Wednesday 5 May 2010

Final Chapter?!

With my faith waning in the belief that meaningful employment which would allow me to progress into the world of media and journalism was just around the ol’ proverbial… I needed a way out, an escape from Albion and all the problems and lack of opportunity that dwell within these realms.
And then it dawned… a way out of the interminable dross that was and still is the employment scene in these United Kingdoms… TEFL (teaching English as a foreign language) incase you’re not too familiar with this particular concept I shall explain: As we all know English is one of the most spoken languages used on this planet we call Earth; well as natural purveyors of this language there is a course you can do varying in hours and expense in which you can learn how to teach English to those who wish to learn all over the world! Now who wouldn’t be interested in such an opportunity?!
Late in 09 I decided that’s it I’m going to work my arse off save up do the course and then take a job in Barcelona teaching gorgeous, cultured, uninhibited and effortlessly sexy Spanish sorry Catalonian women (who all happen bear a striking resemblance to Miss Penelope Cruz in my mind’s eye.) It all sounded perfect… leaving behind dreary, samey and routine like London for a climate change in every sense; and saving would of course be easy! For once the fact that my social life was ebbing towards its dying embers would be to my advantage.
Well by way of sod’s law (would love to know who christened such a term) the social life actually started to under go a renaissance; would you Adam and Eve it! Yes I still unable to say no to a night out despite the Utopia I could picture waiting for moi in Iberian paradise went on a series of night outs from late September including birthdays, dinners, clubs, gigs etc till about mid November; it was as if for 5-6 weeks I was all of a sudden the recklessly social 19 year old that I thought had been lost under the weight of fear of the future.
This period I termed as my ‘crest of the wave’ because it couldn’t possibly last and I figured I might as well ride it till the waters calmed once more.
One night in particular of this period still reverberates and was in many ways the peak of the wave. It was Halloween 09 and I along with a couple of mates was heading out to Underworld located right in the heart of Camden Town…Underworld incase you’re unaware is a night club small in stature which pumps out the latest in contemporary indie music; it is also a relic of those early carefree years between 17-19 I would frequent the venue and lose myself in a sea of indie disco heaven.
The mates I went with named Alex and Danny are two people shall I say who haven’t been affected as I have by the recession; Alex has been settled in a restaurant for the last few years as a waiter and Danny graduated university and found a job and salvation at betfair in 2007.
Throughout the night I had to endure them talking about their girlfriends, their holidays (in Thailand and Turkey respectively) how they managed to spend just £800 on flights and accommodation. Swapping holiday stories, discussing where they were going next year etc. I had nothing to contribute so I just sat there taking in all their merriment whilst sipping eternally on a JD and coke longing for the subject to change to football or music or even Haruki Murakami’s novel Norwegian Wood!
The reason I mention all this is I want you to be able to understand the state of mind I was in upon entering Underworld.
After a few drinks inside I was desperate for some type of validation, some kind of escape from the recession-ridden path I was forced to walk. Never before had the gap in quality of life between my mates and me been so prevalent; they knew it, I knew it and I was determined to during the great leveller that a night-club can be seek my own form of temporary redemption.
Whilst on the dance floor with my two mates in tow I got the attention I so craved, so desired, longed and lusted for… the source however wasn’t the shining light I needed but instead was more of symbol of my desperation.
A rather large woman came boogying towards me; her eyes wide, her hair short and black, her attire pieced together from discarded curtains. She was a good couple of inches taller than me and a dozen or so inches wider! Not to mention that she was in her mid to late thirties at least.
Suddenly there she was dancing in front of me eager for me to pick up the baton…
I wish I could say I managed to resist or that I was blind drunk but that would simply be a fabrication… without thinking I picked up the baton and ran.
I put my arms around her considerable frame avoiding eye contact as if somehow that meant it wasn’t real. After a song or two I just thought fuck it! I’ve gone this far down the track I might as well go a little further.
I leant over and kissed her on cheek and she proceeded to giggle after which we tried to establish a dialogue, which just amounted to each of us merely pretending we’d heard what the other had said.
