Extras: On Set for Misfits, Series Two

I love the E4 show Misfits. When it came on TV last year, I couldn't stop talking about it. I thought it was the best show of it's kind to be on television in the last decade. It was witty, entertaining and risqué. When I was asked by the sister of a friend if I wanted to come along to some extra work she was doing for the second series, my heart thumped at the chance. I was told I would be paid £85 for doing it, but I love the show that much, I would have done it for free. 

Misfits is filmed in Egham on a sort of derelict site that used to be Brunel University. The first thing I saw when my lift pulled into the site was Robert Sheenan, the Irish dude who plays Nathan. It was very exciting. The area was full of caravans, including one for each member of the main cast, complete with leather sofas and fridges. After filling out a form, we headed over to this derelict chapel. The temperature inside was bizarrely significantly lower than outdoors. It was hollow apart from a few of those plastic chairs you sit on at school, a couple of tables and a clothes rack. It didn't take long for the rest of the extras to show up. First was a friendly looking woman who informed us that she delivered Stacey's baby on Eastenders. Next came a Turkish guy who, within moments of entering, reeled off his CV, including his time as an international fashion designer and his theatre career. When more extras entered, the first two slinked off into their cliques. The woman who delivered Stacey's baby joined up with the other middle aged women, whilst the Turkish guy paired up with an equally egotistical male. 

I was inundated with questions such as "Have I worked with you before?", "What agency are you with?",  and my favourite, "What is this show about?" Memories of scenes from Gervais & Merchant's Extras came flooding back as they compared their CVs and experiences on the sets of such shows as The Bill, Doctors and Casualty. I pointed the similarities out to them, to which Stacey's midwife piped up in response "I actually find Extras very offensive." Immediately I knew this story would warrant a blog entry. "Why is that?" I asked, on the edge of my seat.

"I think he exploited the whole thing. There is a lot more to being an extra than what the show makes out. It just showed a bunch of stupid, desperate people, sitting around all day. And it's not like that. It's a lot harder than you think." Stacey's midwife said before going back to sitting around all day and talking to stupid, desperate people. 

It amazed me how competitive these people were. They were aged between 40 and 60, and seemed totally deluded with their own importance and potential. They talked about being an extra as if it were a career. They made their living by standing in backgrounds on famous TV shows. It was depressing, and I found it embarrassing to be associated with them.

We sat around in the chapel from 9 am until lunch time at a quarter to two. It was one of the most boring experiences of my life. In that time, we had only sorted out costumes for our first scene. We had to have formal wear, like we were reporters. I knew that they would have a problem with my clothes. It turned out that I had left one top behind (not a good start), but as the day progressed, I realised it didn't matter as the costume department seemed adverse to letting me wear anything of my own. The other extras seemed to get away with all sorts: one girl opting for a giant fur waistcoat, and another getting away with wearing the exact same outfit for two different scenes, even though she was meant to be a different character.

I was put in an unflattering V neck top from Marks and Spencer's. The Misfits wardrobe seemed to resemble a GCSE drama class' dressing up box. I sat uncomfortably in nylon trousers and the flouncy top until 5pm. We ate lunch in a separate building that had been turned into a makeshift canteen. There was wood chip shavings on the floor, cobwebs on staircases and broken ceiling tiles. It was all so unglamorous. The class room layout reminded me of being in school.

I noticed as I was eating the only vegetarian option on the menu, that the main cast were sat at the largest table in the middle of the room. Only Lauren Socha, who plays Kelly was missing. 

After lunch we were taken to the set. I got to walk through the hallways and see where those lockers are that are featured in the show. We passed this hall which had tons of people in, including the Nathan character dressed in a tuxedo, and inside a glass box that was later lit up with coloured lights. I can't imagine what plot that image would be integral to.

We hung about outside for ages. There were a couple of trucks full of stuff like multi coloured gaffer tape and wires. There were people littered everywhere with walkie talkies, whose contribution to the show seemed minimal. I thought there was meant to be a recession going on, and then you have five runners for one scene, who's only role was to say "Turning" after the director yelled "Turning." 

When we were led inside into another set of derelict rooms which looked like a construction site, I saw the set which was supposed to look like a canteen. It looked ridiculous. Like a school play set. It will be interesting to see what it looks like on TV, as I imagine it's far more convincing. I was positioned at the back, just in front of the camera, for a scene where us extras were reporters and had to inundate a one episode character, who had just discovered his power, with questions. The scene was clichéd. It involved us all shouting over each other as the guy looked intimidated with his over made up, harsh faced press officer standing at his side. We did it about ten times. My given line was "What's your favourite cheese?" When it came to shouting random things at the actor, I continued on this line of questioning by shouting things like "Philadelphia or Dairylea?", and "Cheddar or Brie?"

By the time this segment was complete, it was about five o'clock. We had to undergo a costume change which once again involved me being given tatty attire from the wardrobe. The next two bits that were shot were unbelievably dull.  They involved us entering the canteen and ordering a coffee, then sitting down, one by one. We did this over and over again. They kept changing the order we came in, changing where we sat, sometimes dropping people out of it altogether. I have no idea where the logic was in ordering. The other extras would get so pissed off if they were excluded from a shot. They'd walk off with a sour face and say bitterly "So I'm not wanted for this bit," then look at everyone for a reaction. This walking in and out in different orders went on for two hours. It seemed really disorganised and the extra director dude would tell one person what to do at the top of the queue, and ignore the rest of you. It became frivolous and tedious. I started to think that 85 quid weren't enough for all this phaffing about. 

