Pret Couture

Moving to London (from up North, no less) is a big deal. I mean, there were no banners/balloons/clowns or anything, but it was still a moment in my life that was important. I think some people felt that this move - to pursue a career in journalism - was a brief stint; a phase.

  

When I was fifteen I got into the habit of buying plain white clothing (tshirts, polo shirts etc) and tie-dying them. Somehow, somewhere, it made sense and I was convinced it was a good idea. Maybe I was going to start a revival, or catch onto a new trend. Not quite. I spent one of my non-uniform days at school looking like a spiky middle class hippie boy thing. All incriminating photos have since been burned and the ashes ground into a paste that was used as a cement to construct a small hut that I blew up with TNT.

  

THAT was a phase.

  

People think this is a phase.

  

But it isn’t.

  

So I moved ’Daaaahhn Saaaarrrff’ and, in theory, I’m not going to move back. And since moving down, I’ve been very busy, very drunk, very confused and very lost for words.

  

So writing about The Real Real World has taken a back seat. It’s a shame, because there’s a lot going on, and a lot to make sharp social commentaries on, yet so little time to do it. But as the days and weeks merge into a singular chilly blur, snapping at my fingertips and eating up my money, I shove responsibility to one side in order to tell the next part of my tale.

  

Moving to London carries something of a culture shock, but I hope you understand that this isn’t as radical as say, a panda adjusting to life in a caravan. While it’s odd, and different, it isn’t perplexing beyond belief - I’m able to eat and survive and communicate like any northerner should. But some of it’s just weird.

  

For example, look at coffee culture. Every corner has a bloody coffee chain on it. A coffee chain that sells pretty average coffee and foul food. This is a trend that bled over from the states, and you do find it in most big UK cities. But Carlisle has only had its Starbucks for a couple of years, and nobody really likes it. On the high street, we quicken as we near the confusing green lettering (and why a mermaid on the logo!?), eager to get past it and resume our normal pedestrian pace, looking at normal things and thinking normal thoughts.

  

The flood of stuffy businessmen that invade coffee shops in the morning is ridiculous. I’d be less confused if the coffee was good value for money, but a large cup in Starbucks roughly equates to a jar of Nescafe, and I know which one makes sense. Yes, working in a big city is a mad rush, but get up 10 minutes earlier and have a proper coffee you idiot.

  

I remember meeting a girl in my third year at University. She was somewhat precious, fragile to the ways of the Real World. Luckily, not only was she insulated by the student-university bubble, she was also kept warm by a thick layer of money her parents wrapped her in before scooting her off up t’north.

  

We met in the library. I had drunk enough coffee to give me bladder cramps and a twitchy left eye, while she was wafting left and right as if a desk fan was stuck up her bottom. I drank another coffee, fully aware I was going to externally combust before my dissertation was finished, this girl was opening a ‘fresh’ salad box from Pret.

“I love Pret,” she said in a honey-soaked croon. “Lurve it. It’s lush. I’m having a mango and crayfish salad. It’s totes delish.”

  

I looked at the wilted box of salad. There was a couple of mango chunks and the most pitiful looking array of seafood I think I’ve ever seen. A pot of dressing accompanied the salad, but the girl had set this pot on the edge of the table, glaring at it reproachfully.

  

“The dressing is full of calories,” she said. “Empty, empty calories.”

  

“Is that your dinner?” I asked. She nodded. “That won’t fill you up.”

  

“Oh, but no but it’s fine,” she reassured me. Granted, we had just met; she wasn’t someone whose general health and wellbeing was much of an issue to me. “I had a Pret snack bar at lunchtime.”

She continued.

“I had a bowl of porridge from Pret this morning. Pret snack bar for lunch and Pret salad box for dinner! Yum!”

  

Anyway it turns out that this is how the girl ate. Every day. WITHOUT FAIL. Coffee? Pret. Super healthy carrot and scrotum smoothie? PRET! And every meal in the day (though these seemed few and far between).

  

Not only was this the most unhealthy idea in the world, it must have been costing the girl an absolute fortune. She always stuck in my mind, because if you think about it, that mentality - that these high street café eateries are healthy, fresh and good value for money - is absolute rubbish.

  

It’s like going to McDonalds for the carrot sticks and apple slices. YOU JUST DON’T.

  

It shouldn’t bother me, but I see far too many people every single day looking like utter dickheads and saying “Sorry I asked for my skinny no-fuss extra-effort faecal macchiato to have cream made from the milk of a goat” far too often. None of that means anything! Have a normal coffee.

