Good morning, jobseekers!

I've decided that I need to get a job. Yes, big moment, me moving into the wide world of work. It's kind of like having sex for the first time, except with less entrance exams and MORE MONEY. Unless, of course, you're a prostitute, which is not a career option that I'm really considering. Of course, I am the PIMP DADDY. I was at a party yesterday and you know what some guy said to me? "Wow, you pimp". So evidence of my pimpdom is spreading far and wide across the land.

Top Tip for parties: Wear yellow lycra rowing all-in-ones. Chicks dig the yellow lycra rowing all-in-ones.

But what sort of job was I to get? After thinking about it, it hit me. The perfect job would be one in which I am given money for very little at all. In fact, the perfect job would be one in which I am just sent money every week in the mail without doing anything at all. But as far as I know, no such job exists. Well, that's capitalism for you. I've said it before and I'll say it again: we need to go back to feudalism. I would be a count, and the rest of you can be my slaves.

So, then, what ACTUAL job to get? Well I looked at my area for possible job ideas. When I say 'looked', I mean 'kind of cycled around then just looked up random places on the internet in a half-hearted manner'. And here's what I came up with:

Waterstones: Waterstones is nice. It's all warm and cosy and has that nice bookshop smell. So I walked right in there and got lost. Then I had an idea... I needed to use some sort of subertage in order to be able to walk up to the desk. You can't just queue up and then ask for a job, can you? You gotta have a PRETEXT. This is where The Old Curiosity Shop, by Charles Dickens (who I am replacing), came into the equations. After buying the book and failing to ask for a job from the scary looking woman at the counter, I realised that there was an information desk, run by an effeminate looking man. For some reason, effeminate looking men are the most easily-approachable of any class of people (after old ladies):

They don't have the angry testosterone of younger men,
They don't have the angry world weariness of older men,
They don't have the crankiness of old people,
They don't have the possible period-induced madness of women,
They don't have the possible pikey 'I'M AN EMPLOYEE OF WATERSTONES BUT I'M STILL GONNA STAB YOU!' qualities of teenagers.
Basically, they're unlikely to flip out and mock you/scream you out of the shop if you ask them something. As you can tell, I have a pretty low opinion of people at shop information-desks in general.

So I walk up to the effeminate man. I planned my words exactly. 'Excuse me, do you have any job vacancies?'. I ENDED UP ASKING FOR WORK EXPERIENCE. ARRGHALKSDJFD. WHO THE HELL DOES WORK EXPERIENCE AT WATERSTONES? IT'S BASICALLY WORKING FOR FREE FOR NO REASON. THAT SUCKS.

Fortunately, they haven't called me yet. So I don't have to do pointless non-paid work. After all, the entire purpose is to get money which I can waste on Pixies CDs on the internet. This monkey has gone to heaven, indeed.

Sainsbury's: There's a Sainsbury's pretty close to my house. I'm pretty much guaranteed a job there. Those are the pros. The cons are the fact that it's Sainsbury's. It's a supermarket. I don't like supermarkets. Have you noticed that when you're in a supermarket, you don't cast a shadow? That's because you lose your soul when you're inside. For every second one is inside a supermarket, one feels one's soul being ripped out of one's body through the soles of one's feet. You only get it back once you re-enter the sunlight. I couldn't stand being trapped in a supermarket for hours on end. IT WOULD KILL ME.

And plus, the application form was depressing. It's so full of customer services bullshit it makes me want to vomit: "At Sainsbury's we hav a passion for providing our customers with great food, great service and value for money. We know that it takes a great team fo achieve this...". Firstly, I don't care about the value for money. If I'm gonna be working there, I already know that the supermarket exists. Stop telling me about it. And plus, if the food isn't that great, I'll be finding about it anyway BECAUSE I'LL BE WORKING THERE. Oooh, I just RUINED your shit, Sainsbury's. Rinsed.

I got half-way through filling in the form, when I realised that I'd rather take a scissor to my own tongue than work at Sainsbury's for a prolonged period of time.