It got to 7pm, and we were told we had two more bits to shoot. Luckily these were brief. The next one was done in one take, and involved us extras having to watch some UHT milk pots explode, before applauding and cheering. For the last bit, we had to resume our original positions in the canteen as the female lead of the scene walked in, ordered a coffee and sat down. She is meant to be the one off male character's love interest. Predictably she's a bitch to him and doesn't notice him until he develops his special power after the storm. The lack of original ideas or humour started to make fearful of the second series. What I had been a part of seemed bloody awful.

This female lead was dressed immaculately and had make up reapplied and her hair retouched every couple of minutes. The male protagonist avoided looking at the extras in the eye as though he might catch something from them. I began to really detest the whole thing. 

All the important jobs like sound, camera, framing, props, lighting etc. were all done by men.  There seemed to be an air of arrogance in their disorganisation. The other extras looked up to the cast and crew in a way which the latter two seemed to recognise, hence their blasé treatment of us. It really pissed me off, because I didn't feel like that. The scenes they were filming were rubbish. They were not making important television. They were simply following trends from other TV shows, such as the press conference bit, and the glamorous female lead paying no attention to the underdog, as he looks longingly at her and hangs on to her every word.

I got to casually walk past the main cast a few more times. I liked it because it made the process seem penetrable. The amateurishness, the apparent over staffing of runners, the unkempt site and naff script made the whole situation look like a bunch of people who got lucky, and the luckier they were, the higher up on the pecking order they appeared. So don't be fooled by glossy, televised exteriors, because behind it is a lot of bullshit, people with mediocre abilities and ideas who reek of self importance to make up for these facts. In other words(those of Friedrich Nietzsche to be precise) ABANDON YOUR IDOLS.

Do You Speak English, Alejandro?

I had an interview on Saturday. It began with an application to an Italian restaurant that is situated nearby. I got a call the next day from a man who was rambling at me in Italian for thirty seconds, before deciding to ask me "Do you speak Italiano?" I struggled to understand him as he spoke limited English down a crackly phone line, peppering his sentences with Italian words when, I guess, he didn't know the English equivalent. By picking up on key words such as "come in" and "day," I asked him if he wanted me to "choose a day" to come in. He misheard this as "Tuesday," and followed it with several "No's" before asking me to come in tomorrow at any time after twelve.

I strolled up to the Italian restaurant at about 1 o'clock the next day, and stood at that plinth fixture that they expect you to wait at before being seated. After a couple of minutes, I was approached by a waiter. "Hi, I'm here for an interview." He looked confused. 

"Two?" He asked, obviously not having the word "interview" in his vocabulary and assuming I was requesting a table. I repeated myself, slower and louder (the old foolproof method), to be met with a baffled stare. A woman then hurried in our direction to take over, and I informed her of my visit.

"Yes...?" She answered. "My name is Dolegirl," (obviously I said my real name) "and I have been invited here for an interview." The woman seemed to understand me, but looked as though I had come to the wrong place. I thought I had better name the bloke I spoke to yesterday, "I spoke to Rodrigo."

"No one called Rodrigo works here, " she replied. Oh shit. 

"Fernando?" I second guessed. The woman shook her head.

"Roberto?" I seemed to be reeling off the names that occur in that Lady GaGa song. After checking that I had come to the right restaurant, the woman said she would ask around. After an awkward wait in the doorway where I continued to try and work out the guy's name, the woman returned and told me "Antonio will be with you in a moment." 

I waited for ten minutes, watching the Italian waiters walk past me lackadaisically, wondering whether they should take my order or not. Eventually Antonio came out of hiding and led me to a table. "Are you English?" Was my first question he fired at me. Easy enough. He then asked me the same questions which he asked me on the phone: "Do you have experience?", "Did you serve Italian food?", and "Do you speak Italian?" He then rambled something and pointed to the cutlery on the table. I gave an equally rambled answer about customer service. I didn't think it mattered much as we both seemed to be pretending to understand each other. 

Antonio told me to come in on Monday and work a trial shift. I agreed and left. I didn't do it, and you may think I'm an idiot for doing so. Beggars can't be choosers and all that crap. But can you imagine the problems that would occur through not speaking the same language as your colleagues? Trying to explain that I was there for an interview was hard enough, never mind asking how the coffee machine works, or if table six got their meal, or did they remember that the child seated at table eight has a nut allergy. That is all my overactive imagination could think about.

Maybe beggars can't be choosers, but surely they can beg in their first language?

