Feeling Vacant?

I warn you now that this is an even more subjective post than normal. If you’ve been hearing rants all day, perhaps you’d like to go and do something more therapeutic, like drowning a therapist.

Last night a minister braved the driving rain and proximity to the huddled and diseased masses on public transport to make his way to a television studio and tell the nation in a low and self-assured voice that there are 660,000 job vacancies in this country.

This was in the context of a debate about the level of incapacity benefits being handed out. Still, it was nice to see a politician call himself, on behalf of all other politicians, “silly”, when explaining how it was easy to see why people who had been registered as simply unemployed were now trying to get onto the larger incapacity payout. They should give all these politicians a big hat with “dope” written on it that could be worn in the House of Commons in place of that childish jeering that happens whenever anyone fouls up. Or to anyone who mentions the name of their own constituency more than seven times in a single sitting. While they’re at it, they should have a “corner” that MP’s can go and stand in when they have disgraced themselves. Gordon Brown could himself have been sent there when he accused the opposition of “deliberately misleading the public” on some or other matter and was reprimanded and advised to use “more temperate language”. David Cameron could have been sent there for his famed cycling-ahead-of-ministerial-car debacle and about a billion other misdemeanours.

This is a difficult call though. Generally it is the speaker who decides such matters, and as the Private Eye has made abundantly clear on occasion, our present speaker is a little erratic. I fear it would have to be “Gorbals Mick” himself that would have to stand in the corner many a time. Perhaps they could give him two large embroidered “eyes” on the back of his gown so that politicians could still address him in the proper manner during debates. Perhaps the designers of the new House will take this into account, and maybe even prepare a special temporary “corner” in Lakeside Shopping Centre or wherever the House will move to in the interim.

Personally, I would like to know where these 660,000 job vacancies are. I have no doubt they exist, but is there a list somewhere? I am not greedy, I merely want to fill one of them so that I can once again make my very tiny contribution to the burgeoning British economy. Who knows, a few thousand of them filled and it could be the straw that breaks the camel’s back (well someone has to, I mean they have ridiculous stamina and need to be cut down to size or else they will get complacent and never win another athletic championship). We may even gain a few overseas colonies if we can fill enough of those vacancies. Or better still, and much less sick, we could find an estate agent masterfully trained in the art of deception to invent a few. I would happily draw a new map to be put in all those little ones’ textbooks, bless ‘em. We could fabricate an island out of pumice stone and landfilled plastic bags in the middle of the Atlantic and call it Narnia. We could even build an IKEA there to sell the necessary wardrobes. Think of the jobs it would create.

The odd thing about walking around the city centre in pursuit of a job is the things that jump out at you. These are things which were there all the time, but only now seem of sudden and throat-seizing significance. That passing bus with something like “New Call Centre at Whatever Quay. Recruiting Now” (they lied, I checked, they should have torn that advertisement down in favour of the generic “Santa (Glasgow region) number 12 of 30 happily bouncing children on his lap in his Lair at Roguehill Shopping Centre from 1st Dec”. Then there was that sign on the side of the bookshop that was been partly obscured by an umbrella, saying “Vacancies”. Once the woman had finished communicating with Neptunians on her i-Phone and single-button mouse add-on, she moved away to reveal the word “NO” written above.

And then there was the warm and friendly announcement outside another store that read, “We are recruiting now for driven individuals adept at customer relations and the provision of an excellent quality service in return for excellent pay. Ideally will be available to work late shifts, weekends, Christmas Eve, Boxing Day etc.” I went into the shop and was pretty much turned back out again.

