Work Program pt 2

I walked into the open-plan room. It was completely packed full of people. No places to sit, barely any room to hear yourself speak. Dozens of sad and bored looking faces. It was impossible to tell who worked there and who didn't. The air was pumped full of people trying to convince others that it really wasn't so bad when it clearly was. I felt like I'd accidentally walked into a battery farm for chickens.

I stumbled my way through the cluttered floor planning towards what I eventually work out to be the main desk. I stand there dripping wet for ten minutes before someone approaches and sits behind the desk.

In all naivety they ask "Can I help you?". I repress the urge to utter the words of truth "No one can help someone like me" or for a towel and instead tell her that I've had an appointment and late but my adviser knows I am here and why I'm late.

I am informed that my adviser will come over shortly and in the meanwhile to enjoy their free coffee machines...

COFFEE!

I flee her presence. Practically skipped over to the vending machines and mashed my palm on the keypad frantically, screaming for lifes little helper to bring me some brown, polystyrene cupped joy. I hold onto it like it's a rope stopping me for slipping over the edge of an endless abyss. The last bastion for my sanity.
Finally, my adviser arrived and we spent the next hour going through setting up my files. I deliberately decided to read everything through very carefully, even being a nuisance of myself by asking constantly about minor phrases or even entire paragraphs that seemed to contradict themselves or were obviously asking me to sign away information that was not needed nor legal for them to take. The word "may" in context of "you may" cropped up more then any other.

I deliberately chose to sign all forms put in-front of me for three reasons:
1) I had no intention of being on Work Program for very long and...
2) If I was to experience the full horror I had to sink to the lowest end of the low because...
3) I planned to write openly about my experience here.

She asked me what I thought my greatest need would be, I told her with a slight laugh that easily it was experience. How can I get a job that requires experience when I cannot get a job to gain it?

She said she understood but I had a feeling that somehow it would not matter if she understood my position or not. All that the Work Program did was try and push people into work. It was exceptionally unlikely that I'd receive any genuine help to improve my prospects of getting work.

After filling out a whole bunch of pointless forms I was finally asked what my strengths and weakness' are.
In the world of job interviews this has got to be the most asinine question to ask an potential employee. First of all, anyone with any sense will lie. Secondly, your strengths and weakness' of real-life usually have little to do with your work-life. For instance, in normal life I can be chatty and dominate I listed off a whole bunch of key words that I thought represented my strengths...and was stopped.

According to my adviser what I was doing was listening off a bunch of key words . . . Yes. And? That's what you asked me to do . . .
Apparently, despite being told to do this, this would not do. I told her I did not spout off answers like this during my interviews so she asked me to answer as if I was under interview conditions - but not to worry because it was not an interview so don't feel like it is.

. . . What?

The whole process was extremely condescending.

We moved on to what kind of work I'd like to do. I made sure she was wanting me to be honest, and she was, so I answered with a multitude of responses from my broad background of passions and interests.
Work Program seem stumped that I would have interests in more areas then "getting a job". Apparently studying for Electrical Engineering (for trade work), writing free-lance (for the passion) and doing bar work (for the monies) is too complicated. It's dead simple...

1) I learn a trade because job security is shit these days and I want to have a back-up trade to my name. Plus, I am sick of working in industries where I passively contribute to killing people via liver and lung cancers. If I can't kill people quickly and by lightning then I don't see the point.
2) My passions are not work that will pay well: writing and acting. Tell me again why I should "follow me passions", Mrs Work Program employee - because I will but you'll have a hell of a time trying to find paid work for me.
3) Bar work is simple. It's not a career I want to do but I CAN do it.

So, let me break it down for you:
1) I am studying to do this because...
2) This is not a career that can pay enough to support my life and I can and do this for free whilst...
3) This keeps me from being stuck with YOU for the next two years.

She went off to photocopy some paperwork and I went off to abuse the free coffee privileges.

SECOND COFFEE

We went through some other crap and finally I got bored and told her I had to leave - which was true but not for another half an hour or so. We went back to the questions about strengths and weakness' to which I finally replied - "I'm too modest" and left her with that cop-out answer to ponder over.

I'm going to blog about my experiences through Work Program for a while. I hope it can help educate some and entertain others.

Work Program pt 1.

Last week I was referred onto the Work Program. In purest English this translates to: "We, the Government, have fobbed you off onto someone else, to keep our official numbers of un-employed down and justify spending cuts for J.S.A. staff." Some company called Ingius is now my keeper.

My instinctive reaction was one of elation - I wanted to get and stay the f**k away from the job center. It's a place where souls go to be crushed and dreams wither up and die. A land of broken promises and false pretenses. Work Program has its own share of horror stories. Still, I wanted to witness them first hand. A new flavour of disparity.