The Young Ones

So last week I heard the news that Iain Duncan Smith wants to introduce incentives for the unemployed to relocate and seek work elsewhere in order to redistribute unemployment so people can break out from the "ghettos of poverty."
Now I'm aware of Ed Balls tirade against this, the similarities drawn with the old "get on your bike" Tory comment and how this proposal poses difficulties for those who have families and the uncertainty of keeping a job after you've got one. But when considering Duncan Smith's idea, people only seem to be thinking of it in terms of how it will affect those middle aged folks who have been unemployed for a long period of time, and have a council house to lose and a family to consider. No one at all looks at how this could possibly benefit the unemployed youths who are on the scrapheap, not even Duncan Smith himself.
As you're probably aware after visiting this blog, I'm 21 and have been unemployed since leaving college a year ago. It looks to me that it is fucking hopeless out there. I live on a council estate in Surrey which is plagued with underage pregnancy and unemployment. A majority of the people who I went to school with who live here follow an all too familiar pattern of leaving school without GCSEs or with very bad results, getting pregnant/a girl pregnant, and can be seen frequenting the streets having arguments with their partners , pushing their forever multiplying children in their pushchairs, whilst they walk with the generation before them who did the exact same thing. Now I'll take the opportunity here to point out that these people probably aren't trying to look for work, and have chosen unemployment and claim benefits as a lifestyle choice. However, I haven't. And I'm stuck here.
I look for jobs every working day as no one ever posts ads on a weekend. If you find ten new jobs in Leatherhead a week, you're lucky. You're even luckier if you find something you can actually do. At this point after a year of job searching, the only job I've been able to apply for and get an interview for in my home town was that one at Surrey County Council, and they called me last week to say I was unsuccessful. Of course I've widened my job search as far as Kingston one way and Guildford the other, and I've already bitched to you about the having a degree / working unpaid dilemma, and the seldom responses I get back from my applications, so I won't reiterate the extent of the job search frustration I have encountered. One thing I have noticed however when I look outside of my traveling limits is that there is a preponderantly more jobs in the direction of London. I live about 10 miles outside of what is officially considered London and I'm around 45 minutes away from Waterloo. To secure a job I would happily travel for 45 minutes or more, but I am stuck for there is no way I could afford the train fare.
The jobs I am referring to include your generic retail work and bar work. Shops always seem to be hiring at Westfield's and the like and in multiple bars. I must have sent about a hundred applications to different shops by now, and none of them have ever got back to me. They still may not get back to me in London, but at least the opportunities are not as few and far between.
As for bar work in my area, I would have to travel to get there, and that poses as an issue when you have to work late shifts as my last bus and trains would clash with the closing, leaving me stranded or having to permanently take residence at a mate's. If I could be relocated however, this would be solved.
It's not like my aspirations lie in bar and shop work for the rest of my life. But without a degree, and maybe even with one for that matter, I'm going to have to graft. There aren't opportunities for me in Leatherhead, and I need to make money to be able to travel outside of here, or maybe take driving lessons, get a car, and sort it out that way. The problem is that I can't seem to get a job at anything, anywhere. To start making something of myself, I need a bit of money behind me. At least a bit of bloody dosh just to be able to support myself finally.
So what if they got a bunch of people my age who are in a similar position, who want to work and make something of themselves but are struggling to get something in their area, and chuck us all into rented accommodation somewhere where there is more work? Obviously there's the issue of a deposit and if all the residents could find work in time for the next rent due date. So maybe a bunch of us should be given options of where we can relocate to. You pick a place that you can comfortably travel to from your current place of residence, receiving help with travel money if you don't have enough, and start applying to jobs. If you get an interview, you go. If you get the job, you get to move in.
I'm not saying this is flawless, but I believe it's workable. It would help me massively, whether I was relocated somewhere in London or just moved 35 minutes up the road to Surbiton.
After all, this estate terrifies me. I can see what it's done to generations of people. They fester in the ennui of this place. All I've thought about since I can remember is getting out, before I become disillusioned enough to drown with them.

Blood on the Tracks

It's been a tempestuous week so far. There were times when I thought I weren't gonna make it. I had been suffering from these anxiety attacks  over the past fortnight. I'm generally a worrier, but these waves of despair and bodily panic were something else. My thoughts concerning Joel were the cause. I started battling with huge bouts of guilt over still being with him. I know I mustn't be that easy to be around, and that's enough to make me feel guilty when Joel is just so fucking calm and sensitive all the time. Constantly, he wanted to try and make me happy. And he can't. I don't want to get pseudo-philosophical here so I won't, and I'll just say that it was eating me up, because he's too nice for this world. Joel's so nice, it could verges on naivety. It's a lot more intricate than what I'm prepared to go into in a blog post, but I ended it last weekend cos I couldn't take the attacks on my respiratory system and the waves of nausea anymore.

It was every bit as hard as I thought it would be. It killed me. Those first couple of days were awful, it felt like grief. After we broke up (I hate saying that) I still stayed round his and did our usual thing of watching Seinfeld. We even decided to have sex one last time. I left the next day and that's when my anxiety turned into regret, longing and desolation. If Joel wasn't being so fucking wonderful, this would've been a whole lot worse. We've still been talking every day, actually for longer than we ever did (2 and a half hours a day is the average), and he says he still wants to see me as often as before. He basically said everything I wanted to hear. 

Tuesday was my first 24 hours without crying over him. That was a relief. All I wanted to do before that was sleep, but couldn't, and I was struggling to fill in the hours. Just what you need to happen when you're unemployed. On the Sunday, under the influence of a broken heart, I suggested that maybe we should just stay together. I guess my logic was that the panic attacks would be easier to deal with than the longing for Joel and the mourning for what was. To be honest now, I don't think one is any worse than the other. Joel understandably answered in the negative. He said he'd just feel like we were prolonging it and he'd be on tenderhooks as to when the break up would occur again. I'm grateful that he's not been weak in all this like I have.

