Ladders

While I don't mind the ones that are like 'A' shaped, since there's a relatively small chance of falling off, I hate the 'old-school' ladders. You prop them against a wall and half-way up they inevitably slip down the surface of the wall and you get royally hurt. Oh man. I wouldn't go up one of those.

For those of you thinking that 'Health & Safety Tool' would be a great career for me, I rebuff such a statement. I don't want to be RESPONSIBLE for pointing out all the calamitous catalysts in everyday life. Imagine such a responsibility. "That sand looks sharp". "A 2b pencil? No thank you" It would literally turn you into a massive tool.

No, the ladders I am referring to are those metaphorical ones. Career ladders. You climb up, get to the top, and wobble along to another, taller ladder. Then you move up some more, waddle to the next one. It's very exciting. In some careers, like the glamorous world of being a PR or working for a dodgy pyramid scheme, it is advised to grease the rungs as you climb so that nobody can pursue your job. Kicking those beneath you is not spoken of, but it happens. Duh.

As a student with but four days of his student life remaining, I am thinking about the metaphorical ladder. And how the first rung is actually the most difficult to grip onto - it's covered in pigeon crap, if you will. And it's higher up than the other ones, unless you're on a pyramid scheme, in which case you are gently lifted onto the first rung by an evil-looking employer, giving you a naive sense of achievement and accomplishment. Typically, his surname has the word money in it, making him a more Dickensian figure of evil. 'Moneygrabb', 'Pennygood' or 'Goldstein' are all excellent examples.

Now I have been offered a pretty decent 3-month internship in good ol' LDN. I like London, it can help me stoke the fires of my freelance work and you know, I imagine my life would play out like a fun sitcom. Thick northern bloke struggles in expensive capital city! Quirky flatmates, irritable old landlady ala The Mask. The internship also probably definitely might should lead to a full time job. But?

There's always a but. And hearing the 'but' to something brilliant is always somewhat painful; I'd equate it to chewing on a bumble bee. Furry, fuzzy, sharp, stingy.

3 month internship, but it's unpaid.

"We'll give you £25 a week for travel expenses," explained Mr Editor Of Magazine.

"That's nice," I said. That might cover the cost of my lunch.

"I got my first job here after an internship," he explained.

"How did you survive on an unpaid internship?" I asked. We'd gotten a good rapport going during the chat on the phone today, so I felt confident asking.

"I worked in a shoe shop on Saturdays and Sundays. Oh, but I had to couch-surf for the three months. London is expensive."

Is that the extent of Rung #1? Sleeping on a settee, working 7 days a week and not even having enough pennies for alcohol to numb the pain? Never mind the part where you fit shoes for irksome teens.

Entirely plausible, such a situation. If there's a job at the end of it, one which sounds as cool as this one, then that's cushty. But are companies allowed to do that - not pay you for three months of subbing, commissioning, pitching, phone-answering, content-writing and such? Mr Editor of Magazine explained that the internship was pretty 'full on'. How do they get away with not paying people? I'd understand if it was a tea-making, facebook-surfing work exp thing, where you don't do anything credible whatsoever.

"You seem pretty capable of handling the music desk yourself for the last month or so," explained Mr E.o.M.

FOR FREE!? I cried. In my head, of course.

According to Internbridge.com, a company that conducts a lot of internship research, 18% of 12,000 internships investigated were unpaid. I actually expected it to be a bit more, but I suppose journalism and similar internships make up a minority of internships overall. The UK Government defines an internship as being under 12 months, whereas many graduate schemes are exactly 12 months and over, and are therefore paid.

But journalism, as well as many arts, media and education based fields, just can't afford to pay their interns. But on the flip side, who can afford to fund a multi-month internship? London has all the journo jobs in the UK; if you go across the water to the US, Aus, Japan, even the Moon; you have to add in flight (/spaceship) costs, currency conversions, accommodation. Added to the fact that many people are happy to work for free, companies are certainly shying away from helping their excitable little interns clamber up the ladder.

It seems many of us will have to be content with attempting this first rung on the ladder many times. But this rung has not been coated in treacle or pigeon crap and it carries no electric current. Instead, you have to fork out about £3,000* to simply hold onto it..


*Official Survey. (!?!)

The Prequel: Yikes

What Can You Do With An English Degree?

Or 'Why I can't be trusted making seatbelts'

I went to this seminar for one reason only. I wanted to know the answer. I sat in suspense for two hours; I wonder what it could be? Something brilliant, no doubt. Maybe something exciting in the CIA or MI5 (hell even MI6). Those guy's are always pretty good with words. Spies are so British-y and eloquent. Like Me.

Unfortunately the seminar leader was sketchy on the specifics. Stick thin, with a head of gingery hair resembling carroty candyfloss, she looked as if she had been constructed by Konnie Huq et al on a Blue Peter show. There was something artificial about her blank expression, her generic plain clothes and her paper mache shoes. She showed us spider diagrams, websites, holiday photos - even her Facebook page popped up by accident.

"Some people," she said excitedly. "Go on to do Teaching. TEE-CHING."

She scribbled it on a whiteboard and underlined it thrice.

"Others go on to do wonderful things. Like Hair and Make-up"

In that case, they could have saved a few quid and cut out the English Degree, I thought. When I get my hair cut, the girl who washes my hair doesn't even know which tap is hot and which is cold. I very much doubt she knows anything about Phonetics or Syntax.

"And we had one boy once, a few years ago, who went to do Medicine. So there's lots of options."

Medicine? The basic point of this seminar was that we are allowed to spend more money on new courses that will make us qualified in stuff. What about MI5? CIA? CTU? I know all the CTU protocal, I've been watching it since Season 2. I even have the ringtone on my phone, and sometimes answer my phone by saying 'Almeida', even though my name is Mandle.

Alas, she never specifically told me what I can do with an English Degree.

The problem is, I sort of need to know.

Now.

Like, in the next few hours please.

True, I am occupied with exams (who isn't? Maybe those bloody first year students. Sitting in the sun, casually getting drunk, making friends...i hate them so much) and finish University forever in four weeks, but I could do with some direction soon. I bought a compass in a vain attempt for some direction; unfortunately, while it does point me in a direction, it's more of a geographical direction, i.e South West. I need a philosophical direction, in the form of a job offer, nobel prize or exciting reality Tv show.

Graduating sort of feels like being violently shoved in a cannon. There's a little bit of anxiety, a slice of pressure, a pinch of violence sickness. Meanwhile, the admin at the English Building gleefully light the fuse with a cigarette and claw through a bag of malteasers while I sweat it out in a very claustrophobic blasting device. "There goes one more," they chime, aiming the cannon's trajectory towards a giant warehouse full of graduates who resort to crafting seatbelts for the rest of their lives.

Luckily, it seems I'm going to be underqualified to work in a seatbelt factory (Fate has sent me a third class degree, by the looks of things) - I can easily feign ignorance at how to clip the seatbelt together and badly construct the intricate spring mechanism that allows people out of said seatbelts. I mean, if you can put a seatbelt on, but then never get out because some div didn't make it properly, then the guy who made the seatbelt won't last for long at the seatbelt factory.

Someone could properly die from such bad craftsmanship, so I'll leave those jobs for the 2:1 lads and ladettes.