A network for women by women



The death of a salesman

Here is the second instalment from our guest blog. Gotta say, it’s not looking so easy to be a guy anymore…

It’s been a pretty long week here. I’ve been searching for job and I’m looking for something that pays well but will allow me to skip off to castings at the drop of a hat. Needless to say – it’s a tough gig. I’ve had to sell myself, talk the talk, be witty and charming and answer all those repetitive questions – ‘what interests you about this position,’ – well to behonest with you, nothing, I need money to pay my rent and eat. End of. I’m pretty tired of talking about myself at this point – I just need to hide in a hole somewhere!

So one area I’ve been looking into is legal recruitment. Having chatted to a fella at a recruitment firm, he puts me forward for three interviews at different legal recruitment firms in one day. The first one didn’t go too well, I was late to it but with good reason. I desperately needed a wee but when I did so someone from the fella’s recruitment firm called. Awkward and these people had a knack for timing because this happened another two times and both in toilets while I was weeing. Smooth (I also wee a lot).

So I’m weeing in this cramped little weeing room, my head is at 45 degrees so it doesn’t touch the ceiling, and I’m all elbows and knees trying to get closer to the toilet but not too close because its pretty grim. Phone rings, mid-wee, (sorry for the details but they’re necessary) I panic, it’s a long wee and the phone won’t ring for that long. So I quickly grabbed some toilet roll and put it in the toilet to muffle the sound. Genius. Feeling pleased with myself and whipped out phone and answered it, only while I bringing it up to my ear I accidently activated a hand dryer and this women is literally talking hot air. Mortified – she knows I’m in the toilet. I have 20 minutes to get to my interview and here’s my next dilemma – if I flush the toilet she’ll know that I answered my phone whilst using it and it would be rude to leave without flushing, (British problems). So she runs through what’s going to happen and runs through and runs through and runs through some more. In the meantime I’ve finished quietly weeing and I’m staring at it wondering what to do and then looking at my watch. This pattern continues for a bit and I’m getting more and more stressed and anxious. It dawned on me that I’d have to leave without flushing. Grim. So I quietly twist the lock and look out, there’s a queue and I’ve been spotted, I’ve got to go through with it now. I don’t make eye contact with first person, they’ll probably think I have some weird problem and that I’m not toilet trained yet. I am, I promise! It’s just a series of unfortunate events!

I hit the street and I’m walking along with my swag feeling pretty bad ass in my shades and suit and whilst on my phone whilst she’s running through and running through. The conversation comes to an end and I freeze, because while I’ve been swagging, I’ve been doing it aimlessly and I don’t know where I am. Interview is 7 minutes and 10 seconds. I get onto Google Maps and pray the gods are with me and that I’ve got a signal, I haven’t, bastards. So I start to run and I don’t do running. I look like a gazelle across the savannah. I vaguely know where I’m going. I’m ducking and diving and weaving like a motherfucker and everyone seems to walking like it’s a summer day. I got hopelessly lost and ended up being two minutes late – not bad considering. I walk into the room looking like Smeagol (my bun fell out and there’s strands stuck to my sweaty forehead) but no one’s here yet, all good. I fix myself and start to smell myself when the interviewers walk in on me with my nose to my armpit. NICE.

On another occasion I applied for an ‘events promoter’ a posh wording but it essentially means setting up a shitty stall outside of London and trying to sell crap services to people that they don’t want or need them. It was training day and oh boy what a day. I decided to leave my coat at home, it’s been pretty hot in London the past few weeks but on this particular day it’s -16 degrees. Good one. Outside all day – good one!

So I rock up and there’s this kid explaining away but not giving any firm answers to my questions, he’s giving patronising stories and metaphors and the works – if I wash cars and I get 1000 through what do I do – well you tell 999 to fuck off (I am employable honestly). I wanted to be sarcastic now because this kids got too much energy and I’m hating him. So out rolls the first task and he writes on my notepad ‘HOW TO BE A GOOD LEADER’ and then ‘HOW TO BE A GREAT SALESMAN’ down the side and says to me ‘now I want you to write a word and matches each letter in the phrase.’ Are you serious? I can’t think what this is called off the top of my head but we’ll call it bullshit. Here’s the best bit – we have two hours to this do. Alarm bells were ringing, now their fucking off the wall and I wanted to swot him with my notebook. So I do it in about 15 minutes and I’ve thrown words in like demagogue, elan, gallantry and temerity just to be a shit because this is wasting my time. He’s gives me another task which we’ve got 2 hours to do and I think nah. This is not for me, there’s a lad stood next to me who is struggling to take notes and spell at the same time. Nah. I’m pissed off and cold and spent a fair bit of money on the tube to get here.  So I walked, I thanked him for his time and I walked away.

I got through to the final round of one of the three interviews, they absolutely loved me but I HAD to have my hair cut for the next interview. This was a tough one for me, it was a cross roads. Do I cut my hair, get a really good job (40K potentially in the first year if you believe them), and get sucked in and that becomes my life? Or do I say no, keep my hair, have the flexibility to model and just work and get by, by being a waiter/barmen? I chose the latter, I stuck to my guns and if I regret a few months down the line at least I was true to myself and denied some crappy worker bee existence. I came to London to model not fit with some bullshit corporate image; I could have stayed at home if I wanted that. I feel pretty good about it to be honest – it’s a huge gamble but I’ve never played it safe, but hey, that’s just me.

If there is one thing I know, it’s how to survive.

To read more, visit A Male Model Diary.


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