I went to the pub on Wednesday during the England game with Cassie. I had already drunk a fair bit by the afternoon. I just felt so excitable because of the atmosphere. The upstairs of Kingston's Wetherspoons had been moved around in such a way that it resembled a school assembly. All the singular seats were placed in rows in front of the big screen tele, providing a seating area for what was mainly male fans. Minus a couple of sofas which gave an obscured view of the TV, the rest of the punters had to stand. Our drinks were being served in disposable plastic cups, and there was a real sense of momentum.

After the game we went to the Fighting Cocks. As I sipped at my latest pint, I wished I weren't already drunk so I could enjoy it. I have this really bad habit of not knowing when to stop. I know when to stop drinking but when I'm out, alcohol stimulates my energy levels so much, I just never want to go home. I feel like I'm going to miss something. I can talk about it now cos I'm sober, but I keep doing it. So we stayed all night. My mum's in LA at the moment visiting my sister so she left me with a bit of money to get food and the like. I've obviously interpreted 'food' to mean 'cider.'

I left the Cocks in time for my last bus (11.40) but somehow managed to still miss it. Cassie and I had exchanged words. Some guy at the bus stop just so happened to mention to me that he was stranded, and when I was trying to work out where he was heading, Cassie just blew up in his face. "You're stranded. Oh well I'm sorry. You're a fucking selfish c**t." His face dropped. I couldn't believe what was going on. He left the seat and walked away, and Cassie just went charging over to him in her floral dress and flip flops, calling him a "fucking c**t" right in his face. He stood next to another stranger for protection as he told her to leave him alone. Cassie would walk a few steps, then just go back and swear at him some more. He then understandably started calling her crazy, and shouting towards me that she was nuts.

Eventually Cassie sat down, though occasionally swore at him from her seat, her voice echoing down Kingston high street. If I weren't so drunk I'd been embarassed. When I tried diplomatically to tell her to ignore the random stranger, she turned against me. It's as though she thought I was taking his side over hers, which I guess I was, but she seemed to think that she was perfectly in the right to be doing what she was doing. Its stuff like this that makes me uncomfortable around her, and prior to this I had already phoned Joel and asked him if I could stay the night. When this was revealed to Cassie, she began to cry. She demanded that I gave her "one good reason" for not staying at hers. She decided that no reason was good enough. Then between sobs, she said "All I want to do is go back with you to mine, put on The Strokes, and it be like old times." I still have no idea what she intended with that statement as we listen to The Strokes every time we're drinking at hers. I didn't know that something that last happened a week ago was long enough to be considered as "the old times."

I didn't have the patience to stay up with her until four in the morning, having the same conversation we had had at the bus stop. Her behavior all seemed rather manipulative, which is how the argument started in the first place. So her reaction to my analysis was indeed manipulative, proving my point. 

Cassie wouldn't speak to me again until last night when she sent me a text as though making an appointment to meet me at Spoons at one tomorrow. I know if I go I'll end up drinking too much again, thus spending too much, so I said I'd prefer not to but I could go to hers instead if she liked. I'm still awaiting a reply.

That night at Joel's I fell asleep almost immediately, and then when I woke up we had sex. When I asked Joel what it would mean, he said we were "friends who have fun." We've had fun twice since then. It hasn't got messy and confusing yet, and I hope it stays that way.

I Know its Over

I had an interview on Thursday at Surrey County Council. It was for an "apprenticeship in business and administration." I just want a job, so I applied. I was freaking out over what to wear cos the position was officey. My outfit was a mismatch of colours as I put together the smartest jacket, dress and shoes I owned.

The interview was the longest I've ever had. The first stage involved me arranging a list of about eight tasks into an order of priority. I had 15 whole minutes to explain why finding a flip chart for my line manager who has a meeting in 5 minutes was more urgent than filling the photocopier with paper. I was also encouraged to complete a rough draft first. My next bit involved me having to answer the phone when someone rang with a script, to show I could take a message. I got the impression that they were checking that you weren't an idiot.

I was next taken to a woman who was bizarrely called Peter who thought she had met me before. She was just there to fill you in on what an apprenticeship is. It started to seem all so basic. Their approach is to train people up in being able to write a CV, be confident in an interview, and go on towards a career in a county council environment. All I want is to be in bloody employment, none of this tutorial rubbish and hand holding. I started to think that I weren't the target audience for the position. Peter explained that on the job, you would be working towards a NVQ and a key skills qualification to do with your ability to send emails and answer telephones. She pointed out that as I had A levels, I was overqualified, but it made sense if I wanted to add those qualifications to the list.

By the time it came to the official interview I had lost interest, so I was completely relaxed and performed well. Two women interviewed me and gave me a long explanation as to what they do, which I barely listened to. I was asked what my favourite subjects were at school. In retrospect when I thought about this question, it seemed likely that they asked it 'cos they were expecting school leavers who indeed didn't have A levels and in which the NVQ would be a progression, confirming my suspicions that I was not the target audience. I was asked, which I think is now my favourite question of all time, "What experience do you have with email?" They ask the question like one would ask what your experience is with excel, as though there were somehow levels of competency for typing in a box and pressing 'send.' I laughed in disbelief at first, and when their faces didn't break, I answered the question, smiling the whole time at having to make my answer as complicated and impressive as possible.