In case you have not already donned your cynical hat (and if not, why not?), let me paraphrase this announcement for you:
“We are looking for people with lots and lots of experience in customer service so that they will be able to cope adequately with the hell that is catering to people driven insane by Yuletide-frenzy. Must be able to ward off predatory and armed males and females using nothing more than a cracked CD cover and standard-issue store-cattle-prod. Cool under pressure, you will think nothing of clearing away a dismembered corpse (a victim of Retail Rage) and carrying on with decorum all the while expounding the virtuous name of this large multinational company which has you, as a valued employee, saved on our database as a nine-digit number because we care and because you are not human, you are a robot. A ROBOT I tell you. Must be willing to work 24/7 for minimum wage and not weep when missing Christmas. Gruel provided on Thursdays courtesy of the Board”.

You know it is getting desperate when I still thought (and think) it would be a rewarding experience nonetheless and when I was genuinely let down as I was turned away. The situation, as it occurred, by means (to protect identity) of a string-vested Alabama man with razor-sharp stubble, leaning forward, palms flat on thighs while sitting on a stoop in front of the shop:

MAN (with his infamous drawl): What d’you want, boy?
ME: Err, a job, here’s my CV.
MAN: I don’t want ‘yo damn CV you dumb cracker (strange, as I am of Asian appearance). We lookin’ for excellent quality customer service. An’ you look laak a right fuckwit. Any experience?
ME (cap in hand): Uh, no sir (might as well get in character), but it’d be right kind if you’d grant me a chance though, ah kin communicate.
MAN: Kin you hell! (Waves pipe in my direction) Set the dogs on this son’f’a’bitch.

So unfortunately this particular chapter of employment is not open to me at this time. Onwards, and another inviting sign pops out, this time above an Evening Times seller’s head in bold writing, “Hundreds of Vacancies Every Monday” and forty pence and a free can of Pepsi later I was on my way with it tucked under my arm. I tried to ignore the headline about the 34 year old mother raped in her own flat somewhere in the city. A timely reminder that I am still in a heavenly situation compared to most.

The Travel Centre looked inviting (it had an open door and no customers inside) but the woman was definitely not in the mood for stupid questions. “Ah don’t know about any vacancies, ye’ll hoff tae get oan the SPT site”, she barked, before seeming to reach for what could have been her special hobo-poking stick. The SPT site wanted people with cash-handling skills that could work in East Kilbride, so another no-go. I know you’re not supposed to eat money, the non-chocolate kind anyway. Does that count?

Not helping things is that my strangely-mute temping agency has disappeared back to its home planet after furnishing me with exactly one possibility in the last three weeks. And that was so far out of Glasgow that the working day would have been over before I got to the front door. The entire Victorian-era six-storey building housing the agency had vanished and in its place lay a patch of wasteland at the corner of two city centre streets, with a small flag waving limply in the wind amidst the rising steam. The flag on closer inspection read, “Fuck you. We have your bank details.” Not that I can think what they would do with them. Perhaps they will make a one-off Christmas donation into my current account as part of their Empathy Drive. Perhaps people will be hospitalised with pneuomonia in hell.

So, with the light fading on my once-glorious idea of an alternative dream career, and with both the “Follow Your Dreams”, and the more realistic “Know Your Limits” mantra now progressing yet one more rung down to “Get Anything, You Dick” it is time for another re-evaluation. There is the horror of swallowing the pride and going back to my vocation, but I don’t believe we are docking with that port quite yet. Or there is the Job Centre in Partick. I hope that as I head towards it tomorrow, at a 45 degree angle due to the driving rain, and with my scarf wrapped maniacally around my forehead like a bandana to prevent brain-freezing, that the centre will emit the radiant glow of infinite possibilities. Or failing that, the minimum wage data entry job that my now-disappeared temping agency failed to find. One sobering thought is that there are perhaps thousands of people in this city who have been continuously unemployed since the demise of Clydeside’s heavy industry. We’re talking forty years here.

A dream is a thing with no ceiling, no floor and no walls. And though it has no boundaries and no parameters, this flimsy concept is yet used by many including me to define some kind of possible progression in life. But if you want to remain rooted in terra firma, maybe it isn’t so wise to leave your head up there with the harps and the wispy bits. One thing at a time, though. Sincere apologies for standing you in front of the vent.