My new job requires me to lower myself into a tiny cockpit, fold my long legs into a tiny footwell, and listen to the repetitive beep of products going through a scanner, all the time struggling to concentrate on the task in hand. In fact, if you think too much, it leads to madness and error. It's best to glaze over and let the mind float.
For this, I had a total of 25 hours training. After day one, it deteriorated yet further and the levels of boredom rose to crucial levels. I tried to entertain myself by poking holes in the regime, questioning everything from The Company's "fair-trade" policy ("Are clothes emblazoned with the world-saving label still made in the crushing sweatshops of some third world dystopia?" I asked. The trainer floundered, merely patronizing by saying, "No, you don't understand. These clothes are fair-trade."), to the importing of out-of-season fruit and vegetables. I was a bastard, but I uncovered the trainers' flimsy reliance on company propaganda. This was not a place for free thought.
It was also not a place for enlightened though. At one stage the training session broke down into open homophobia.
"We get a lot of them in," said the trainer, a vicious, old and possibly menopausal woman. She swiped her flapping hand across her face. "You know?"
"No, I don't know," I said, deliberately wading into the forming quagmire. "You get a lot of whom in?"
"He-shes," the woman said. "Trannies."
I looked on, astounded.
"They use the women's fitting rooms," she continued with a mean snarl.
"I wouldn't think that they're allowed," a seventeen-year-old girl piped up.
"We can't stop them," said the trainer, eagerly spurred on by the ignorance of youth. "They're so flamboyant, they don't act like real women. They have no taste."
Before long we had a mini-Nuremburg. People were lamenting that transvestites weren't real women because they looked awful in high-heels, other people chiming up with terrible, prejudiced jokes - all using terms like "he-shes", or "chicks with dicks". I shuddered with every piece of filth that was thrown before me and shifted awkwardly in my seat.
Now, my job is serving old rich women. I scan their purchases, smile falsely and try to ignore their weird, overdone Gretta Garbo hairstyles. Wealth also seems to make people think that they are locked into a permanent youth, as there are other women who appear with oversized sunglasses and hideously inappropriate and revealing clothes, skin poking out everywhere, grizzly, brown and wrinkled. It seems that real women also have the ability to lack taste...
Monday, October 29, 2007
Monday, October 15, 2007
Day One (Pages from the Motivational Handbook)
It was a wretched feeling. I approached the department store with a grimace of misunderstanding. This place just shouldn't exist, should it? The doors slid open and I entered a world of calm, piped-in music and half-price linen shirts. I followed the signs to the Customer Service Desk, as per my instructions, and waited with the other newbies, all nervously chattering and trying to impose their personalities on the group.
Eventually we were led to the staff canteen, which is not called the staff canteen. It's called "Refresh" and looks identical to the shop. There is no escape from the branding. We sat, the others introducing themselves, me looking around in absolute horror. It seems that old posters and advertising materials had been used to decorate the walls of the staff canteen, and other, established members of staff sat amongst them, reading copies of the Daily Mail and masticating.
We were then herded to another room, where we sat in rows of chairs facing a huge window. Outside the window I could see the slates on the opposite roof, each with a little nail holding it in place. "Calm down," I told myself. "There'll be plenty of time to count them later."
So we began our training. First we were told how good The Company was to work for, how well The Company treats its staff, how bloody marvellous the uniform of The Company is. There were two people shovelling this garbage. The first one, the one that led us from the shopfloor to the canteen to the training room, was a little, mumsy looking woman, who would probably describe herself as "bubbly". "I love my job," she declared early on. Without irony. Or shame. The second was an aging man who fancied himself as a stand-up comic and was relentless in pursuit of a laugh.
"We'll introduce ourselves," he said after he had told us all his name. "But we'll do it in a fun way." We were then made to write down our most memorable moment, our most embarrassing moment and the first record we bought. This was evidently to remove the last lingering taste of dignity from our mouths. I made up my answers, but some people showed an ill-advised honesty. The day continued in a similar way to this first exercise, a particular low point was when we were all made to chant the word "enthusiasm" over and over again. My fellow newbies joined in lustfully, as if their wages were set for a rise if they could somehow prove their enthusiasm. I looked around, shamed and silent.