With my mates seemingly out of the picture off to bar (I’d seen Alex mime the drinky drinky motion) I leaned in and pulled her; as with all guys when you pull a girl you first start off with your hands by her sides, then slip them down to her arse your hands will just rest there for a moment cupping each buttock in one hand then we’ll slowly work our hands up to her tits giving them a fair ol’ grope all whilst maintaining the snog and this ritual groping is just as important as the engaging of tongues.
But with this woman who’s subsequently become known as ‘Valuev’ (the fight was the next weekend and once I revealed she was Eastern European the moniker was inevitable, Danny even suggested that I being a comparatively small Black guy and she being a tall eastern European it literally looked like…)
I simply kept my hands up by her ample sides for obvious reasons.
Did pulling this woman provide me with the satisfaction and validation that I so desperately craved that night I hear you cry?! Did it provide adequate escapism from a life a galaxy away from where I wanted it to be?! Did I suddenly feel I was on par with Danny and Alex in life stakes?! No would be the simple and rather obvious answer to those questions; I went onto snog her a few more times before she ventured off with her friends and we ‘agreed’ to reconvene on the dance floor for ‘round two.’
Needless to say I’ve taken a fair bit of stick for such a fois pas; in hindsight wasn’t she wasn’t ‘Valuev’ a physical manifestation to how low I’d sunk, how desperate in every sense I had now become?
Danny, Alex and every so often some geezer you vaguely remember from secondary school who you become ‘friends’ with on Facebook and you discover they’re married, engaged or happen to be the assistant manager at C&J Clarks and you can’t help but wonder when did ‘appen? When did everyone suddenly go off and get a better life than me? How is it that he’s marrying an adult human female he professes to love? Whilst I’m making do with whoever shows the vaguest bit of interest in me in some grotty little discotheque!
I mean did someone literally start giving out handbooks as to how to get the job and girl that you so desire by the age of 24 but whilst this was occurring I was at home wanking over whatever tart ‘appened to be on Babestation?!
The thought of running into anyone I knew from Rushcroft Secondary and having THAT conversation in which we attempt to in the space of five minutes divulge the significant events that have occurred within our lives over the space of the last 7-8 years. Is a disturbing one.
I can have a decent 3 quarters worth of a conversation about going to college and then onto university but that’s where it ends; I do not believe there is a pleasant or eloquent way of describing how upon graduating from university in May 2008 I have spent the past 19 odd months looking desperately for respectable employment but thanks in no small part to a worldwide recession and rising unemployment figures this has proved to be a nigh impossible task so I work casually as a Steward/Waiter, still live at home and wake up everyday to this rather depressing reality which inevitably means I wont pass up the opportunity to ‘escape’ through the means of drink, drugs and whatever member of the opposing sex gives me a green light.
I do however find this whole situation I and millions of other recent graduates find ourselves in rather funny perhaps even ironic… all through secondary school and laterally college its drummed into you incessantly that University is the pinnacle, ‘you get a degree and you’ll earn x amount more…’ Higher education the essential ladder you must climb to where you want to be, to be content, to be that spivvy cunt.
But on the odd occasion I do run into people from my ol’ school it tends to be the ones who found work straight after school or college that are now thriving; settled in a job, renting their own place, have a few grand tucked away, a world away from this interminable dross, this perpetual purgatory within which the vast majority of recent graduates dwell.
Is a shift in the balance of power in the offing? Will recent graduates upon the world waking from its recession induced slumber be the ones who are holding all the cards? Are these 19 odd months we’ve had to endure (so far) us merely wandering through the desert to reach the promised land?! Salaries, renting our own places, when asked what you do for a living being able to answer with assurance and pride instead of the ol’ vitriol about how you’re a ‘recent graduate’ just doing agency work till you break into your chosen field.’
Will we look forward to those catch up conversations? See them as a glorious opportunity to boast how after a couple of rocky years those degrees paid dividends, came good in the end.
That all does sound rather lovely but how would we all cope without the squalor to which we’ve become so accustomed?

As I sit and I write these words at 14:38 on 14/1/10 I do possess the renewed optimism that only a new year can bring. My plan now revolves around getting that TEFL qualification as I’ll only require a 20 hour (£195) certificate to teach this wonderful language of ours in the Czech city of Prague.

Perhaps upon returning to Albion I’ll have another crack at that Journalism lark.

