's not crap' comments apply. Talk soon.
Paul Smith