It is with deep regret that I have come to the end of a contract that involved signing people on at my local job centre. For the past nine months I have had the mostly unenviable pleasure of asking the mad, bad and frankly bizarre of Portsmouth whether thay have done ANY work in the last 2 weeks/months/years/ever. Now for the most part working in the Job Centre is okay if you can ignore the paedophiles, transvestites, druggies and the insane but what really spoils a perfect day is when you call out the next name on the list and a burberry clad ape lopes over to the chair opposite. After taking up a seating position that looks for all the world as though he has been dropped from a great height into the chair, Mr. **** (I can’t believe I have to call them Mr. ) then proceeds to look at me as though I have emptied the contents of my bowels over the bonnet of his wanked out Vauxhall Nova. The conversation then proceeds something like this…
Me: “Good morning Mr. ****, and how are you.”
****: “****!!.. In ‘ere ain’t I?”
Me: “Indeed you are…and have been for some months now….any prospect of you finding some gainful employment in the next 2 weeks?”
****: “Not ******’ likely….ain’t workin’ for **** all mate…if i can’t get 400 quid a week then I ain’t doin it. Besides I want somewhere that can appreciate (said very slowly and carefully) me skills.”
Me: (Checking computer) “Skills?? I doubt you’ll find any employers in the Portsmouth area that are screaming out for stealing, fighting, being obnoxious and having a piss poor dress sense.”
****: “There you go then geezer, looks like i’ll be signing and getting me 55 quid a week for while yet, and the CSA’ll leave me alone an’ all.”
Me: “Signing? Probably yes. Getting 55 quid a week. Definitely not. Unfortunately Mr. **** it’s with enormous self satisfaction that I have to tell you your money is being stopped. Remember that labouring job I put you forward for and you told me to stick it up my ****? Well as you didn’t apply for it your money is being stopped for 3 months.”
****: “Well what the **** am I gonna do for money now then. How am I gonna give my missus (15 yrs old and rough as **** with 2 kids…not his….probably) money for food for the kiddies.”
Me: “Can I suggest you start by looking for work and when that fails, which it will, you could always pawn some of that monumentally crass 9ct **** you have ******* round your neck. That should fetch a couple of quid….maybe. And if all else fails then you can always carry on doing what you’re doing now, steal a few cars, deal drugs, shoplift, get underage girls pregnant, do a bit of cash in hand work and just generally get on every other ******* ****. Could you sign there please and date there. If you could use that long plastic pointy thing on the desk there to do it with…….thanks. All the best Mr. ****. See you in two weeks time.”
The **** will then make his way to the exit and attempt to slam the door on his way out, momentarily forgetting it is one of the self closing type which just makes a “WANGA WANGA WANGA” noise when slammed and then shuts quietly. Peace then descends on the Job Centre and all that can be heard are the murmered incantations of the clinically insane.
Goodbye Job Centre….it’s been an experience.