The day was taken up by the people training us trying to make jokes and little end-of-the-pier skits. They were lamentably bad - one instance a penis was compared to a sausage. Surprisingly this got a laugh from the assembled people. I crawled up my own asshole ever further.
The hours ticked by slowly, and each training exercise was informed by the hideous nature of the business book. The ones with titles such as "FISH!" or "MONKEYS WITH CARKEYS!" Managers of big business somehow think that patronising and belittling with cartoons and simplified (pathetic) metaphors about animals and cheese is the way to treat a human being. There's no surer way of making an individual feel broken. And therein lies the rub.
Our uniforms were then issued. I am now sitting, getting quietly drunk, wearing the uniform. Name badge and all. It's not very comfortable. I can smell the blood of Chinese children on it. But somehow it is the most real thing of the day. I have to go back to that place tomorrow. But I feel sufficiently broken that it will not impact upon my mind or body. Although, the bag containing the uniform also contained a pair of gloves. I dread to think...
Eventually we were led to the staff canteen, which is not called the staff canteen. It's called "Refresh" and looks identical to the shop. There is no escape from the branding. We sat, the others introducing themselves, me looking around in absolute horror. It seems that old posters and advertising materials had been used to decorate the walls of the staff canteen, and other, established members of staff sat amongst them, reading copies of the Daily Mail and masticating.
We were then herded to another room, where we sat in rows of chairs facing a huge window. Outside the window I could see the slates on the opposite roof, each with a little nail holding it in place. "Calm down," I told myself. "There'll be plenty of time to count them later."
So we began our training. First we were told how good The Company was to work for, how well The Company treats its staff, how bloody marvellous the uniform of The Company is. There were two people shovelling this garbage. The first one, the one that led us from the shopfloor to the canteen to the training room, was a little, mumsy looking woman, who would probably describe herself as "bubbly". "I love my job," she declared early on. Without irony. Or shame. The second was an aging man who fancied himself as a stand-up comic and was relentless in pursuit of a laugh.
"We'll introduce ourselves," he said after he had told us all his name. "But we'll do it in a fun way." We were then made to write down our most memorable moment, our most embarrassing moment and the first record we bought. This was evidently to remove the last lingering taste of dignity from our mouths. I made up my answers, but some people showed an ill-advised honesty. The day continued in a similar way to this first exercise, a particular low point was when we were all made to chant the word "enthusiasm" over and over again. My fellow newbies joined in lustfully, as if their wages were set for a rise if they could somehow prove their enthusiasm. I looked around, shamed and silent.
The day was taken up by the people training us trying to make jokes and little end-of-the-pier skits. They were lamentably bad - one instance a penis was compared to a sausage. Surprisingly this got a laugh from the assembled people. I crawled up my own asshole ever further.
The hours ticked by slowly, and each training exercise was informed by the hideous nature of the business book. The ones with titles such as "FISH!" or "MONKEYS WITH CARKEYS!" Managers of big business somehow think that patronising and belittling with cartoons and simplified (pathetic) metaphors about animals and cheese is the way to treat a human being. There's no surer way of making an individual feel broken. And therein lies the rub.
Our uniforms were then issued. I am now sitting, getting quietly drunk, wearing the uniform. Name badge and all. It's not very comfortable. I can smell the blood of Chinese children on it. But somehow it is the most real thing of the day. I have to go back to that place tomorrow. But I feel sufficiently broken that it will not impact upon my mind or body. Although, the bag containing the uniform also contained a pair of gloves. I dread to think...
Sunday, October 07, 2007
I Am A Robotic Cowboy
The stress of recent weeks has been playing havoc with my hairline. I'm in the unfortunate position of having a scar on my head, something that is unavoidably used as a marker for my retreating follicles. It used to be covered up, making my fringe spring up in an annoying cowslip. I cursed it, and wished it would change. Now, it's a good half-inch away from causing any of that sort of trouble.