The past 19 odd months have seen the glorious university bubble well and truly burst… a world of agency work, recruitment agencies and applying for endless jobs online have become life as I and millions of other recent graduates know it.
By writing this novel it was my attempt to provide an insight into what life is like for recent graduates at a time where genuine job opportunities are increasingly sparse; its also been my salvation as I have so much free time; writing about my experiences over the past year and a half has proved cathartic and proof to myself that I’m not a steward or a waiter; but that I am a writer.
What does the next 19 odd months have in store? Que sera, sera but I’ll be perfectly content if its so formulaic that I couldn’t possibly write another novel based upon it.

By Kwame Boakye.

Recruit Event Services

As I mentioned earlier in this tale I work for two different agencies and now is the turn of Recruit Event Services to step forward for its look under the ol’ microscope.
I first joined Recruit whilst still at the wonderful lil’ bubble known as UEL Docklands Campus; casual work, not too taxing, could up the shifts if uni work was sparse and could dial ‘em down when the work was racking up ‘appy days!
Recruit Event Services is an agency, which specialises in supplying stewards for events but mainly for footy matches and concerts.
The job itself is simple: stand there in an all consuming and particularly unflattering orange coat/waist-coat with STEWARD emblazoned across the back in capital letters and that’s it. You stand there for usually around 5-6 hours answering the odd question and that’s that! The real battle ensues on a mental level with literally having nothing to do, no-one to talk to, standing in the same spot with the soles and balls of your feet begging you for respite from the pressure of standing upright in heels, your back in cahoots with the feet starts to ache in another ploy to alleviate the pressure, with all this going on you constantly check your phone on the sly (because if you get caught that’s a ticking off) to check how long until your shift is over. And staring at your phone in disbelief as only twelve minutes have passed since you last checked.
Perhaps the most difficult aspect is one particular piece of the uniform and that is the clip on tie. I believe it was The Libertines who once decreed in their legendary indie anthem Time For Heroes “there are few or more distressing sights than that of an Englishman in a baseball cap.” Well I urge messers Doherty and Barat to revise those lyrics as the sight of anyone regardless of nationality, colour or creed in a clip on tie is just as distressing if not more so.
The job is simple it’s the supervisors who make it more difficult than it needs to be. Permit me to paint you a picture… last summer/autumn (2008)- the band was the Kings of Leon, the song was Sex On Fire and I was working at Wembley Arena for their gig (I must confess when I booked it I was just looking forward to earning a crust whilst slipping into the auditorium and listening to classics like Red Morning Light.) Upon arriving I was told I’d be helping check tickets; I hadn’t done it before but I thought ‘just another gig.’ nothing to worry about.
That line of thinking was dissolved as soon as I step into this tiny little room at the arena used for a ‘special briefing.’ Its at this moment I’d like you all to picture that scene from that Nazi film that’s been doing the rounds on the net for a few years, where Hitler and his head honcho’s and henchmen are discussing how their plans for worldwide domination are experiencing the odd hiccup from the good ol’ allies; it all seems to get very animated as Hitler refuses to believe his grand design might be about to be reined in.
Well that’s essentially what went on in that tiny room… the supervisors systematically made what was ‘supposed’ to be a simple night: in which I’d just gawp at the pretty little rock chicks and listen to the odd classic from the band of the moment into ironically a night so stressful it wasn’t worth the hassle; one by one they proceeded to go through the dangers such a night would bring, for example: being the hottest ticket of the summer counterfeit tickets were going to be all the rage; to distinguish between a fake and genuine took the mastering of some sort of machiavellian code of numbers and letters. The caveat to this little trinket of information is if there were too many people in the standing section the gig could be closed down and that we as ticket checkers would carry the can; this revelation in itself provided an interesting little paradox… would it necessarily be a bad thing to get sacked from a job I didn’t particularly enjoy? But where on earth will I find another job in the middle of a bleeding recession!
