We’ve all had them. Those terrible jobs we had to get because Mummy and Daddy finally said ‘I think it’s about time you got a job, Rebecca, you can’t spend your entire summer holidays on MSN Messenger and doing painting by numbers while watching back-to-back Disney films’, or because we realised we only had 54p to our name and couldn’t afford to breathe. These desperation jobs rarely did anything to improve our self-esteem or our bank balance.
My first ever – and worst ever – job at 16 years old was at a window company that proudly called themselves ‘Anglian Windows’ biggest rivals’. Declaring this was like me finding half a packet of old teabags at the back of my cupboard, offering them to strangers outside my house, then calling myself Marks and Spencer’s biggest rival. It just wasn’t true.
The job was telesales. One of the worst jobs ever invented. The company’s brochure (I say ‘brochure’, I mean ‘bit of tea-stained recycled paper’) showed the telesales staff and working conditions like this:
The reality was this:
For £4 an hour, I spent three-hour shifts leafing through the phone book and calling the Great British public on greasy 50 year-old telephones, interrupting people during their lunch or dinner to tell them I wasn’t trying to sell them anything but did they want to buy some windows, while the boss chain-smoked in the adjoining office and her 15 year-old pregnant daughter’s toddler climbed on the tables and screamed. When I wasn’t trying to ignore that, I was trying to block out the sights and sounds of Nigel, who worked every shift, sweated almost as much as he farted, and happily consumed slices of indeterminately-aged pizza that he found under desks or on top of filing cabinets.
And because the shifts were 11am – 2pm (lunchtime) and 5pm – 8pm (teatime), no one – and I mean no one – was very happy to hear from me. I received a great plethora of responses to my polite statement that I was calling from a window company:
“You can fuck off.”
“If you ever phone me again I will call the police.”
“Listen, I’ve got meatballs on the go, I don’t give a shit about windows.”
“I don’t want anything from you people, you’re all crooks.”
“Oh congratulations, you’re obviously doing really well in life.”
That last one took me by surprise and gave me a terrible attack of the giggles, making me snort and splutter down the phone while he said things like “It’s okay, I understand, it’s Friday, you want to get down the pub with your mates and out of that no-doubt hellish office you’re currently sitting in”. Eventually chain-smoking boss emerged and stood over me sternly, so I had to choke ‘I’m really sorry, I’ll have to pass you over to my colleague” and run to the toilets. I was later hauled into the office by chain-smoking boss and given a lecture on customer service.
I didn’t stay in that job very long. I think my total earnings came to about 60 quid (which happily enabled me to buy more painting-by-numbers and Disney videos). Despite the fact that people’s answerphone messages sometimes made my life worthwhile again – like the one that proudly stated ‘Hi, I’m Kevin, I’m undressed – please leave a message’ – I realised that a piece of my innocent, fresh, 16 year-old soul was slowly curling up and dying an agonising death, like a slug that’s had salt poured on it, and I went and got an only marginally less crappy job in a shop that sold John Vettriano prints and chocolate penises. Even though I took a pay cut – I was down to £3.85 an hour – I was happier with chocolate penises than I was with being told to fuck off down a pizza-stained telephone.
But, we get on with it. It’s all character-building, after all. Although how the sight of a sweaty man’s builder’s bum as he reaches down the back of a cupboard for that dusty slice of pizza has built my character, I’m yet to comprehend. I’ll get back to you.
BECKY SAYS THINGS 
Great post! I actually did a telemarketing job for a window company too! It wasn’t unlike your experience, and was equally short lived.
I’m delighted to hear it was short-lived – any long-lived time in telemarketing would have a seriously detrimental effect!
Wow, sounds like a dream job to me. 😉 But yes, it builds character, or whatever. Sweaty man’s bum probably increased your tolerance for…something.
Honestly, who doesn’t love a chocolate penis? I’d like to add to that comment but then this would become inappropriate or uncomfortable.
No, you go ahead! Chocolate penises are the way forward. They take away the memories of sweaty men’s bums. DAMN. Just remembered the sweaty man’s bum. Must think of chocolate penises…
Just focus on the penis. Er, I mean the chocolate. 😉
I think all I was gonna say before is: Who doesn’t love a chocolate penis? Afterall, they’re tastier than the real ones………… I’m gonna go now.
Haha that was an inevitable comment I suppose! Well done you for having the chocolate balls to make it 🙂
Mmmm. . . dust mite pizza sounds so good.
This was fantastically wonderful like a beautifully handcrafted chocolate penis.
It could have been worst you could be a journalist or a uni student
I lmao reading this…Thanks for the great start to my day. Hehehehe…
Hooray! So glad I started things off well!
You’re hilarious woman, ever do any stand up comedy?
That’s immensely kind of you to say, but I actually hate stand up comedy and would be rubbish at it! I find it very forced (for the most part – some stand ups are brilliant). I’m much happier tapping away in a dark office! Thanks for reading, much appreciated 🙂
I really feel as if I’ve been missing out in the crappy jobs department. As emotionally fragile as I am, I think I need to experience the feeling of someone (other than five- or nine-year olds) telling me how worthless I am.
We all, at some point, need to experience this.
Speaking of Chocolate Penises (ooer), one of my very first jobs was in a chocolate factory packaging small boxes of rich chocolate treats into larger boxes for shipping. It sounds like a dream job but in actual fact, the constant smell of chocolate made me rather ill and I only lasted a day. But sadly, that wasn’t even the worst of my pre-college jobs…
Haha, one day of smelling chocolate made you ill? I might have to do an experiment, stick my face in a box of chocolates, breathe in, and see how long I last until I vomit.
I hear ya about telesales, I sold E.ON gas and electric for five months and it depressed the hell out of me, like, literally depressed me. 11am til 8pm getting told to kill myself for 9 hours a day, just trying to get enough sales to not be considered a failure.
It was only temporary because I had something else lined up at the end of the year so I started screwing around, like phoning gay phone lines and listening to stories about mens gay experiences. At £2 a minute, my managers weren’t happy. I tried my hand at it again last year but quickly decided it wasn’t for me and quit after the first week on the phones.
Still, it was better than door to door sales, I only lasted four days in that.
Haha! Oh, I remember the feeling that everyone actually wanted me to kill myself. Such a happy, happy feeling.