Day one of The Jobby Project. When I collected my mail this afternoon, there was a letter from my girlfriend containing two job applications. After seeing the positions advertised in the local paper, I had asked her to fone up and request the applications to be sent to her house. Contacting the employers directly and asking that they dispatch applications to Craiginches Prison would not make for an auspicious start I decided. I took the letter and the enclosed paperwork over to the education department to complete and also to blog the first stage in my inevitable failure to secure the jobs in question. The first application was for a post as a data inputter. It sounded promising, but sadly consisted of little more than typing mind-numbing data into a computer. Still, it seemed a reasonable starting rung on the career ladder, not overly ambitious for a disgraced man of my ilk. After all, surely they wouldn’t overlook a skilled typist simply because he’d once been in prison? Why, if it wasn’t for my days spent typing up blogs in prison, my words-per-minute ratio would be half what it is.
I opened the application form and scanned through the first page. It began simply enough with a space for my personal details and a description of the position I had applied for. Then, at the bottom of the page, under a section headed General Information, came the following statement: ‘Have you ever been convicted of a criminal offence that is not spent under the Rehabilitation of Offenders Act 1974 (excluding fixed penalty offences)? YES / NO If yes provide brief details.’ That would be a big fat yes then. I decided to be slightly economical with the truth and avoid mentioning my conviction for dealing cannabis. After all, it was served concurrently with my perjury conviction, so as far as I was concerned it was the same thing. Besides, once I declared the perjury thing, I was doomed anyway. They had asked for brief details, so brief details were what I gave them: ‘I have served a short-term prison sentence for perjury.’ 13 months plus another five on an electronic tag didn’t feel like a short time to me, but according to law, all sentences under four years are deemed to be short-term. In some ways, perjury is worse than most other crimes, for as soon as prospective employers deduce that it means lying in the High Court while under oath, they will automatically assume that the rest of the application is all a pack of lies. I turned over the page.
The next section was headed Education and Training. I had a feeling that my fate had already been sealed, and that it wouldn’t make any difference if I were qualified to rule the universe. Do you think anyone would have been interested in Jesus’ miracles if he had a conviction for selling weed or sodomising his disciples? They’d probably have dismissed his work as black magic and stoned him to death. (As an aside, for some reason the spellchecker doesn’t recognise the word ‘sodomising’. Instead it suggests ‘odorising’. A fitting alternative really, for after a spot of sodomy, I find that my dick is always odorised.)
The next section was entitled Employment History. ‘Any gaps in employment in the last three years must be accounted for’ it warned. What, like a 13-month gap spent in Craiginches? I wondered if I could count my job as canteen passman (it paid £12 a week after all) and neglect to mention that it had taken place while I was in jail? I decided this wasn’t in keeping with the spirit of my six rules of application, and dutifully declared my 13-month hiatus. Then there came a section in which I was required to declare any skills and experience I had that might be appropriate to the job. Well that was easy, for I had plenty of that. This was my chance to show off by listing all my writing accomplishments, like The Trash Whore Diaries for example. Perhaps not. The last thing I wanted was to open up that trashcan of worms. How was I supposed to explain that I had a good grasp of spelling and grammar and was a proficient typist without mentioning that it was because of the daily weblog I kept? Even without disclosing its dubious moniker, they need only Google my name and there it would be right before their eyes, oozing filth and screaming ‘Unemployable!’
The final page of the application was headed Equal Opportunities Monitoring. Here I was asked to declare my sex, disabilities and ethnic origin. Great; if my criminal record hadn’t already precluded me from getting the job, I was now going to be turned down on the basis of a positive discrimination drive to add more paraplegic female Asians to the workforce. Oh well, I tried. I sealed the application into an envelope and posted into the mailbox, although I may as well have posted it in the bin.
The second job I applied for looked more promising. It was a full time position helping to edit a medical journal and it was exactly the sort of position my Publishing Studies degree had prepared me for. I shan’t bore you with the list of skills required, but suffice to say I ticked all the right boxes. It's just a shame I ticked all the wrong ones too. Not only did the job provide a suitable remuneration, but it also sounded stimulating. Work that paid well and was fun, to boot? Surely I was way out of my league here, but I pressed on regardless. Before I reached the application proper, there was a two-page section entitled ‘Further Particulars For Applicants’ to wade through. Under section two, Salary And Terms Of Employment, there was the following notice: ‘It is the policy of the company, in line with the Protection of Children (Scotland) Act 2003, to carry out Disclosure Scotland checks on all staff. Any offer of employment will be conditional on the completion of a satisfactory Disclosure Scotland check and employment will not commence until such a check has been satisfactorily completed.’ In other words, they had to make sure I wasn’t a paedo. And although the Disclosure check would come back negative on that count, it would clipe to them about all my other misdemeanours. Still, on a positive note, perhaps this meant they weren’t going to ask about my criminal convictions in the application, relying on the Disclosure check to pick them up at a later date. That suited me, for once I had been provisionally offered the job and impressed them with my demeanour, surely they wouldn’t rescind the offer on the basis of a poxy perjury conviction.