  

They look like 'Apprentice' rejects - the women wear quirky thick framed specs and Ralph lauren shirts while the men look like they’re thinking about feeling guilty for thinking about looking at their receptionist at work who feels like she’d like to look like Samantha from accounts and - CAN YOU SEE HOW IRKSOME IT IS?

  

So I’ve created a strategy for these pricks. If you’ve been reading this and think to yourself ‘Chris has captured the very essence of my lifestyle’ then I suggest you follow these words of wisdom yourself.

1. Buy a jar of Nescafe or other branded coffee.
2. Get an alarm clock. Set it earlier than usual.
3. Get up earlier and have a coffee before you leave the house.
4. If this may wear off due to a tumultuous commute, buy a flask. Fill it with a bounty of coffee and you won’t need to drink expensive rubbish all day.
5. Like mango? Like crayfish? If it’s too pretentious to buy in a supermarket, don’t buy it at all (this includes SUPERFOODS, ie assorted magic beans)

It's tentatively known as the Buy-Get-Set-Have-Flask-Magic-Beans approach.

If these point’s prove useless, a 6th, emergency point, is give yourself a massive kick in the head. If you aren’t limber, get a friend to do it for you.

Until the world follows these steps, it seems like London may be gripped by Pret Couture for quite some time.

Just another facet of The (Real) Real World.

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Just a heads up; if you have twitter you can follow me at http://www.twitter.com/memandle

Current people following: A wall-street banker, a John-James (BB11) obsessive, a pizza entrepreneur, The Sun's showbiz writer and a Lady GaGa tribute singer.

Sounds like one hell of a party, right?

Singles Round-Up

Writing two posts for The Real Real World at the moment, and while I'm catching up on new moosic and cool things since I've been away, I thought I'd compile a round-up of the best/loudest/most promoted singles at the mo.



Nicki Minaj - Your Love

Sassy, foul-mouthed and somewhat prickly, Nicki Minaj has every chance of turning into a ball-shredding ladette who can drink beer faster than you (and we wouldn’t want that). This time, her razor-sharp lyrics are blended with a sample of Annie Lennox’s “No More I Love You’s”, softening the sharp edges from her otherwise gritty and aggressive rap persona.



Mark Ronson - The Bike Song

What’s this? Mark Ronson ditched brass? He’s stopped covering other peoples songs? But he’s still getting guest vocalists in to do most the leg work? And you can’t really get a sense that he’s put any effort in at all? Yet its still his name on the bloody album? And is that Kieran from The View singing on this one? Wait, who are The View?



Everything Everything - MY KZ UR BF

Yes, EE fever has well and truly struck - and after knockout sets at Reading and Leeds, perhaps the Mancunian’s eerie brand of yelp-pop will spread like butter on hot toast. This, one of the standout tracks from debut album ’Man Alive’, demonstrates the four-pieces panache for clever quick-time lyrics and thought-provoking imagery at a high enough pitch that your Labrador will be able to enjoy it, too.



Cee-Lo - Fuck You

Or, if you listen to Radio 1, ’Forget You’ (what a clever clean-up). The obscenity-splattered solo single from Gnarles Barkley’s crooning front man is a blatant middle finger to a cheating ex, with Cee-Lo cheerfully yelling “and while there’s pain in my chest/I still wish you the best/with a ’fuck you’ ooh-ooh-ooh.” Upbeat whilst still having plenty of sting, it. puts a nice sing-a-long spin on being completely done over. It also sounds like that Muller corner song, ’I’ve got my head, got my face, got my fingers got my lungs’ or something. Which is BAD. But everything else is good. So yea.



The XX - Islands
These guys are, in my opinion, the ones who deserve the Mercury Prize the most. This year, the artists nominated are all of a very high calibre (particularly Foals, who have outdone themselves) but I think the XX wholly deserve it. ‘Islands’ is a reverberating statement of smoky ecstasy; husky lyrics sinew around an echoing loop, with each repetition bringing renewed beauty. The motif of “I am yours now/so now I don’t ever have to leave” gets more heartfelt, more wonderful, more meaningful with each breath.

Delta Spirit - History From Below

Delta Spirit - History From Below


Originally published in NME 30/07/2010



Onto their second album, and Delta Spirit still seem to face comparisons with Mumford & Sons, Fleet Foxes and, er, that other popular hairy nu-folk troupe.

‘History From Below’ draws on the spiritual and religious concepts that propelled their debut, with ‘Salt in the Wound’s ‘If there’s a god in my head/then there’s a devil too/how can I tell the difference/when they both claim to be true?’.

Their follow-up is more adventurous - a garage-band twist on a format getting staler with each check shirt. The result is difficult to characterise - but then there’s something incredibly satisfying about that.

7/10

Download: 'Salt In The Wound', '911'

Money

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$.

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.