There are certain things you hear when you are genuinely caught in such a position. Friends and acquaintances have a laundry list of half-hearted pick-me-ups that they waste no time in showering on you.
"It's a sign of virility."
"People really don't care."
"I think you'll look good bald."
"You're not going bald, you're hair is just thin."
They often say this while adjusting their rampant fringes, or playing idly with a sideburn, secretly smug in the knowledge that their genetics will lead to a long, hirsute life. Perhaps my favourite piece of advice that has been said to me is:
"You should use a little product." Good God, what are they talking about here? Regaine Extra Strength? Is that classified as a "product"?
But there is a common misconception that the balding man looks towards men with thick and lustrous hair and curses their fortune. I think this is only half true. Since the gradual decline of my once thick and unmanageable mane, I have had two obsessions. That of the man with the good head of hair, but equally with the man who has gone bald in a startling and aesthetically pleasing way. Versions of this can include: symmetrical hair loss - perfectly proportionate bald spots, with no patchiness; the clean cranium - a sparkling, shiny head that looks sterile and mechanical; or the complete, all-over nakedness - a tricky one to pull off as the skull can be a deeply ugly thing that only reminds onlookers of their own mortality.
The biggest worry about going bald for me is not about losing my hair, it's the uncertainty that is killing me. I don't know how my head will look in ten, or even twenty, years. Will I be one of those people who has patchy tufts, and looks dirty and diseased? Or will my head suddenly look too big/small for my body, thus making me look like extraterrestrial disguised as a human? I have never been good at coping with uncertainty in any walk of life - I prefer to be sure, to know everything about any situation. Uncertainty leads to more stress, which leads to a bigger forehead. The cycle will not break for any man...
An interesting postscript: I once knew a German man who was over forty. He had the most wonderful, thick, dark head of hair. I wanted to run my fingers through it. This was how my envy manifested itself. He used to apply carrot oil. His secret weapon?
There are certain things you hear when you are genuinely caught in such a position. Friends and acquaintances have a laundry list of half-hearted pick-me-ups that they waste no time in showering on you.
"It's a sign of virility."
"People really don't care."
"I think you'll look good bald."
"You're not going bald, you're hair is just thin."
They often say this while adjusting their rampant fringes, or playing idly with a sideburn, secretly smug in the knowledge that their genetics will lead to a long, hirsute life. Perhaps my favourite piece of advice that has been said to me is:
"You should use a little product." Good God, what are they talking about here? Regaine Extra Strength? Is that classified as a "product"?
But there is a common misconception that the balding man looks towards men with thick and lustrous hair and curses their fortune. I think this is only half true. Since the gradual decline of my once thick and unmanageable mane, I have had two obsessions. That of the man with the good head of hair, but equally with the man who has gone bald in a startling and aesthetically pleasing way. Versions of this can include: symmetrical hair loss - perfectly proportionate bald spots, with no patchiness; the clean cranium - a sparkling, shiny head that looks sterile and mechanical; or the complete, all-over nakedness - a tricky one to pull off as the skull can be a deeply ugly thing that only reminds onlookers of their own mortality.
The biggest worry about going bald for me is not about losing my hair, it's the uncertainty that is killing me. I don't know how my head will look in ten, or even twenty, years. Will I be one of those people who has patchy tufts, and looks dirty and diseased? Or will my head suddenly look too big/small for my body, thus making me look like extraterrestrial disguised as a human? I have never been good at coping with uncertainty in any walk of life - I prefer to be sure, to know everything about any situation. Uncertainty leads to more stress, which leads to a bigger forehead. The cycle will not break for any man...
An interesting postscript: I once knew a German man who was over forty. He had the most wonderful, thick, dark head of hair. I wanted to run my fingers through it. This was how my envy manifested itself. He used to apply carrot oil. His secret weapon?