The first page of the application seemed fairly straightforward and thankfully wasn’t impudent enough to raise the possibility of my having a criminal record. Page two appeared to follow suit until I reached the bottom of the page. There, in black and white, was the old chestnut once again: ‘Have you ever been convicted of a criminal offence? If yes, please give details.’ I decided that I had been a little harsh on myself in the previous application by mentioning that I’d gone to prison for perjury. Prison is a big turn-off for everyone except girls who like their boys bad to the bone. As soon as any prospective employer hears that I’ve been to prison, they’re gonna expect me to have Love and Hate tattooed on my knuckles and a Neanderthal gait. No one wants to hire an ex-con cos when you have to sack them, they’ll be waiting outside with a Transit van to take you to the woods and douse you in petrol. And so I decided to eschew prison references altogether, instead opting for ‘I have a conviction for perjury and also under the Misuse of Drugs Act for cannabis.’ OK, it wasn’t exactly a winning statement, but at least it gave the impression that I’d been busted for smoking a joint, an impression that would last at least until they ran a Disclosure check and found that I was actually a dealer, the scum of the earth and scourge of the community. I felt like inserting a footnote pointing out ‘But I was a nice dealer, honest. I never ripped anyone off or tried to wean them onto the hard stuff.’ Because this was a fairly prestigious job, I was required to submit a covering letter as well as completing the lengthy application form. By the time I had finished, I had spent a good hour and a half on it. I didn’t begrudge the time spent preparing it. What I did begrudge was that the moment they realised the painstakingly honed application had been submitted by a criminal, they would don marigolds and, at arm’s length, drop it into the incinerator lest any of my miscreant DNA rub off on them.
The final section in the application form stated ‘Please note what times you are available for interview.’ The question seemed about as relevant as asking if I wanted a silver or gold carriage clock when I retired. Nevertheless, I filled it in, posted it off and waited. If or when I receive a reply, I’ll update The Jobby Project and tell you all about it. I have a feeling, however, that blog may be significantly shorter than this one. After all, it doesn’t take a thousand words to impart the following blunt message: ‘Dear sir, we are sorry to inform you….’
I opened the application form and scanned through the first page. It began simply enough with a space for my personal details and a description of the position I had applied for. Then, at the bottom of the page, under a section headed General Information, came the following statement: ‘Have you ever been convicted of a criminal offence that is not spent under the Rehabilitation of Offenders Act 1974 (excluding fixed penalty offences)? YES / NO If yes provide brief details.’ That would be a big fat yes then. I decided to be slightly economical with the truth and avoid mentioning my conviction for dealing cannabis. After all, it was served concurrently with my perjury conviction, so as far as I was concerned it was the same thing. Besides, once I declared the perjury thing, I was doomed anyway. They had asked for brief details, so brief details were what I gave them: ‘I have served a short-term prison sentence for perjury.’ 13 months plus another five on an electronic tag didn’t feel like a short time to me, but according to law, all sentences under four years are deemed to be short-term. In some ways, perjury is worse than most other crimes, for as soon as prospective employers deduce that it means lying in the High Court while under oath, they will automatically assume that the rest of the application is all a pack of lies. I turned over the page.
The next section was headed Education and Training. I had a feeling that my fate had already been sealed, and that it wouldn’t make any difference if I were qualified to rule the universe. Do you think anyone would have been interested in Jesus’ miracles if he had a conviction for selling weed or sodomising his disciples? They’d probably have dismissed his work as black magic and stoned him to death. (As an aside, for some reason the spellchecker doesn’t recognise the word ‘sodomising’. Instead it suggests ‘odorising’. A fitting alternative really, for after a spot of sodomy, I find that my dick is always odorised.)
