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.