Fucking work

So I’m reading the blogs on here because my life is meaningless and I have nothing better to do right now (this’ll be a feel-good post, I hear you say) and someone called the number kevin is asking about job interview horror stories.  Well, Kevin, I don’t have any.  I actually interview extremely well, which is a problem for employers because I am lazy, unreliable and full to the brim with kleptomania if left alone in the stationary cupboard.  Since I am a terrible worker, I have plenty (fucking LOADS) of horror stories from jobs.  Here’s a doozie:
When I was seventeen, I needed money to pay for my expensive partying lifestyle.  Being seventeen, however, meant that I could be paid less than minimum wage, and had to put up with it.  The place that hired me was a butcher’s, and by the end of my first day, I was swearing myself off black pudding for good.  For the insultingly low wage of £3.00 per hour, I was basically everyone else’s bitch, where I had to clean up after them constantly, I had to clean the “room of death” where all the meat was hung (hanged, whatever) and when directed to lift and move things, I did that as well.  What made it worse was that I hated everyone I worked with.  They were a bunch of cunts.

The night before I was supposed to be at my second day of work, there had been a house party.  A really, really good one.  I was still there at half six in the morning, the booze not quite worn off yet, realising I had to work in just over an hour.  Being the financially challenged masochist I was, I decided to go.  So I staggered home to shower and change and scrape the barnacles off, and by the time I made it to the butchers, I was in full-blown hangover hell.  Nausea, dizziness, diarrhea, shingles, tinnitus, I had the lot.  The first thing I had to do was not be sick while cleaning a room full of carcasses.  I failed, but at least made it to the toilet.  Followed by not being sick for seven more hours of cleaning up blood and fat and gristle.  Failed again.  Multiple times.  Toilet my only friend.  At the end of the day, the butcher van (in the country these places have their own vans delivering meat to people who can’t be arsed to go out and get their own) comes back and I spend the last hour of the day hosing shit off the underside of it.  At least I wasn’t sick again.  All this for £21.00.  If you’ve just done the maths in your head, you’ll be curious where the 2 unpaid hours went.  An hour for lunch (spent in the toilet, clinging to this mortal coil), and “I’m knocking off an hour because you’ve been a bloody mess today.”  Pun not appreciated.  Checking the cash is in my hand.  It is.

“Fuck you – I quit.”

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About harrypeat

I'm a happy-go-lucky chap with a zest for life and the resting heart rate of a yellowfin tuna. I love long walks on the beach at dusk, paintings of elderly couples, and vegan dinners by candlelight. As well as being a talented rhythmic jazz guitarist, I am a part-time vblogger and all-round gymnast.
This entry was posted in booze, harrypeat, howdoyoutagpeople, interview technique, masochism, meatismurderonhangoverday, thenumberkevin and tagged , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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