General Generic Scripted Philosophy

For someone raised in the north, London is a very exciting place. The homeless sound like Dickensian extras and everything in London is much bigger (including prices).

I spent 48 hours in London; the original plan was to spend about seven hours there, but I had an open return, and the more I found to do, the more I kept pushing back my time of departure for Newcastle. Eventually, the decision was made for me; miss this next train, and my only option would be one of those late night trains that takes eight hours and has you spend an uncomfortable three hour stint in Peterborough while a crazy lady spits in your pockets.

Ever the penny pincher, I loaded up on snacks, drinks, papers, magazines and other ‘stuff before I got on my exciting train to the big smoke. Since I was being interviewed for a journalism-related job thing, I thought it might be best to buy a few newspapers and read about what was going on. It might be useful seeing (a) what newspapers said what stories and (b) how different papers presented the same stories.

It turns out that idea was very boring. Which is where Esquire and FHM came in. Now, there is a certain stigma attached to buying lads mags. Even the ones I’d like to think are a bit more middle class than Nuts, Stuff, Spaff, Splooge and those other wank-depots. I’m talking about GQ, Esquire, FHM.

Lads mags do come in different styles (the aforementioned wank-depots, the wannabe affluence accumulator, etc) but all try to encapsulate men’s lifestyles into a nice compact bible you can carry around in your Paul Smith luggage bag. Yes, a photo spread of Kelly Brook rolling around with three Lions does draw readers in, and we all know sex sells. But they also offer a lot more. Fashion, style, food and drink, gadgets, that sort of thing.

Anyway so I have my copy of Esquire, which incidentally is the American version. The woman struggles to find the barcode amid a front page filled with Tom Cruise’s face, but when she spies the little zebra-print box, she lets out a moan.

“VAL!” she screams, as if a firework has exploded in her face. “ERE VAL! IT’S IN AMERICAN POUNDS!”

American pounds?

Val pokes her head around to see the fuss.

“Scan it anyway,” she snarls.

“Fookin American pounds,” mutters my ever so pleasant assistant. “Ere, do you want any of these haribo, chocolate, a barrel of mineral water or bags of pointless shit that’s priced the same as it is on the shelves you’ve been perusing for the last ten minutes, even though given what you‘ve just handed me to scan, you didn‘t pick them off the shelves, so it suggests you don‘t want haribo, chocolate, a barrel of mineral water or bags of pointless shit, but I‘ll ask anyway?”

She had the eyes of a murderer, and I didn’t want her head butting me or biting my ear.

“Yes,” I said firmly, grabbing a couple of things (if anyone wants any chewing gum, let me know. I bought a crate of it, apparently)

Either way, as the lady was ringing everything in, she did have a peek at the front page, and didn’t seem impressed. Esquire is pretty classy, or it at least tries to be. It doesn’t have sex position of the week or an insane sexual problems page (as GQ does) but I guess women know when to be offended. Despite the innocent front page, there must be hoards of offensive things; naked women, people doing drugs and eating guns, people shooting naked women, a donkey mounting a dog, that sort of thing. Thank god, she thinks, sliding it back to me, that she only has to see the front page!

“I don’t suppose I could have a bag,” I cooed, fully aware that the large amount of sweets gave the impression I was about to lure children away from school.

“I suppose you can,” the woman replied, handing me a bag. I had to put everything in myself, at the till, while she watched. Well actually, she started serving the next customer, so I was getting Monster Munch and Westernised Sushi hurled at me as I hastily stashed away my things.
Buying the American version wasn’t so bad. Esquire’s fashion section is a bit rubbish; it‘s quite brief, and due to their target audience being way more affluent than me, it‘s all about $1,400 suits made from linen and $800 loafers. Still, the pictures are cool.

