Catch 22:
def. 1./ a logical paradox arising from a situation in which an individual needs something that can only be acquired by not being in that very situation; therefore, the acquisition of this thing becomes logically impossible.
def. 2./ abandon hope, all ye who enter here
So there are a lot of things I could blog about, like why Morrowind is so fantastic and much better than the other games I haven't played, or why the Japanese earthquake is not as bad as the impending Japanese reactor meltdown and the obliteration of all life on earth, or why everything, eventually, comes back to goblins, but I won't. I'm going to post about job hunting, and why it is impossible to 'hunt' for a job, unless you go out skewering current employees with an obsidian javelin.
 |
| "I say, Humphrey, look at the silly little prole!" |
Anyone who is not a banker or a member of any number of other horrible soulless jobs dedicated only the pursuit of hording wealth like dragon might realize that there is a recession on. Everything is getting a bit more expensive, everyone is getting a bit poorer, and everyone could lose their job. Well, I use everyone in a loose term, of course.
The problem is, there are barely any jobs left to apply for, and each of them require a level of skill or machinelike monotony that is not genuinely achievable unless you were born without soul. Which leads to my next point. Any jobs - of which there are few - all require previous experience. And if your qualifications say that you have all wisdom, all knowledge, transendant grace and unlimited supernatural powers you still won't be able to get that job in admin because, despite inventing the computer, database and the history of written language, you've never done an admin job before, so you can go hang.
This is the Catch 22.
It's not for a lack of trying to turn myself in an emotionless brick ensnared to the servitude of our dark masters. I have positively embraced all the cult-like aspects of job hunting, including the jobcenter, websites, CV handing out and reading the local papers. In fact, short of dressing in sackcloth and screaming my curses to the heavens, I've done just about all I can do get a job, even thought most of them I don't even want. I haven't gone as far as this desperado, though, credit to him. Companies like that kind of appeal. It shows commitment, innovation, an ability to stand out, and most importantly, complete and utter desperation and a willingness to degrade oneself publicly in the pursuit of work.
Maybe I should run into a bank with a shotgun, waving it in the air and screaming "Employ me! I know how to use computers!"
Example: On the RadioAire jobsite, there are 296 jobs listed in the West Yorkshire region.
1) Teacher of English
2) Teacher of Art
3) Telesales Executive
4) Protection Advisor - lulwhut?
5) Field Sales Engineer
6) PI Soliciter
7) Fitness Instructor
8) Learning Disabilities Support Team Manager
9) Assistance Compliance Officer
10) Porter
All of which but Porter, I would not be able to do, or rather, I would be able to do, but I need some more paper to prove that I can do it, I have paid to do it, and I am allowed to do it. And experience. So I'll have to go for the mundane stuff shovelling job, which would be preferable to any number of smug nauseating office jobs filled with plastic people anyway. I click on the Porter job, it is in Leeds, a forty minute train journey away. I can't do it, though, because you need previous experience in furniture removal. Previous experience in furniture removal? I mean, it's not like transporting a sedated rhino which could, at any point, awake enraged, break free of it's chains and maul you and the driver to death in an orgy of B-movie violence. Revenge of the Rhinocerous, they would call it. Only it wouldn't happen.
I guess I'll have to go back to dragging my knuckles along the floor, staring dimly at the desk in front of me and wondering exactly how I was going to get it closer to the plug sockets. Oh, the woeful lack of experience. Now if only I knew how to type.
No comments:
Post a Comment