Having a job sure is great isn’t it? Is that the alarm? Yay! It’s 7am! Dum-dee-dee. Sitting on this crowded bus is mighty swell. Oh, someone sneezed in my face. Ha ha ha! What a gas. Dum-dee-dum-dum. Where’s the quarterly sales spreadsheet? Right here boss. Five pounds for Jane’s leaving present? Gee-wiz, I only spoke to her twice, but here you go! Dee-Dee-Dum-Doe. Is that clock going backwards? Oh, shucks, it’s happening again. The walls are beginning to palpitate. The air turns stale and thick, reluctantly creeping into the nostrils. The senses slowly fade until all that remains is the black. Beautiful and absolute. Dum-dee-dee-dum-dum.
Well, that’s all well and good for people with a job, but what about those people who don’t have one? You’ve seen them. Look at them. Standing there reading Nuts magazine and blowing off at expense of the tax payer. At your expense. Christ, they sicken me. I HATE THEM! I HATE THEM! It’s staggering just how much animosity the jobless of this country attract. Log onto any internet debate forum or read any tabloid newspaper and it doesn’t take long to find some sweaty, vicious, demi-human with penis like a sparrow’s beak and a chip on his shoulder the size of a fucking fridge vomiting his ill-informed streams of pure, vile, hatred. Speaking as someone who has suckled on the withered teat of the state, when I mentioned to someone that I was claiming Jobseeker’s Allowance I would honestly receive a better reaction if I told them I strangled baby rabbits for the BNP. ‘I mean, why don’t they just get a job, right? Anyone can get a job. I’ve got a job. What about a shop? They can work in a shop, yeah.’ Well, no. I recently attended an interview for a certain lowbrow high street fashion outlet, and in the interview I was told that over a hundred people applied for that same job. Over a hundred people. A one in one hundred chance. I have more chance of recovering from bowel cancer than I do getting a job picking coats off the floor of TK Maxx.
What people don’t seem to realise is just how relentlessly bleak being unemployed can be. Sure, at first it can be almost like a little holiday. A nice relaxing break. The thing about being stuck at home is, its fine in small doses, but then so is arsenic. It’s not long before you’re having uncontrollable seizures and throwing up stomach lining on the kitchen floor. Best not to think too hard about that analogy. Anyway, when you genuinely cannot find work no matter how hard you try it can be an extremely disheartening experience. Here are just a few of the businesses I was not deemed ‘qualified’ to work for: Carphone Warehouse. B&Q. Argos. Iceland. Dagenham Perfect Kebab (perhaps I shouldn’t have aimed so high. Dagenham Average Kebab may have been more suited to my abilities). You learn to deal with a certain amount of rejection in life; from women, from friends, and even family, but to get a ‘Dear John letter’ from Matalan is a hurt that sticks with you. The job centre isn’t always the best of help either, bless them. ‘The key to securing an interview is a good CV!’. Oh, really? Cheers for that. I was going to write ‘Hire me you cunt’ on a brick and throw it through a shop window. Still, I’m never one to look a gift horse in the mouth...please keep giving me money.
Soon enough you descend into limbo and watching mind-numbing daytime television becomes the only escape from the incessant gnawing of the Black Dog. The irony is all daytime TV seems to have the theme of ‘If you don’t have a job then you’re better off dead. Prick’. Turn on the TV. Maniacal guttersnipe rouser Jeremy Kyle gives those dole scum a good dressing down. Change the channel. The Loose Women look at photos of benefit claimants and tut in disgust. Change the channel. Alan Titchmarsh and Brian Dowling maul an unemployed builder from Grimsby with a shit-smeared rake.
The future isn’t grim as it seems though. The world population is predicted to fall by two billion over the next twenty years...what? Increase by two billion! Christ. I’m getting a vasectomy tomorrow...
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