Their interview with Tom Cruise was structured really weirdly; it was obviously in there to promote his new film he’s got out - that comedy explosion fiasco that might have Drew Barrymore in it. I think he‘s a spy, and she‘s the wrong side of 30, and she‘s stupid, but then, after a few explosions, she has to cover for him and fire the gun while he runs for cover and they bond, and have sex, and she goes back to working in an office or something. I thought it looked quite funny, if not a bit ’I have a B.A in Funny’ sort of funny.

The interview was merely accompanied by pictures from the film; instead of a chat or a theme or a motif around the interview, each paragraph was Tom reflecting on something in his life that was insanely philosophical and self-righteous.

An example:

‘The things you remember are the little things. The time he told you he he’d take you to a ball game and we didn’t go. You said you were going to do it. “No” would have been better than “I’m gonna do this with you” and then not being here. So you think, Who am I? What are the little moments that I

want to create to reflect on my life?’

Tom Cruise, Esquire July 2010.

What!? That has nothing to do with your new film, it's general generic scripted philosophy. It’s like Tom was sitting under a coconut tree and scribbling these stupid thoughts, and they got printed.

Esquire did have a really cool feature on ‘The 16 Best Bars in America’, however, which rated them based on different categories. Good bars for a date, good bars for food, ones that were by the water, really old ones, really dark ones etc. I’ll never go to any of them, but they evoked a great sense of atmosphere, and it was a good read.

For my interview, since it’s a training scheme/course that sort of bridges being a student and employment together in fantastic bridge-y harmony, I had to sit an exam, which involves a current affairs section, a bit of proof-reading (spelling, grammar, punctuation) and then some writing exercises.

In all the interviews I’ve had relating to journalism (=few), I always think I know what they’re going to ask me, and I’m always wrong. I tried to read up on current affairs before my exam in London, and it turned out that the stuff they asked me was about NON-current affairs.

They included ‘Which country did swine flu originate in’ (hardly a current issue at all) and ‘What award did Jamie Foxx win in 2004 that Sean Bean also won in 2007?’ (answers on a postcard!)

“It’s quite funny, really,” said the man running my Interview/Test of Fortitude. “Because if you don’t do well on current affairs, it’s okay, because it’s not as if you’re applying for a course in doing a pub quiz now, is it?”

“Quite,” I muttered. Despite my slightly regal reply, the whole thing was all very informal, with the pair of us having a nice chat about where I’m from, what I’ve done, and me shoving a hastily created portfolio under his nose.

“There’s some great solid work in here,” he said sagely. “And I like the way you’ve presented it in a sort of scraggy, mis-cut fashion.”

“What?” I said, as he pointed out how my poor scissor-aptitude. God, I knew I shouldn't have used scissors by lamp-light.

“It’s works,” he said. “Like a dichotomy of style and substance.”

“Oh,” I said, suddenly realising that he liked my cut ’n’ pasting. And that said cut 'n' pasting was of poor quality. “Quite.”

Turns out the interview was a success; yesterday as I was getting photographed with Miley Cyrus (the waxwork, not the real thing, although the wax work looks a little bit older than 18 so I feel better perving on the poor girl) my phone rang and the News Associates offered me a place on their course.

While I was elated at the prospect of not having to return to Carlisle in September (or…ever? Good god, I need to sit down), it dawned on me just how poorly the General Generic Scripted Philosphy works. I'd planned an awful lot to say and got almost none of it out. Maybe it only works in interviews, or you're one of Forbes most influencial people, and have a PR lady called Miranda to write these sort of things for you.

In the wake of my successful interview, I was met with a slightly daunting prospect. When I started this blog, it was about collective thoughts concerning what it was like to be in the real world - and what the real world was really like for students such as myself. Bursting out the student bubble will have an even bigger impact in the capital city, since it looks like that's where I'm going next.

If anyone reading this does know of good places to stay in London, or any tips, email me at c.j.mandle@ncl.ac.uk or follow me on www.twitter.com/memandle.

And there is also a handy little Facebook Group, which is nice.

Comfort War-Zones

Well, I'm no longer a student. I knew it was coming, since we live in a world where time and space is linear and things happen sequentially, so when we have knowledge of impending things, we should never be shocked when they happen.