To my relief the night passed off without too much of a hitch and I even abandoned my post as soon as I heard the opening riff to Sex on Fire and I just stood there in my fluorescent blue and orange waist-coat and absorbed the anthem of the year… oh how I longed to be in the crowd with all the pissed teens and fellow twenty-somethings; wearing a pair of skinny jeans, pointy shoes and a red and black checked shirt (the official uniform for a Kings Of Leon gig) Its only natural now that I can’t help but idealise the period of your life ages about 17-21 when you have your student loan, you’re going out with your mates three times a week to gigs, clubs, pubs etc. you don’t have any real problems, issues and concerns and the future is something you just don’t worry about ‘when it comes, it comes.’ Funny how as little as 2-3 years ago I was right in the thick of that scene and now at only 23 going on 24 it just seems like another world; one that I was never really part of.



Working at the grand ol’ Wembley arena is easy/difficult depending on the event… if its an Artic Monkeys sell out then expect a night of overly loud, aggressive, inebriated folk, who are just going to be spilling beer all night and the odd drunken punch up would be a distinct possibility. To quote the Artic’s at this point from the song a Certain Kind Of Romance ‘and just ‘cos he had a couple of cans he thinks its alright to act like dickhead.’ Its as if they managed to in one sentence surmise the attitude of the male contingent who go to their gigs!
Compare that to a bunch of ol’ dears who come down to see Cliffy Richard… now that’s a relaxing night although having said that the last time I worked at a Cliff Richard concert I was told to keep checking on the ol’ people within my section as due to the strobe lighting and the fact many of ‘em get a little over excited during his performances that there have been the occasional death at his concerts… who’d have thought Cliffy Richard should come with a health warning?
There are certainly goings on to keep you entertained at the arena though; for instance whatever the event particularly when bands perform its as if the arena acts as a magnet to all fit young women in their teens and twenties usually of the Blonde and Brunette persuasion to come down wearing low cut tops, short skirts, cleavage and arse hand in hand competing for the attention of the masses.
So picture me all single, pathetic and desperate and all these young girls running around ANY of them would do… but there I am in my blue and orange stewards waist-coat which is actual girl repellent. It’s all they can see: I defy any man even Russell Brand or Charlie Sheen to look cool, desirable or sexy in that get-up.
And even if the temptation grew to the point to of trying it on with one of these freshest of face adult human females... invariably I can guess what would ‘appen next: an awkward sort of ‘no thanks’ a dirty look. 3-4 minutes later some spivvy looking gentleman comes roaring over and launching a volley of verbal at you till a supervisor comes over the guy yelling at you happens to be banging the young lady whose tits, arse and legs captured the attention of your lustful eye; he explains all. You’re taken to one side and told ‘that’s unacceptable you’re fired.’ (That’s the condensed version you’d be reamed for a good few minutes before the actual bullet was fired.) Since the glorious days that were UEL docklands campus Journalism and Creative writing course 2005-2008 ended and with it the ol’ student loan working for Recruit Event Services has been my primary source of income; its not worth risking it all for a hot piece of arse and a disgruntled spivvy looking cunt.
Its at this point I would like to describe for you a hot young medic who is a permanent fixture at the Arena…
She’s quite tall, flowing multi-tonal Blonde hair, a pretty face that just screams ‘I’m middle class and enjoy the works of Sylvia Plaith.’ And a pair of legs what would even rival queens of gams Alesha Dixon. The reason I bring up this pretty little medic is because she’s the focal point of one the more surreal things I’ve witnessed at the arena… now of course a girl such as her is going to court the attention of many an onlooker nothing out the ordinary there.
Permit me to explain; I was working the recent Gladys Knight concert and my supervisor that day was a guy called Artinal aka ‘chubby.’ Now this geezer was about 5ft5, bald, about two stone over weight, gap-toothed, in his mid to late thirties and possessed a strong Caribbean accent which through no fault of his own constantly sounded menacing. Now something I should explain about the agency industry is everyone can be divided in the following categories hard-man and comedian; by this I mean there are those who find that having a laugh, a joke and find that operating in a serene and calm manner is the most effective way of working with the staff. The hard-man philosophy is literally based upon the logic that intimidation, degradation and instilling fear in the staff through verbal jousts is the most effective way of communicating with their staff. ‘Chubby’ was most definitely a card carrying member of the hard-man fraternity.
During the briefing he was short, he was loud and overbearing a classic example of this and oh how he revelled in it was when the subject of breaks was raised he told us and I believe this to be verbatim “if you ask me about breaks, I will look at you, look away and then walk away. I’ve already done it today and the management have no problem with me doing this, so don’t ask! Because it will happen.’