I have been unemployed for just over two years now. During this time I have take the time to brush-up on my writing and reading for personal and political development. To some I will be seen as a dole scrounger, to me I see myself as a victim. Do not confuse that with me having self-pity. If anything its quite the opposite that's true and I am rather pleased with myself for going on unemployed for so long and not giving a flying fudge about it.

The time off has been wonderful for re-charging my batteries physically and mentally. The frustrations of working were no way near redeemed by the pay I received. My last job, though by far my favorite of all the jobs I've ever worked in (which is saying a lot about how bad the previous were), was high pressure, high responsibility to meet targets, maintain standards and break through the near absolute isolation barrier without creating fictional friends to keep you company. Lets not forget the shit-tacular talents of the management I worked under and their complete and utter failure to train me.
The job before that I worked in for two years as a till-monkey. It was the most horrid and stressful job I've ever had. The staff were bullies and liars and I swore I would never go back.

Remember this, One Stop or I SHALL return!

So, finally being dumped off as someone else's responsibility I happily took note of the location of my first meeting in two weeks time, a small office at the end of the corridor in the Job Centre building. As I shagged my way out of the building...

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INTERLUDE:

                                                                   shag ²  (shg) 

n.

A dance step of the 1930s consisting of a hop on each foot in turn.

intr.v. shagged, shag·ging, shags

To perform or execute this dance.

-----

...I had every confidence that something would go wrong.

Next Wednesday comes around and I receive a phone call asking me to confirm that I am, indeed Vincent Blackwell. It's the Work Program letting me know that I have an appointment with them the next day.

Uh. What?

I listen to their understanding of events as the Job Centre are usually more incompetent then this and accept it as fact. My appointment was a week earlier then expected.

The next day I was getting ready to set off an hour early to my appointment. As I was literally putting my shoes on to leave the house I received a phone call. It was an offer of a job interview to work in a pub/bar. I could not get them to get off the phone fast enough. Now I was 10 minutes behind schedule but could still be on time.

As I left the house I saw my bus drive off from the bus stop. Perfect. I wait for another fifteen minutes before a bus arrives. Whilst I am on the bus I try to contact my new adviser to let them know I'll be late and irony was at fault. After being put through to a call centre instead of my adviser I finally got a message sent to SOMEONE in the department where my adviser worked. The length of the ride into the city takes 20 minutes. Traffic burdened an additional five minutes. The phone call took 15 minutes.

I hope off the bus and sprint for the Job Centre, I have less then 10 minutes to arrive on time. I hurry and make it to main reception where I ask show a G4S thug my appointment acknowledgement. They send me over to the reception desk. I wait in line anxiously. Finally I am seen and am given a confused look. The man on the desk wonders off at his own pace to find out if my appointment is in the building or not. As this happens I get a phone call from Ingius. I take the call. I am asked where I am. I tell them and am quickly informed that my appointment is NOT in this building. A member of G4S starts trying to shuffle me out the doors as there is a no phone policy despite my protests that this call is relevant and important. Getting frustrated that I am being pressured to leave without having any answers from the Job Centre I loudly tell the security guard where to stick himself and leave the building.

It is now raining. Yes, it's fucking raining! I get the person on the phone to give me directions. Turns out its on the opposite side of town, go figure. I walk in the rain to my appointment and finally arrive half an hour late in a sleek glass and steel office building behind a hotel. I enter eager to escape the downpour. Outside it looks peaceful, inside it was frantic and miserable.

Dignity or How I Lost My Hat

Gather around, children. I want to tell you a story...the story of how I lost my hat.

I am not a massive, big or even casual drinker. I barely consume alcohol at all, one night of cider a week at very best an even then that is two times out of a month whilst being hosting a board game social. But tonight was special. It was a good friends birthday and after the last few weeks we'd all had we needed to let out hair down, or at least burn something.

Being not much of a party-animal anymore I dressed up rather then down and contributed one and a half bottles of gin and tonic water and limes. I considered bringing port but I wasn't sure what kind of atmosphere it was going to be. All that I knew for sure was that at some point someone would mention the political climate or economic policy and we'd be stuck in a discussion of pleasant but familiar intellectual territory. I decided to play it safe. It was a friends birthday and in the spirit of such things people had every intention of getting horrendously drunk.