The next section was entitled Employment History. ‘Any gaps in employment in the last three years must be accounted for’ it warned. What, like a 13-month gap spent in Craiginches? I wondered if I could count my job as canteen passman (it paid £12 a week after all) and neglect to mention that it had taken place while I was in jail? I decided this wasn’t in keeping with the spirit of my six rules of application, and dutifully declared my 13-month hiatus. Then there came a section in which I was required to declare any skills and experience I had that might be appropriate to the job. Well that was easy, for I had plenty of that. This was my chance to show off by listing all my writing accomplishments, like The Trash Whore Diaries for example. Perhaps not. The last thing I wanted was to open up that trashcan of worms. How was I supposed to explain that I had a good grasp of spelling and grammar and was a proficient typist without mentioning that it was because of the daily weblog I kept? Even without disclosing its dubious moniker, they need only Google my name and there it would be right before their eyes, oozing filth and screaming ‘Unemployable!’
The final page of the application was headed Equal Opportunities Monitoring. Here I was asked to declare my sex, disabilities and ethnic origin. Great; if my criminal record hadn’t already precluded me from getting the job, I was now going to be turned down on the basis of a positive discrimination drive to add more paraplegic female Asians to the workforce. Oh well, I tried. I sealed the application into an envelope and posted into the mailbox, although I may as well have posted it in the bin.
The second job I applied for looked more promising. It was a full time position helping to edit a medical journal and it was exactly the sort of position my Publishing Studies degree had prepared me for. I shan’t bore you with the list of skills required, but suffice to say I ticked all the right boxes. It's just a shame I ticked all the wrong ones too. Not only did the job provide a suitable remuneration, but it also sounded stimulating. Work that paid well and was fun, to boot? Surely I was way out of my league here, but I pressed on regardless. Before I reached the application proper, there was a two-page section entitled ‘Further Particulars For Applicants’ to wade through. Under section two, Salary And Terms Of Employment, there was the following notice: ‘It is the policy of the company, in line with the Protection of Children (Scotland) Act 2003, to carry out Disclosure Scotland checks on all staff. Any offer of employment will be conditional on the completion of a satisfactory Disclosure Scotland check and employment will not commence until such a check has been satisfactorily completed.’ In other words, they had to make sure I wasn’t a paedo. And although the Disclosure check would come back negative on that count, it would clipe to them about all my other misdemeanours. Still, on a positive note, perhaps this meant they weren’t going to ask about my criminal convictions in the application, relying on the Disclosure check to pick them up at a later date. That suited me, for once I had been provisionally offered the job and impressed them with my demeanour, surely they wouldn’t rescind the offer on the basis of a poxy perjury conviction.
The first page of the application seemed fairly straightforward and thankfully wasn’t impudent enough to raise the possibility of my having a criminal record. Page two appeared to follow suit until I reached the bottom of the page. There, in black and white, was the old chestnut once again: ‘Have you ever been convicted of a criminal offence? If yes, please give details.’ I decided that I had been a little harsh on myself in the previous application by mentioning that I’d gone to prison for perjury. Prison is a big turn-off for everyone except girls who like their boys bad to the bone. As soon as any prospective employer hears that I’ve been to prison, they’re gonna expect me to have Love and Hate tattooed on my knuckles and a Neanderthal gait. No one wants to hire an ex-con cos when you have to sack them, they’ll be waiting outside with a Transit van to take you to the woods and douse you in petrol. And so I decided to eschew prison references altogether, instead opting for ‘I have a conviction for perjury and also under the Misuse of Drugs Act for cannabis.’ OK, it wasn’t exactly a winning statement, but at least it gave the impression that I’d been busted for smoking a joint, an impression that would last at least until they ran a Disclosure check and found that I was actually a dealer, the scum of the earth and scourge of the community. I felt like inserting a footnote pointing out ‘But I was a nice dealer, honest. I never ripped anyone off or tried to wean them onto the hard stuff.’ Because this was a fairly prestigious job, I was required to submit a covering letter as well as completing the lengthy application form. By the time I had finished, I had spent a good hour and a half on it. I didn’t begrudge the time spent preparing it. What I did begrudge was that the moment they realised the painstakingly honed application had been submitted by a criminal, they would don marigolds and, at arm’s length, drop it into the incinerator lest any of my miscreant DNA rub off on them.
The final section in the application form stated ‘Please note what times you are available for interview.’ The question seemed about as relevant as asking if I wanted a silver or gold carriage clock when I retired. Nevertheless, I filled it in, posted it off and waited. If or when I receive a reply, I’ll update The Jobby Project and tell you all about it. I have a feeling, however, that blog may be significantly shorter than this one. After all, it doesn’t take a thousand words to impart the following blunt message: ‘Dear sir, we are sorry to inform you….’
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