I'd watched the finale of Lost in the same week that I finished my degree, and I felt that both ended on a rather flat note. With University, I sort of expected to leap from the exam room cheering, throwing something in the air and French-kissing a long-term object of my affection. Being an exciting, life-changing moment, she would kiss back, instead of her usual retort involving an elbow and a bruised testicle.



But no, due to me finishing the exam a little early, I sort of shuffled loudly out the room, stubbing my toe against someone's bag and hobbling down towards the students union for a pint. No euphoria, no huge rush of understanding or insight. It was like waiting to hear bad news. Like a lurching, irritable little poke in the side. "Oy! Don't forgot you did shit in that exam" - oh yea, the poke in the side has a voice.



What followed was a week of drinking, tactical and not-so-tactical chundering, waking up early with hangovers and falling asleep in the sun. Again, it seemed like my normal university habits, nothing new, nothing different. I had no doubt that a musical montage was required, but knew no way of making such a thing, My other plan, to write a 'bucket list' of things I wanted to do in Newcastle before I left, ended up looking like the map for a particularly debauchorous night out and a sad shopping list of girls I still fancied. Don't even get me started on the scrapbook I wanted to make.



Meanwhile, a good friend at University shared some good news to the world/his facebook this week, as he has got onto a proper good graduate scheme at News Of The World. Everyone was really chuffed for Dave (32 people liked his status - impressive, no?) as he's really hard working and enthusiastic about what he does, and it shows. But his step into the golden light of employment cast a shadow upon my own progress.



A piece of paper on my wall has all the hastily scribbled names and posititions of jobs I've applied for. One by one, they get crossed off (a bit like Jacob's Cave, no?) either because I get a no, or the job turns out to be awful *cough DV8*. And, like many others, I spend any free time hastily scouring the internet for work. I have a gaggle of websites, either company owned or multi-platform that I tirelessl look at each day, wondering if that dream job has cropped up or they need someone with a sub-par degree and a superiority complex. Turns out Bauer Media have hundreds of jobs going in that department (zing).



The longer this scrutinising job search goes, the lower my expectations go. I applied for a job at Kiss Radio (covering letter: 'I am a HUGE fan of Kiss Radio. JLS, NDubz, those other shit bands. I dig that'), I even checked out a position for Features Writer at Metal Directory, a magazine about metal (the substance, not the music). Unfortunately, when I saw the specificiations - 'must demonstrate a passion for non-ferrous metal' I had to turn away. I'm a ferrous man, me.

And then I saw a job that instantly applied for. Did I like the look of it? Not at all. But it was a job, and with mounting desperation, I knew that I needed to reach out and take a bold more. After seeing a proper journo friend's first job was at a caravan magazine, it made me realise that we can't expect to screw our eyes shut, make a wish and turn up in a great job - especially in the career field that I want to go in. There's going to be years of miserable pitching, leaping off beautiful architecture and then writing about it, and maybe even the odd paycheque.

So I applied for this job, and in doing so, realised just how far I was willing to reach out to earn enough to eat cheap bread.

I applied for a job.

As features writer.

For a black lifestyle magazine.

o_0

Why, you ask?

I don't know. I sent the email off, with CV attached, examples of my work, a good cover letter, and as soon as I clicked send, I realised that this was perhaps a low point in my all-too-short-career. I mean, I don't have a chance, and if I did, why would I think this was a good idea? Within five minutes of sending the email, I got an automated response:

"Thank you for your application. We will be in touch shortly"

This is going to be one of those thing's that haunts me, I know it. I wondered what other pitfalls journalists face when trying to claw their way to a rung on the ladder (see previous post). Instead of the list of job rejections/applications, I now have a new list on my wall. On a sheet of A4 paper states the following:

Thou Shalt Not:

1: Try and get a job at a Black Lifestyle magazine.

I guess I'll fill in the rest as I go along.