The look of arrogance and contempt transfixed on his features was unsettling; I decided after that little speech ‘if he has a pop just bite that lip for all you’re fucking worth.’
I headed to my position and just waited for all the people living their lives to arrive and after a while just waiting around with my level of boredom coming on gradually sort of like some sort an ecstasy pill. When I witnessed something as compelling as it was disturbing… as the pretty little medic I mentioned earlier was doing her rounds ‘Chubby’ walking behind her just spanked her pert little arse! She turned around and he was just smiling she didn’t seem too impressed and he just continued to follow her down the corridor desperately trying to talk to her, to flirt with her, to get a rise out of her. Picture it this pretty, tall young white woman in early twenties being harassed by this short, little, bald, fat black geezer.
I naturally became intrigued with this little subplot and kept an eye on the situation for the rest of the night… and each time I saw the pretty little medic ‘Chubby’ wasn’t too far behind snapping away at her heels. The look in his eyes one of desperation, lust and delusion and look in hers one of contempt, disgust and frustration.
Watching this oh most bizarre of scenarios I was constantly reminded of the ol’ yellow pages advert; the one where the little kid has to stand on the yellow pages to kiss a girl who just happens to be a giant compared with little ol’ him. Never occurred to me how embarrassing that must’ve been. Wouldn’t surprise me if the kid from that commercial is in rehab somewhere… poor little sod.
I don’t think I can accurately convey just how hilarious it was watching this girl wander up the corridor and then five seconds later watch this chubby little geezer gaining on her a desperate look in his eyes.
Funnily enough after watching that whole episode unfold in front of me it’s very hard to take ol’ ‘Chubby’ seriously his threats-empty, his menacing accent-soft, the crazy wild eyed look- puppy dog eyes lusting after a girl who was mid-table Premier League whilst he’s bottom half Blue Square Prem.
‘Chubby’ however is a mere pup… the actual bitch of the arena is a woman known only as Pat…straw-like platinum blonde hair, a face with more wrinkles than an un-ironed dicky dirt and a gap-toothed grimace all neatly tucked way under a navy blue blazer. Earlier in this novel o’ mine I mentioned people who get a little bit of power in an ultimately meaningless job and it goes to their head; due to a lack of personal success within their life. Pat is the embodiment of my theory.
From what I can gather about her Pat was originally a steward for Recruit centuries ago and gradually over the years worked her way through the ranks to reach the position of a senior supervisor.
Now I can’t believe for one second this is really what she wanted to do with her life so its my theory that she didn’t get the breaks/doors were closed or in some cases never even opened. She grew bitter and angry and now when she looks upon the fresh-faced stewards of today with their hopes, their dreams and their aspirations. She takes revenge on the world and inflates her decimated ego by ensuring for the duration of their shift they’re subject to unnecessary rudeness, long winded condescending speeches about which toilets we’re allowed to use and impromptu footwear inspections; if shoes aren’t glistening expect to be ordered to give ‘em a good ol’ spit shine.
However the biggest threat Pat possess is that she actively and in all probability gets off on sending people home without pay; its crazy and ludicrous that such a decision is left to the whim of such a volatile and bitter person.
During her various rants its hard not to ponder ‘I went to university for three years and came out to this?’ during these very rants its impossible to even plot any kind of path towards the promised land of milk, honey and journalism.
At moments such as these can’t help but picture a suited and booted version of me strolling down Fleet Street I-pod in tow as I walk towards the station after yet another glorious day.
As those words erupt out of Pat’s mouth it dawns just how far you are from who and where you want to be.

Whilst working for Recruit you do every so often get an opportunity to see something you want whilst you get paid which is needless to say a great situation to find one’s self in. I don’t think I can provide a more adequate example of this than Tottenham V West Ham at White Hart Lane at the back end of the 2008-2009 season. Now its fair to say when the fixture list is released; before any other I will scour as will all my fellow ‘ammers for Spurs and Chelsea home and away as these are simply the fixtures you have to win and cannot lose. (Unfortunately we never seem to win them.) I hadn’t seen the mighty Irons play for a while as due to politics; (namely rising season ticket prices) I had to relinquish my season ticket at the end of the 2007-2008 season yet here was an opportunity to watch a stellar fixture, get paid and be one with the Claret and Blue army located in the south stand; I even began to look at the whole thing as some sort of covert operation… behind enemy lines stuff: I an East Londoner and hardcore ‘ammer had managed to infiltrate enemy territory in the north of the capital and would watch the game amongst the enemy making the inevitable first West Ham victory at the Lane since 1999 all the more sweet.
