JOBS WORTH March 1994
I’ve been told things were bad in the past.
No jobs; no help from the state.
Men queued for hours to raise a crust;
You had to fight to keep in line with life.
I wonder if they got as bored as me
Waiting for life to give me something to fight for.
I left school last year with nothing to show.
I can read my Social Security number
And add up the money they give me each week.
I can fill in application forms
But I know that no job will come through.
They’ve enough trouble getting the clever ones jobs
My sort are edged to the back of the queue.
So we stand on street corners and talk about things we could do
We loiter in packs and spend a few quid at the bookies
Or waste money phoning up jobs that have gone.
Maybe I should hitch down to London to see something new
Or get out to the country and work on a farm.
But I know these streets with their corner shops and grimy pubs
And I’m scared to take a risk and lose the world I know
Someday soon surely I’ll move up in the queue
Someday something will happen to me
And life will be worth fighting for
That poem was written in the nineties, when jobs were hard to come by. Now, it seems that there are plenty of jobs; but not enough suitable applicants with the required expertise or experience to fill them. The following is a personal record of my employment history.
Nowadays, it seems that if you want to get a half decent job, you have to have a degree. When I left school at the age of eighteen, I wanted to go to Art School; the only A level I achieved was Art, in which I got a distinction for sculpture.
But my Father put the kybosh on that, regarding all Art students as ‘beatniks’ ; and confirming that, if I went against his wishes, I would have to fend for myself, with the withdrawal of a place to live; or means of support.
I seem to remember that I wasn’t particularly concerned at this decision. Jobs were plentiful and I got a place as a library assistant with ease; and I moved out of home anyway! Since then (1962) I have been employed as a photographic assistant, a manager of a cooked chicken outlet, a features rep on a local London paper and finally, a reporter on a local paper in Hayes.
In 1972 my hubby and I moved to Wales. After roughly fifteen years of rearing our three wonderful kids, I got a job as a home carer with the local council; a career that was fulfilling, properly overseen and paid enough to live on.
When I went for the interview it was conducted in the reception area of the Council offices, and consisted of a few pertinent questions by our excellent Care Manager, who evaluated my suitability and confirmed I’d got the job after about fifteen minutes. I enjoyed my eleven years in this job. Most of my clients were local regulars; and most of them became firm friends.
I only left this employment after we moved to Carmarthen, prior to our final move to Pembrokeshire; and only after experiencing the start of the bureaucratic mishmash of ‘political correctness, red tape, ‘guidelines’, ‘targets’ and the need for a CV before you could even apply for seemingly any job. A vacancy came up for a senior carer position; something that I felt I had the experience and expertise to fulfil. The position was eventually filled by a graduate, fresh out of university, with absolutely no experience of caring; but she did ‘have a degree’ and spoke Welsh.
Now, I am not saying degrees are not a useful and necessary adjunct for many jobs. But, when they are set as a default for work that requires experience over qualifications, they cannot be fit for purpose.
My go to example of this opinion is the job I got in a local paper (the Hayes Chronicle) in 1969. The only experience I had of journalism was writing advertising features for a London local paper (the Kensington Post). I was okay at the writing element, but I had to get the advertising as well; a task that didn’t really appeal.
I saw an advertisement for reporters wanted and I applied. As I remember I telephoned, and was asked to come along for an interview. Myself and another applicant ( who became one of my dearest friends) were interviewed by the editor. This consisted of being given some basic info on a local story, and being asked to write it up. We duly completed the task to the satisfaction of Dougie, the editor, and were taken on straight away.
At that time the paper was losing readership and was in a parlous state. It was housed in a three storey terrace on the main street. The ground floor was the reception area, secretarial offices and a staff kitchen. The first floor was editorial and the second floor was allocated to myself and Graham, my fellow interviewee. Also, there was a basement, where the printers and print shop were housed.
The only staff consisted of Dougie the editor, a secretary come County Court reporter and general dogsbody, a part time receptionist, a photographer, and myself and Graham, classified as the ‘features’ writers. Graham was promoted to ‘Sports editor’ almost straight away. He was eighteen years old, straight out of school, and his writing style was sharp and very readable. Luckily he was sports mad, especially football, and soon achieved a devoted following from local fans.
I was allocated the title of features editor and was tasked with getting local business to advertise in the paper; with the promise of a two page promotional spread. I also wrote ‘the stars’; an enjoyable occupation that I, secretly, based on the lives of my friends; who were often amazed at the ‘accuracy’ of the predictions!
During our interview, Dougie had told us that he wanted some ‘new’ ideas to promote better sales. I started a four page pull out feature called ‘Let’s Go’, consisting of lifestyle subjects based around local business; which became very popular. Indeed, after a few months of publication, we noticed that one of the Nationals had copied our headline!
Memorable features I covered were the opening of a health shop in Southall, by Barbara Cartland. She arrived, resplendent in pink and a large hat, and advised me how to get rid of my spots! But my favourite assignment was at a local private airfield. I arrived to interview the head of a firm who chartered and flew small private planes all around the country. When I arrived, with pen and notebook at the ready, the boss told me that we flying down to the Isle of Wight for lunch! Needless to say, the firm got a glowing write up!
I’ve never been able to make up my mind whether Dougie was brilliant at assessing his employees’ characters, or just had a laissez faire attitude to what they accomplished. Whichever it was, once he had taken on the realisation of our ideas, and checked our copy, we were left very much to our own devices. His working day consisted of editorial duties up to lunchtime; and, after that it was into the local pub, where he renewed communication with local bodies and contacts. He was a charming man; rotund, urbane, quick witted and a pleasure to work for.
The upshot of this independence was that Graham and I learnt our trade from the bottom up. Once we had completed our edited copy, it was down to the basement, to discuss with the printers on the setting out of our stories; a skilled job that I doubt is hardly ever needed these days, with the onset of computer generated news coverage.
And the paper flourished with this light hand on the tiller. Circulation increased; to the point that the notable success was noticed by the Middlesex Chronicle; the main publication of a consortium ( I remember the owners being the Thomson group, but the only reference I can discover is to a George Thomason, who founded the Middlesex Chronicle in 1859).
The upshot of this attention was that we were bought up and subsumed into the group. I think Dougie might have been the main proprietor of the Hayes Chronicle, because he took this opportunity to retire on the proceeds of the sale. He did ensure that Graham and I were taken on by the group. And we did work for the paper, based in Hounslow, for a short time; but the enjoyment had gone out of our working day.
We went from unfettered responsibility for our own copy to being two small cogs in a large reporters office, where we were mainly looked down on by the other journalists, with ‘qualifications’ (degrees) whose time seemed to be spent, mainly, in the local pubs or at interminable NUJ (National Union of Journalists) meetings. Graham left quite soon after this; and I left, prior to our decision to move to Wales.
So, once again, I can only look ‘Forward to the Past’ and come to the conclusion that, for me personally, experience and ability topped the advantage of a degree. And where is the advantage in a degree, when graduates end up with massive debt, and often working in ‘rubbish’ jobs, which are then, not available for those who need them!