The 10 Minute Knock Back

Well, its been just over a week since Tom and I were unceremoniously chucked out on our arses by our former employers.

So far, its been productive time well used. Tom and I are both writing things we'd never have had time to do otherwise, we've done a bit of filming (more on that at a later date) and we have of course been enjoying all the fun of signing on and applying for jobs.

I was in to sign on today and a fucking bizarre experience it was to. These days, what with all the new fangled technology cutting about, it's all change down the dole or Jobcentre Plus as it's now known.

Instead of just tripping into a Jobcentre and having some half interested twat take down your details for about an hour, you have to call up "Jobsomeshitorother Direct", give them all your details, get a big wad of documents sent out to you that you have to fill out and THEN you get to go down the Jobcentre and have your time wasted by some half interested twat for about an hour.

To be fair, I'd have been less time this morning had I not had to help correct the dozens of mistakes the guy I phoned made and fill in the bits he just couldn't be bothered doing with a new start lassie, who had to ask a colleague every time she had to make a decision.

I was then passed off to a Pat Butcher lookalike for my "Jobsearch", which consisted of her complaining to me about her husband (who apparently can't just go and buy a kilt on his own - ah, you know what we're like us men eh?) before she started entering whatever the fuck she felt like on her computer record of me to the point where I wondered if my being there was in any way genuinely necessary.

I could certainly hear myself talking, but lets just say precious little of it made it across the desk.

She then handed me a bundle of paperwork before huckling me out the door because she'd double-booked me with a guy who had learning difficulties and hadn't been able to read the letter he'd received telling him his appointment had been changed.

Fucking rare eh? Canne wait until no-that-bright, overworked employees under this amount of pressure are handling my ID card details.

The place itself is hilarious now, all open-plan, with "jobpoint" terminals which work to the same functionality standards as their laughable website, sofas, "breakout areas" and designer, leather-bound cupboards that hold about two ring binders and a pencil, the kind of office you'd imagine Tony Wilson would have had in about 1986.

Also, for no reason I can put my finger on other than the possibility that they've finally realised they deal almost exclusively with bams all day, the place is crawling with Group 4 security staff.

Maybe they are all looking for work having been sacked after losing dozens of dangerous criminals? Who knows.

But that's not been the best bit of my week so far. That came the other morning when, bright and early, I applied for a job I had received via alert from S1 jobs.

I applied at 8.59am. By 9.09 I had received and email telling me to fuck off.

Despite being qualified for the job and it being a brand new ad placed that very morning I had apparently fallen behind a vast queue of people better suited to the position.

I am fairly accustomed to the feeling of not knowing whether to laugh or cry, but that was a new one even on me.