Waitrose: Well, Waitrose being the higher class version of Sainsbury's, I thought that perhaps this would be able to cater for my aristocratic sensibilities. Unfortunately, I was defeated by the fact that Waitrose is so far away from my house. It's like a good twenty five minute cycle. And if I can't be arsed to cycle there ONCE to get an application form, what about the other five million times I'll be forced to go there? So nope. I might have had a glittering career at Waitrose, rising from lowly shop-boy to being a supermarket tycoon. Unlikely, I know. But we'll never find out now. It's like the briefcase in Pulp Fiction and the true age of Dr Harris - forever a mystery.

The Entertainer: I then thought to myself. What would be a totally bitchin' job to have? Then it hit me: TOY SHOP. So I picked up the phone and called the toysiest shop I knew; The Entertainer, Kingston. Basically, all the staff there seem to do is play with toys. Here's how the conversation went:

Ring ring.
"Hello, this is The Entertainer Kingston. How can I help?"
"Is that The Entertainer?"
"Uh, yeah."
"Do you have any job options open?"
"No, sorry, we don't have any at the mom-"
"Okay" *Hangs up*

Random Bookshop: I still hadn't given up on the bookshop idea. Bookshops are my idea of Heaven. A good job would involve me sitting at a till, reading all day, and occasionally pushing buttons on the til to handle people's money. Then getting paid. So I called up a local bookshop.

Ring ring.
"Hello, this is The Bookshop. How can I help?"
"Is that The Bookshop?"
"Uh, yeah."
"Do you have any job options open?"
"No, sorry, we don't have any at the mom-"
"Okay" *Hangs up*

I was beginning to think that this wasn't going to work for me.

Squire's: There's a Squire's round the corner. Perhaps I could get a job sitting at a till there, reading a book and occasionally talking to old ladies who want to buy daisies. But, shock of shocks, I looked it up on TEH INTERNETS, and it was revealed that THE ONLY OPENINGS they have are for MANUAL LABOUR. Yes, lifting and carrying and shit. And also, apparently I need to be interested in a future career in botany. Botany? What, plants and shit? That didn't worry me much - I can always LIE, but MANUAL LABOUR? WHAT THE HELL IS THAT? DO I LOOK SPANISH? I have delicate rower's hands, unused to heavy carrying or, you know, doing stuff. Manual labour doesn't really MESH with my whole lazy existence.

But I decided, what the fuck, I'd go in and have a look. You know, suss out the digs. So I went in. And I saw a bunch of sweaty balding men driving forklift trucks, smoking and probably wearing hard-hats. I fled the place as fast as my sexy legs could carry me, screaming like a little piggy.

Johnson's Shoes: There was a sign on the window advertising for part-time shop assistants. But, come on, it's a shoe shop. Fuck off.

All this has taught me something interesting about myself. I've realised that I actually do not like people. Like, any of them. I don't trust the general public. I want a job that doesn't involve any interaction with other people... at all. You know, helping people, carrying stuff, doing things for other folks, working in a team... that whole ethos doesn't work for me. Sorry Sainsbury's, but for the option on the application form that says The idea of dealing with customers does not really appeal to me does not really appeal to me, I would be pretty much forced to tick 'STRONGLY AGREE." In fact, the idea of helping customers all day is my personal vision of hell.

And thus concludes this tale. What, you think that this was going to be a happy ending, in which my search is successful and I get a perfect job for me? Ha ha! Welcome to my life - spend a few days doing something, then realise that it was probably just a big waste of time and go back to doing NOTHING. Fuck it, I have enough money in my allowance account for 16.1931034 Pixies CDs (I just worked that out). Thats a WHOLE lot of intelligable screaming.

And another thing. I'm not gonna work if I have to wear a stupid uniform. I just escaped wearing school uniform, you really think I want to hop straight into a blue/orange Sainsbury's clown suit? Screw you, I think that I'll continue to sit here sticking it to the man with my anti-authoritarian rebel wayz. For I am the revolutionary. Hell, I even have TWO V for Vendetta masks downstairs (STOLEN FROM THE FILM SET!) and and AND I took rekkie photographs for them. So basically, I AM Castro.

I'm pretty sure that life is going to bring down my youthful spirit pretty quickly, to be honest. You may mock me, but I'm going to see an advanced screening of Charlie and the Chocolate Factory tomorrow, so FUCK YOU. I also am the total pimp daddy. Oh yeah. You KNOW what I'm talking about. Grin.