Monday, October 01, 2007
Explaining That I'm Worthwhile
They kept me waiting, sweating in a heated room with old magazines and forms to fill in. The people surrounding me smiled sheepishly at each other, knowing that they were in competition. A man with a huge sword tattooed on his arm looked over at me and nodded. A woman in sharp heels and some kind of ass-masking trouser suit, crossed her legs and flicked her hair. My appointment was at 9:30am, but it was twenty minutes past this time before I was summoned into a smaller room. On the desk there was dozens of cards, each with a picture, as if I were an infant about to begin my first reading lesson.
"Familiarise yourself with these," my guide said, "and I'll be back in five." She held up her hand and spread her fingers to indicate the number of minutes I had to wait. I looked at the cards. There were pictures of food and drink on them; ice-clear water being poured into a plastic cup, crisps in a simple white bowl, various fruits and vegetable glistening with appetising moisture. I studied them, looking carefully at them. The woman returned.
"Right, shall we get on with the role-play?" she asked. I spluttered.
Another woman entered the room. She was carrying an empty shopping basket and evidently enjoying her starring roll.
"Hello," she said.
"Can I help?" I asked her, perfectly fraudulent in my demeanor. The situation escalated, the role-play touching on ludicrous topics that I had to advise the woman on. She relished the game, and it went on for some time. I told her that for a party she should get white wine as well as red wine, and that she shouldn't cook raw chicken in a microwave. It was a test based on common sense, but these people's intensity made it seem as if I was being interviewed for a position as a spy hunter in MI5. I was expecting a question about my holidays to Russia before long...
Once the role-play was over, I was lead out to join the other candidates for another round of form filling. In this, I had to respond to my own responses in the previous test. It was the height of post-modern self-awareness. I couldn't think of anything that I had done wrong, and made up some waffle about being bad at maths - a benign failing in these days of machines and automatic numerators.
I was in the "assessment" for over an hour in total and I was "successful" in aquiring work. I will, for the next few months at least, be woking in a very large department store, filling shelves and processing people's purchases - and probably telling them that it's a big no-no to cook chicken in a microwave. It is a dark tunnel, and one which I will be responsible for absolutely nothing of any importance. Oh - and the hours aren't much better than the airport, and there are fewer opportunities for overindulging on coffee. I have been thrust into another sterile environment of neon and plastic. Blueprints for escape must be sketched quickly but carefully.
"Familiarise yourself with these," my guide said, "and I'll be back in five." She held up her hand and spread her fingers to indicate the number of minutes I had to wait. I looked at the cards. There were pictures of food and drink on them; ice-clear water being poured into a plastic cup, crisps in a simple white bowl, various fruits and vegetable glistening with appetising moisture. I studied them, looking carefully at them. The woman returned.
"Right, shall we get on with the role-play?" she asked. I spluttered.
Another woman entered the room. She was carrying an empty shopping basket and evidently enjoying her starring roll.
"Hello," she said.
"Can I help?" I asked her, perfectly fraudulent in my demeanor. The situation escalated, the role-play touching on ludicrous topics that I had to advise the woman on. She relished the game, and it went on for some time. I told her that for a party she should get white wine as well as red wine, and that she shouldn't cook raw chicken in a microwave. It was a test based on common sense, but these people's intensity made it seem as if I was being interviewed for a position as a spy hunter in MI5. I was expecting a question about my holidays to Russia before long...
Once the role-play was over, I was lead out to join the other candidates for another round of form filling. In this, I had to respond to my own responses in the previous test. It was the height of post-modern self-awareness. I couldn't think of anything that I had done wrong, and made up some waffle about being bad at maths - a benign failing in these days of machines and automatic numerators.
I was in the "assessment" for over an hour in total and I was "successful" in aquiring work. I will, for the next few months at least, be woking in a very large department store, filling shelves and processing people's purchases - and probably telling them that it's a big no-no to cook chicken in a microwave. It is a dark tunnel, and one which I will be responsible for absolutely nothing of any importance. Oh - and the hours aren't much better than the airport, and there are fewer opportunities for overindulging on coffee. I have been thrust into another sterile environment of neon and plastic. Blueprints for escape must be sketched quickly but carefully.
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