Money is not cool. It's a problem for almost all students, exclusing of course, those whose parents are the Baron and Baroness of Kirkby. Once you notice how salaries work in the real real world, student finance and the whole concept of living on absolute pitence becomes a joke.
Obviously there are several options available for students who are a bit short on cash. You can get a job, like working in a restaurant, bar or high-end lapdancing club (I'd reccomend Diamonds). Of the three, I'd say lapdancing is probably the most social; the added perk of sometimes working horizontally means you literally won't be on your feet as much as if you were making Cosmopolitans for retards.
Dealing drugs is another effective way to earn money quickly. It also comes with no emotional attchments; while restaurants are focused on keeping the customer happy, drug dealers lack empathy for their customers problems (the main problem is the drug itself. However pale skin, no money and deviated septums are also problems for the avarage generic drug-taker). This means you can be emotionally void and still earn a lot of money. Your customers are also very loyal, since heroin, crystal meth and Yorkie bars are way more addictive than say, Piccolino's herb-crust sea bass. People who love drugs always find the money. In Emmerdale once, a drug-addled ne'er-do-well-er sold his neighbours cat for drug money.
There's also something tentatively dubbed The Dealer/Lapdance Paradox. Drug Dealers probably earn a lot more than lap dancers, although that depends on the drug, and 'lapdance' on offer. BUT surprisingly, lapdancers spend more money on drugs that drug dealers spend on lapdances. So hard profit, between The Dealer and the Lapdancer, is about equal. Hence The Dealer/Lapdance Paradox.
Being a dealer, however, has consequences; many Brit flicks, like Layer Cake, The Business, or occasional episodes of Skins feature a drug dealer getting his head kicked in, or his family getting murdered, or something else gruesome. What if you witness a murder, or try to topple some druggie pyramid of power? Hilarity (and death) may ensue.
Anyway it's post-uni now - University is officially behind me. While my only part-time job at Uni was a brief stint behind a bar, I did do some freelancing for a little bit of cash-moneyz. And upon my arrival in That London, said freelancing will still commence.
However, looking at the prices for everything in That London has made me realise - more than ever - that money makes the world go round - Ke$ha had to put a dollar sign in her name just to get noticed (the poor tramp). Rappers who have lots of money love to rap about money, and Dizzee Rascal managed a trashy disco-tune about the importance of pounds sterling.
The problem is I have always had a loose relationship with money. We are never together long, because as soon as I have some, knowing I have some spurs me on to do something with it. I'll buy something expensive - splurge in Eldon Square, have a Fino side at Nandos, that sort of thing. I have embodied the wise words of my (late) Great Uncle George: "There's no merit in being the richest man in the graveyard". Ironically, when he died, he left quite a lot of money. In hindsight, he could have done better things than give me enough money to buy a drumkit and subsequently never play it; a heroin binge around the streets of Carlisle might have been a more exciting way to avoid the fate he warned me of.
With the exception of my freelancing, it seems I won't be earning money until February 2011. Added to that the cost of living, the cost of beer (£4 for a bottle of Becks, kindly fuck off, capital city) and the cost of tube travel.....my oh my, this slow-burning start to my career is costly.
"If it is any help," pipes up a friend. "Journalists also don't start on a handsome salary. Statistics also show that the oppertunity to earn MORE is small; don't expect to be raking it in."
Said friend now has a snooker cue lodged firmly in his eye socket.
He has a point; journalism is not like other careers. As I'd mentioned previously, we generally don't get paid to do work experience - people expect us to work for free (but then that's because the industry itself, in many cases, doesn't generate a lot of money). I've been working at
Accent Magazine in Gosforth for a month, and the work has involved assisting with editorial, writing content, pitching ideas and even sitting in on meetings with the Editor, planning their coverage for the next few months. I've been able to write food, technology, music, travel, lifestyle and - er - interiors. My cuttings folder has never looked so schitzophrenic.
But, like a lot of journalism work experience/internships, it was free. Contrastively, a friend is working near Tynemouth on work experience and sits at a desk making tea. He comes home with £160 a day, five days a week, for ten weeks.
Karen, the inept Technology Writer (who didn't know what an iPad was) said, upon me producing a piece on 'The Best Apps for the iPad' - "If you ever want a job here, it's yours."
I was touched, but felt that a career in Newcastle wasn't for me. Due to the lack of desk space, an elderly computer was put in the boiler room, and was subsequently dubbed 'The Editorial Suite' - it had my name all over its sweat-infused chair. Furthermore, while the talk of a potential career had been flattering, I very much doubt she intended it to mean in any paid capacity. In the office last week, the Sub desk had bemoaned the budget cuts that resulted in only ONE beer fridge for the office (a fridge that would be empty at the end of every week), so employing me, even on minimum wage, isn't even remotely in their interests.
So as I carefully attack my map of London with a highlighter, marking yellow for 'nice', pink for 'stabby' and blue for 'convinient', I realise that it's going to be some time before I can afford that nice flat in London.
Until then, just call me Chri$.
Delta Spirit - History From Below