It started out reasonably conventional; loud music, lots of varied conversation and plenty of unoccupied drinks knocking around as we all quickly forgot where we'd put them and made a fresh one. By midnight the party was hitting over-drive. People were dancing to terrible 90's pop music with The Backstreet Boys at the for-front of this hideousness. Tequila shots were fashionable like oxygen. Strange people I'd never met before sprang out of no-where, conversed and vanished into the aether of the night as silently as they'd appeared. By two a.m. things had hit critical-mass. People were passing out in unusual places i.e. upside-down or on the toilet. 'Windowlicker' by Aphex Twin had been played swiftly followed by 'Groove is in the Heart' and no-one batted an eyelid. At one point I even witnessed a friend water-boarding the birthday boy with a beer keg. Crazy didn't cover it; it was like one of those "where are they now?" documentaries about the beasts from 'Where The Wild Things Are' and they'd all decided rehab was a great place to throw a reunion party. It was awesome.

It hit that stage in the evening when, between my 51st gin-and-whatever of the evening and a good friend on one side half-slurring and half making a really valid point about global economic collapse (told you!) that I hit my alcohol limit. When I hit my limit I can feel it, like I've come to the cliffs edge. A tipping point between being responsible for my actions and down the rabbit hole - a world where anything was possible and I was blind drunk. I absent mindedly pondered if I'd met that same point Michael Cane did at the end of 'The Italian Job' and when my stomach cramped a little I knew it was time to put down the glass. I made a polite excuse and left the conversation to making my way across the room to the stairs where I knew a small, quiet toilet would await me on the opposite side of the kitchen. I could drink some water and maybe even throw up a little in peace and return to the party. Dignity in tact.

I gave myself a few minutes in the kitchen drinking water and eating a home-made cottage pie I'd made about twelve hours earlier as an alternative birthday gift.

Stood in the one by two meter bathroom sipping at a mug of Leeds finest tap water I could hear the music playing from upstairs and the comforting sound of someone falling over. As I felt my mouth lightly water in anticipation for the first bout of vomiting I sipped water for the last time and put the mug aside, knelt down and reached for the door lock... but there wasn't one.

"...Are you down here, dude?"

Ah shit. I quickly stood back up and grabbed the sink for support.

"Yeah... sup mate?"
"Just wondering where you've been, you've been a while."

I could have lied and sent him on his way, he'd never have known about my situation and minutes later we could have been partying again. Instead, being drunk or just a moment of sincerity or both...

"I'm just throwing up. I'll be back up in a minute." No big deal.
"Ah, that sucks. Are you alright?"
"I'll be fine."
"You want me to get you some water or..."

My eye twitched and something in my heart sank. Being drunk had made me emotional. I felt the truck on the cliffs edge began to teeter. Oh Jesus, no!

"...Um. No no. Listen, I appreciate you trying to help but...uh..." I wasn't sure how to phrase this but I had been honest so far, it would be worse if I was caught out throwing up and made a big deal out of it by trying to cover it up "Just don't be nice to me, ok? I'll probably start crying. I'm feeling drunk and emotionally vulnerable right now and just want to throw up in peace so I can go back up and party hard."

I'm sure he'd understand.

"But why would you be upset that I'm being nice to you, you're really nice to everyone else?"

Tipping point. Michael Cane plunges helplessly over the cliff side, screaming towards certain squishing with his truck of gold bullion. My eyes welled up and leaked. Ah shit...

Game over, man. Game over...

I stood there crying in this tiny bathroom crying like an emotional wreck. My friend with his hand on one shoulder STILL being nice to me.

"Aw. You're sort of cute when you're this drunk."

Then I vomited. Still crying.

"...Oh, um..."

I vomited again.

"You really meant "don't be nice" didn't you?"

Gasping for air I surfaced from the toilet bowl "Yeah...I...really...meant-BWRUUUAGH!"

I have no idea how long I went back and forth between liquid trying to escape my body through my face but when later described the words most used are "vomit" and "fountain". At least it couldn't get any worse. At least no one else would seeing me in this state...till Mark appeared.

"Hey guys!" Instantly the water-works stopped. I jerked up right and tried to look casual. Bloodshot eyes and probably sick on his chin but casual. I could salvage this. "Just wondering where you'd got-"

"Fuck off, Mark!"

I turned and looked at our mutual friend in surprise then back at Mark. His face sank. I watched him turn and slowly walk back up stairs in silence like a dog who's being punished. Seeing Marks face like that made me feel sad. I went back to crying. And throwing up.

Next thing I remember I was getting into the back of a taxi. Two friends riding along with me back to my house. I felt absolutely fine, still drunk but fine. And at least now I could get home and crawl into bed. At least it was over. As I stepped out of the taxi car I threw-up. Somewhere between the taxi and my front door I lost my hat.

Dignity. It's a write-off.