Give Us A Job

I am currently unemployed. It is rubbish being unemployed. I have been unemployed since the start of the year, and having applied to around 30 jobs, have heard back from just three of them.
This is annoying - not so much the fact that after a month I still don't have a job - but that very few of the employers I've contacted have even bothered to reply. Surely any response is a courtesy, even if it were to say, "I'm very sorry, but you're not what we're looking for"?

Almost three million people in the UK are unemployed - and in this respect I feel a mere stray pube in an overgrown bikini zone, that David Cameron and his government have the unenviable task of trimming back. This means that lots of people are applying for most jobs, but in an age of email and cutting and pasting, employers could at least send out a basic generic reply to people who may have spent hours applying for a job.  

Meanwhile it seems the Daily Mail is peeved that UK bosses are recruiting thousands from Romania, tattling that 2,400 vacancies are being advertised in Bucharest, vacancies that, crucially, are being advertised, not filled. And presumably by "UK bosses" the paper means it is "British bosses" who are searching for cheap labour from overseas? It's always those bloody British.

Today I telephoned Jobcentre Plus to apply for Jobseeker's Allowance and spent 25 minutes being interrogated by a man who had all the charm of an SS guard. He had a real twisted indignation - he was in work and good, and so I, being out of work, was bad. By the end of the call I felt like I'd been questioned in the Nuremburg Trials.

So off to the Jobcentre I went - an appointment was organised with real efficiency for myself to attend an hour after the phone call - and upon arriving I felt a strange sense of excitement. I'd never been in the Jobcentre before. There was a burly security guard, who wouldn't have looked out of place outside Yate's or guarding a prison, which, I suppose, it a bit what being a bouncer at Yate's is like. But why does the Jobcentre need to employ a burly security guard? There must be people fighting over jobs!

The Jobcentre was full of people who were busy doing nothing, but my interviews went well and the two ladies I spoke to were actually very nice. Given my journalism background, and that I would be happy to work in the retail sector or behind a bar, I was recommended one job: a film extra in a production of Les Misérables. I think I'll give this a miss.

I will finish with a plea: does anyone have a job for me? Are there any jobs out there? Is there anyone out there?!

Brambling On

Today I resolved to do two things: start a blog and tell my girlfriend that she is beautiful. I lay in bed with a monumental hangover, which, after a headache poo, has only just cleared. A headache poo is a poo when you're hungover and your headache comes out your bum. The words "strong continental lager" had been crashing about my skull all morning.

Last night I went out for a drink with my friend Dave and, in the last pub we went to, we met a lovely young black Labrador Retriever called Bramble. I think her owner said she was nine months old. Her owner was noticeably a lot posher than the pub's usual clientele. He told us that Bramble was a "gun dog". "Gun dog" sounded like "gap year". You could tell that Bramble was his first dog: she was completely well behaved but the owner and his partner seemed slightly on edge, as if they thought she was going to start humping the bar flies' legs or ordering really expensive drinks. Dave and I said hello to Bramble and let her smell our trousers; we both own dogs and Bramble was checking them out.

Dave and I went outside so we could smoke, although I am trying to quit. I had been fighting the urge to have a cigarette for most of the evening but by this point had crumbled and lit up. The cigarettes made my head spin and I didn't feel capable of going to the bar to order more beer. Dave went to buy drinks on my behalf as Bramble and her owner came outside.

The owner was trying to get a bit of training in whilst letting Bramble have a toilet break. He had her lead out. I could tell he was struggling and decided to try to help.

"Tell her she's beautiful," I said to the owner, "she'll respond well to that. And when you're walking her and she's on a short lead, say, 'Heel', say 'Heel' and she'll soon associate the word with walking quite close to you." The owner looked confused. Bramble looked away.

So lying in bed this morning, I thought, if I'm telling someone to tell their dog it's beautiful, then I should tell my girlfriend that she is. Miraculously, my phone rang. It was my girlfriend, Shannon. "You look beautiful today," I told her.