The gaps in my schooling came up so I had to spill the beans on that whole childhood fiasco. It took them about five minutes to get their heads round it. What was amusing is that their department is education in Surrey, and so I was asked if I received "a lot of help from us." I bluntly told them I hadn't. I mean I was taken out of school for a whole year before they made a decision on alternative education for me. I was an autodidact. They were surprised at my condemnation. I was then asked to explain what I had been doing since November, when I was selling recording experiences. I told them, and the woman who asked wrote in capital letters on my application form "NOTHING." It irked me, but not as much as what happened next. She let out a Father Christmas style laugh, and goes "How on Earth do you support yourself?" I felt like I was under interrogation for being unemployed. Contrary to my alias on here, Dolegirl, I'm not actually on the dole. That's why I'm stuck in on a Friday evening writing letters to the internet. In spite of that though, that woman must've heard of jobseekers allowance. How does she expect me to support myself? It still winds me up now. If you can't get a job, you can't get a job.

I'm not sure if the working prospects have ever been like this for a generation before. I left there completely deflated, and I feel myself drowning in the ennui around me and choking on the evidence that there isn't an escape route. I apply for shop work, bars and so on, and they don't get back to you, I apply for this and I'm overqualified and probably over grown, but you can't set your sights higher without being told that you have to have a degree, then the rest will let you have a stab without one, but you have to do it for free and spend a good hundred or so pounds on traveling to London every day. Employers are taking advantage of the shortage of jobs and young people's plight by making them work full time for free for a few months, and warning you that its an invaluable opportunity because no one will pay you until you've got some experience. I think that still wouldn't be enough. You could probably make a habit of going from one unpaid vacancy to another, 'cos that is all there is. No one wants to hire anybody.

I love England, but I don't think there's anything here for us now. The older people seem alright. They're all being kept in made up jobs just to ensure people are in work. At that interview, one of the women said that there were a thousand people in the department for Surrey. What are they all doing?

I don't know what to do next. I'm on the scrapheap. I left college a year ago and I haven't managed to secure one paid position. I consider things such as becoming self employed, but you can't do that without having money to get going. Even a hundred or two. My bank card is obsolete. I haven't used a cash machine once this year. I don't know when I will again.

The Fraudulent Case of Alex Wrigley

In a Baldrick-esque moment, I had a cunning plan today. After so many job applications and a pathetic percentage of responses back, my imagination begins to wander as I try and find new and creative ways to get someone to give me a job. Or, as this case may be, trick them into giving me a job.

The position in question is a snooker bar that's meant to be reopening in a nearby town. I've never seen it or heard of it, though I frequent the town as it is the home of my dear bulimia inducing friend. I saw the advert on the day it came out (I check job listings a couple of times a day) and sent off my CV with haste. I was stunned when I logged into my email the next day to find a response. An actual response! I was faced with two questions: A) Was I going to leave my present internship as a blog coordinator and if so, how much notice would be required? And B) How did I plan on getting home after a late shift which would finish at around 12.15?

I replied with as much gusto as one could possibly muster in an email, and explained that the internship was done entirely from home, and only required a day of my time therefore no schedule clashes and no notice periods. I went on to inform the all powerful Job Determinator that I was fully flexible, but would prefer to finish shifts in time for my last bus home, which comes at 11.40, though would be able to work til close on occasion if it were required. I figured I could always stay at Cassie's, who I imagine wouldn't be too far away as she lives near the high street, or go to Joel's, where there is a 24 hour bus service to his place from Kingston. 

I have waited and waited. And after getting me all fired up, I am yet to receive a response back. And this was a week ago. I'm becoming quite pushy in the job hunting stakes, so I emailed him again mid week, reiterating my answers and forthrightly requesting that the Job Determinator (JD, for ease of typing) let me know if he is interested as soon as possible so I can continue with my job search. Still no reply.

And this is where the cunning plan occurred to me. If only I knew if the JD had seen the emails, I could work out if he was ignoring me for whatever fucking reason, or if he simply hasn't got round to picking people. I then had the idea to send JD another application. A made up application in fact, from an email address especially created for the purpose. Once I thought of it, it didn't seem that bad an idea. 

I created a CV for a male called Alex Wrigley (which is a pseudonym for my actual made up application to avoid my meticulous plan being scuppered). I gave Alex the same amount of qualifications and bar experience as me, and I gave him my dad's address, which is in my town but not close enough to be coincidental. I kept it simple. This JD doesn't strike me as too scrutinizing (I couldn't say specifically what I'm basing that judgment on). Since sending the application, I've checked 'Alex's' gmail account about three times. There is no word yet, which possibly means the JD isn't ignoring me. It is the weekend, however. 