Exit gates, exit gates, exit gates… once upon a time working at White Hart Lane meant you would definitely get to watch the game and more than likely get a free hotdog, burger, pastry etc. for your trouble.
As Tottenham hired more of their own stewards such privileged positions were left to their own… so come the day of the game I was told to work on a shitty little exit gate away from all the action, atmosphere, banter and revelry.
Just waiting there on that exit gate I grew more and more frustrated as the minutes ticked away towards kick-off, all manner of thoughts started drifting in and out of my consciousness ‘no-one will mind if I sneak up every couple of minutes.’ ‘Perhaps if I can convince them I’m mad keen on Spurs a bonafide ‘yido’ they’ll send me up with good cheer.’ ‘If I get caught out of position won’t I be sent home without pay?!’
With kick-off approaching I could literally taste the butterflies on my tongue… remember that feeling when you’re about 15 and you’re asking out a girl you really like; how the anxiety, fear and perspiration take a firm hold of you… well that’s something like what I was experiencing; you want ask out the girl but you’re afraid of actually saying those words, putting them out there, making yourself vulnerable…
So with a temporary nausea brought about as Duel Of Fates you know the theme from Star Wars revenge of the syth belted out around the Lane I ran up the stairs and into what is known as the ‘shelf stand, shelf stand Tottenham.’ Out in front of me I could see the ‘ammers being led through the handshakes by Lucas Neill as the travelling Claret and Blue contingent started chanting ‘East, East, East London.’
As the match kicked off I twigged how difficult it would be to keep my emotions in check; with Spurs fans all around me launching songs towards the ‘ammers hordes disparaging and casting aspersions on East London and Mocking the club I hold so dear.
So between the constant nausea I was suffering with, worrying about getting caught by a supervisor, suppressing my anger at the taunts aimed towards my club and area of London and watching a highly charged derby its fair to say I wasn’t coping too well with this rather odd cocktail of feelings and emotions.
I would literally go up for a few minutes watch what was a bit of a dull affair with both sides cancelling each other out then I’d hurry back down to my position along the corridor. I kept up this act rather successfully without any problems that is until about midway through the 2nd half; a goal kick launched up field by Robert Green eluded the Spurs defence and there was David Di Michele behind the Spurs back line one-on-one with the imposing figure of Heurelho Gomes; with me up in the Shelf stand surrounded by lilywhites fearing the bulging of the net followed by the brief silence and then eruption in the south east corner was inevitable; but Di Michele’s shot was weak and only managed to find the outstretched foot of Gomes, unfortunately for myself I didn’t manage to mask my disappointment and frustration too well and I copped the odd look from a few of the home faithful at which point I bid a hasty retreat to the serenity of the corridor and back to my position.
I was reluctant to go back up after effectively outing myself as an ‘ammer desperate for a win over the boys from down the road.
After managing to calm myself I headed back out just in time to see Roman Pavlyuchenko score Spurs’ winner and hear the roar of the lane as they celebrated a sweet strike that everyone within the ground knew would be the only goal of a match which lacked any real spark/fluency.
Witnessing the goal and experiencing the collective roar of around 32,000 Spurs fans was and still is a sight that actually bruised my soul… cue the songs to the tune of the ol’ Pet Boys classic Go West ‘No noise from the Pikey Boys’ and my personal favourite ‘One nil in your cup final.’
As the final whistle blew some fifteen minutes later and ‘Glory, Glory Tottenham Hotspur’ rang out; I drained in every conceivable sense could only ponder when I’d be writing about such events for I don’t know the Guardian whose match reports are in fact wonderfully constructed stories using a range of similes and metaphors to paint an artistic vision of a game of eleven v eleven; instead of merely sneaking up every few minutes in that orange and blue overcoat running the risk of the getting the ol’ tin tack from a £6.50 an hour job that plagues yet is essential to your life.