When I told Joel about the plan, he asked didactically, "And what is the point of all this?" Well at first it was just something to occupy my job seeking mind, but then I realised that if JD replies to Alex, I'll know I am for some reason being ignored. This may not seem that important, and really, I guess it isn't, but it's just so painfully tedious applying to these menial, minimum wage jobs, having the skills to do them and highlighting that, only to never, ever get a response. I hate to think how much of my life has been wasted on unanswered job applications. A second point to this experiment is that if JD replies to Alex, and invites him to an interview, training session or whatever, providing all contact is made through email, I will have the time and date of when this is taking place and so can show up myself. Now that does sound a little crazy, but I can't be worrying about money for much longer. I don't have any. I'm not even signed on. To me it seems that applying for a job is more like entering a competition at the moment. There's a slim chance that your name might just be pulled out the hat. The other day I randomly entered a competition for a trip to New York. It was some Sex and the City 2 promotion thing. It seemed quick and easy, so I just entered. I actually feel like I have more chance of winning that competition than what I do of getting a job in the next three months. Let's go wild: make it six!

So I leave you with the words of the wonderful Morrissey: I decree today that life is simply taking and not giving, England is mine, it owes me a living...

Ruffian Image

Been a long time, eh? I kind of got disheartened when I found there weren't any comments left for my previous posts. Since my last one, I have had a regular urge to write another entry despite no one reading them, as one day someone just might. Soon the gap will be too large for me to justify posting again, so I figured I better get on and do it now. 

Last time I spoke, I was preparing for an interview as a support worker. After I was kept waiting half an hour past my scheduled interview time, I was invited into a poky room with two women.Why does it take two people to interview, these days?

My first question was "Name as many disabilities as you can," followed by "What do you know about disabilities?" These questions embarrassed me. Interviews are stressful when you're asked questions you haven't prepared for, but I was so concerned with my words, being diplomatic, yet hoping it wasn't too much or too little for me to answer the question sufficiently. As for the list of disabilities, I could answer it for so long, but then my mind went blank, and I started wondering what could be considered a disability. After I had made my way through about ten, I paused as my mind searched, and I actually contemplated whether Dyslexia would be considered a disability.

Despite what was my worst interview up to that point, I got a call back. I didn't go. The role involved going to care homes and bathing the residents, dressing them, feeding them and so on. I didn't think it was for me.

About a month later, I managed to land myself another job interview and I felt positive that I would get this one. It was for a new jewellery shop that was opening in Kingston. I wore the same as I did to my last interview: Black Uggs, tights, black and white Zara skirt and a black V neck jumper that I've had for years, from Dorothy Perkins. I don't own a suit, and I can make myself look pretty formal in this get up if I sit and stand in the right way. It was a cold day so I was wearing my Topshop parka. It's pretty big and unflattering, but I'd take it off for the interview.

When I got there, there were two other girls, suited and booted. They looked smart. Sophisticated, even. I felt underdressed. When I was invited into the interview room, there were two men: One pretty young, maybe early thirties, and the other going on fifty. "That's a big coat," was the first thing the younger guy said to me after the initial meet and greet. My face must've reddened. When I took it off, they both looked me up and down. I think I lost it right there. The interview went on for about 15 minutes, which is quite long in my experience. From the very first question I was asked, the younger guy just seemed to not be interested. He never held eye contact with me, something that I always make sure I do in interviews, and he said "Yeah," after every three words I said. I'm guessing to prove he was listening whilst he tapped his pen and spun his gaze over the walls. The interview, question and answer wise, went well. A little over a week later, for the first time in my life, I received an email telling me I didn't get the job. I was disappointed and I wondered what was so different about this one to all the others for me not to get it. All I can put it down to is the way I was dressed, and that kills me. The other girls didn't even have coats over their suit jackets, and it was freezing outside. It made me feel a bit of a scum bag. Not that I looked like one. All imperfections weren't visible to the naked eye, such as the white deodorant stains on the top I wore. It was only a bloody jewellery shop. I didn't even wear a suit to that internship I did up in London. And that was a big deal.

After that I continued to do the rounds with my applications only to be met with the same old story of no response. My 21st Birthday came and went in April, and I was still unemployed. About a week after, I signed up to some temping agency for bar and plate waiting work. The ad made it sound really exciting and a bit of a doss, saying it was for special events like weddings and functions, and you just brought the plates out basically. I was asked in for an interview on Friday morning at 9 am. The day before I had been out with my dad, something we often do. We went up to London to run a few errands, then spent the rest of the day getting pissed up. We went to this amazing pub called The Windsor or something, I can't remember, but it was full of pictures of famous people from Eastenders actors, to Mick Jagger, to Johnny Cash to the Queen Mum. It was wonderful in there, and I got talking to one of the staff who said she was leaving. I got really excited, and after drinking a six pound bottle of cider from a previous pub, I fantasized about working there, talking to the punters about the pictures and waiting for Mick Jagger to one day walk through the door. In the old light of sobriety, this obviously was impractical as it was about two hours away from home. I got mashed with dad. We went to that pub where Dickens used to go, and we went to The Tipperary. When I got up the next morning, I was hungover and still drunk. 

I walked into the office and was faced with a twenty something lad in a big coat. There was a fluffy dog running about the place. I was giving about four different forms to fill out. The dog kept coming up to me which put me in a strange position as all I wanted to do was cuddle it. I don't know how they get anything done with the pooch jumping around, all playful and adorable.

After the form filling, the guy tried to give me my first job. "What are you doing today?" he asked me. This terrified me, as I'd have to answer before I knew why, and if I said yes, I could be stuck with something awful. I gave a vague response. "I've got a job for you, from eleven 'til five." He paused and looked at me sheepishly. "It's washing dishes in a school kitchen. At a Private school." It being a private school just seemed to make it personal. I made my excuses and left. To this day I have not done a job for the agency. Everything that comes up, though it hasn't been washing dishes, has been in random places like Wooton which I couldn't get to without driving. 

Last month I came across an ad for an internship at this magazine dedicated to female writers. I applied to it and I got an interview, which was arranged for the following day. I started freaking out, then I realised that the interview was to be conducted by phone. I could wear what I want. A woman with an American accent called me, who happens to be the editor, and I awaited a call back. It didn't come. The phone barely left my sight, in fear of missing the call. Then last Thursday I logged into my email and found a message from the magazine. I thought it would be to turn me down, but it wasn't. I had got the gig. The whole thing is done virtually as well, so there's no travel expenses at all. I simply do my research at home and report to the editor about how I'm getting on. There's meetings every Monday on Skype and that's about it. No cost. Barely any sacrifice as they only want a day of your time each week. This continues until the end of August. I'm not really quite sure what I'm going to get out of it. It is unpaid, there are two other interns (both yanks), and it seems that the whole magazine is a labour of love, so I'm not expecting a paid opportunity after this. I guess it's just something to put on your CV, which may provide the foot in the door for what I want to get into.

So that's a piece of good news, and it gives me an alibi when I'm asked that awful question of "What are you up to at the moment?" Instead of skirting around the oh so dirty word that is 'unemployed,' I shall say "I am currently doing a three month internship for a magazine which promotes women's literature and expression." Lovely. Oh, and my specific role is as a blog coordinator, which means I'm head hunting women writers to contribute as guest bloggers to the magazine. I find that kind of ironic (not too ironic) as I evidently write a blog. Maybe irony is not the word. 

So I have an alibi but no wage, therefore making me still officially unemployed. I can't see how I can get an internship for a magazine, which would be a high in demand opportunity, where people from the states and here have applied, yet I can't get a job in a jewellery shop. If it weren't for me managing to get the gig for the internship in London last year, I'd start thinking it's cos I look like some sort of ruffian.

Post Wonder Years

Got an email today from Thomas Cook to inform me that my application for a customer advisor position was unsuccessful. It took a week for them to get back to me, and it's the second time I've applied to a travel agents. I've been going for that kind of job 'cos they ask for two A levels (I have three at A grade), and the pay is about twelve grand a year. As I need to make a lot of money fast, it's an attractive choice. I also applied at the same time to work behind the bar at Earl's Court tonight for the BRITs. That ceremony awards the shitters of the industry: Robbie Williams getting the Lifetime Achievement? And the nominees for the best British album from the past thirty years - what was that about? Duffy? Keane? It's like a fucking joke. The worthiest winner, my beloved Oasis, triumphed, but it weren't even for the masterpiece that is Definitely Maybe. And why wasn't the Arctic Monkey's debut nominated? The BRITs just seem to award the stupid person's idea of good music. I never received a response from my application. I had to send them a photo as well, and it punctures my self esteem as I stew over the possibility that the BRIT bar committee could've turned me down 'cos they reckon I'm ugly or whatever.

I've got an interview this Friday. It's for a Support Worker. I'm not quite sure what the job even entails but it said "no experience necessary" and pays thirteen grand a year. This will be my first interview since November, and I'm actually quite excited. When I first heard the message on my voicemail about the interview, my immediate response was to not go. I don't know why but every time I do get a response back from applications, there is a part of me which hopes I'm unsuccessful for a moment.

Last week was pretty epic. I told my brother and his girlfriend to "fuck off." It was cathartic for like five minutes, then it just wore off. It's 'cos the level of anger I expressed didn't do justice to a year's worth of tongue biting. I live in a totalitarian household run by brother Greg and his skin crawlingly annoying Canadian girlfriend Sarah. She moved in for a few months in 2008 before going back to Canada. Sarah then returned in May of last year, with bull about joining the Met and moving out with my brother by September. Neither happened, and it looks like they're here for a indefinite amount of time. Greg is 23 and has never had a job, paid rent or contributed in any way to his keep. This obviously limits his chances of moving out, thus contributing to my desperation of getting out.
My mum went to Spain on Thursday to visit my other brother Michael. I was dreading being left with them two. I eventually went to my boyfriend Joel's on Friday night, leaving Greg and the Canadian to play house. Being at Joel's basically involves eating, drinking, watching Seinfeld, Peep Show, Curb and so on, and him occasionally playing the Xbox whilst I sigh, read or listen to my ipod. It can get really boring, but he never seems to find it that way. I get so bored that it puts me in a mood. On Saturday, I was literally in Joel's room all day. I got to his at 8:30 pm on the Friday, and didn't venture back down the stairs until 6:30 pm on Sunday. I don't feel like I can complain about it to Joel though as I'm unemployed. If I say I'm bored, he might suggest we go out, and I can't pay my way so I can't expect to go anywhere.

My best mate Cassie is being a weirdo at the moment. I met her during my first year at college. She has been diagnosed with bipolar disorder (I'll save my opinions on that malarkey for some other time), and I've had to scupper several suicide attempts of hers over the years. This fatal depression ended (for now) last Spring, then she underwent this massive make over and started to try and act differently. For instance she got really argumentative, tried to crack jokes all the time and started to wear skinny jeans and four inch heels wherever she went.
Cassie's had trouble with her weight throughout her life, and the doctors have been scaremongering her over the past two years saying that if she doesn't lose a couple of stone, she'll cause unrepairable damage to her knee (apparently she has bad joints). Since we left college she's been trying to lose weight. She loses a stone, puts it back on and does it again. Cassie started reading books about anorexia and made this screen saver for herself of very, very skinny girls who had taken thin to the extreme. I've seen her do this kind of thing before: adopt a disorder in a way and advertise it, then when you bring it up, she denies it and pragmatically announces how she can no longer confide in you. At Christmas she revealed that she was going to go on a 40 day fast. Absolutely out her mind. I told her it was stupid and I knew she couldn't do it. It lasted four days according to her, but she still claims that it's a good idea just done at the wrong time as she was getting ready to re take her A levels. A couple of weeks back, my prophecy was fulfilled. She announced to me that she had "developed a bit of bulimia" and throws up her food. She says it like I never predicted it to her. I thought she had sorted herself out, but obviously not. I don't think it's bipolar or bulimia that she needs to be treated for, I think it's this mentality that needs to be treated of her replacing problems with new ones and desiring illnesses.
Cassie asked me round hers last Tuesday night. It was really cold outside and she lives about half an hour away. My bus runs once an hour after eight so I said I didn't fancy it. I haven't heard from her since. If things weren't they way they indeed are, I would've texted her days ago in a casual fashion and arranged something. The fact is though, I know she has spent the last week feeling hard done by, like I've got some hectic social lifestyle that's worthy of a Facebook gallery, and purposely throwing up making God damn sure that her mum is aware of it. If I went round there tomorrow, after half an hour of general chat, she'd inform me that her bulimia has reached epic proportions and she can't stop. The frustrating thing is, that if she weren't told to lose weight, this wouldn't be happening, bulimia wouldn't be her disorder of choice. But she would just pick something else and adopt that as the year's issue instead.

Facebook Freak Out

I'm not on Facebook and I have no intention of being a member. A couple of weeks back my darling sister Bethany sent, to what seemed to be her entire contact list, a link to her Facebook page to show everyone her Christmas family photos in Los Angeles. This is the only contact I've had with Beth since she came to visit England last summer. She seemed to lose interest in having a relationship with me around the same time as the school phobia thing kicked off. Probably the only thing that could redeem me in her bias teacher's point of view is if I went to University. I didn't. And so I get these bimonthly BC Ced emails instead.

When I followed the link to the cheesy snaps, I had a peek at my sister's profile which lead me to her group of friends. I found practically every known member of my family on there. That's not surprising, I guess. But then I got onto my brother's Facebook and found myself linked to not only every mate of his, but to the parents of people who I went to school with.
Then there's this one woman who lives up my street, and she's the mother of this girl I went to school with. Anyway, every time I leave the house, I see her. She is constantly walking up and down the road to the newsagents and back. I can't look out my bedroom window without seeing her. I get in my mum's car for a lift and there she is. Even this woman is on my brother's 'Friends' list.

What I can't get over is how much of a good time everyone looks like they're having. If you go through these people's photo albums, they all look like they're having more fun than what I've ever had in my entire life. It reminds me of something Andy Warhol said once about how he'd like to be able to watch video footage of every party he's been invited to, from his own home. That's what it felt like when I was looking at those pictures. I was recently invited to my Uncle's 50Th. No one from my household could make it. When I was linked to my cousin's Facebook from my sisters however, I saw pictures from that night, a synopsis more or less on the evening's events, and I could find each attendees' verdict on the night via the conversations on their wall. A friend of mine even had raging arguments with her now ex boyfriend via their public Facebook walls. At least one of their break ups even happened over Facebook.

I'm a manic worrier, and this troubles me. By looking at the pictures, it's like everyone is living in fucking Skins. Of course they're just snapshots of all the best moments of their life strung together; a collection of all the things you could've been doing but weren't. But ultimately, it just leaves me with a feeling of constantly missing out on something and you don't need to be reminded of that. I shan't be going on there again.

First blog. Oh yay. Signed up only to find I already had done three whole years ago. Bloody hell. Back then I weren't unemployed - I was doing my A Levels and had a bar job. The pub has subsequently gone out of business.

I left college in June last year and have been pretty much unemployed since. I got a big break (sort of) in November for a company which sells recording experiences. It was more than 40 hours a week, unpaid and a nightmare. I spent around seven hours a day calling up people who had bought these recording experiences before, to ask them if they'd like to buy one again. At about a hundred quid a pop, most weren't interested, and for no wage, I lost interest too.

Despite not being paid, I had to go off the dole when I started the position, and I have been signed off ever since. To be honest, I don't think I could go through all that again. They were more interested in my nationality than anything else. It was like a bloody school reunion in there, too. I can't leave my house without seeing someone who I went to school with. Most of these people don't remember me however as I left when I was thirteen due to the charming psychological tag of "school phobia."

So my mission is to:
A.) Get a job
and B.) Use the wage to get out of this town.

There's the opening blog then. Job done. Now we're in thick of things.