Recruitment consultants: letting agents for people?

As most of you know, I work for a job site. Recently I’ve been doing some analysis of data collection on different sites which meant I reactivated some of the many profiles I have on various competitor sites. Out of pure laziness and, it seems, stupidity I have had my real CV uploaded on some of them.

The reactivation of some of these profiles has unleashed the rabid mongrels otherwise known as recruitment agents, who now seem to think I am looking for a job. If anyone from work is reading this… I’m not looking for a new job. I’m really, really not. I like my job. It has all the things that are important to me: interesting work, good benefits, lovely colleagues, fair compensation, unbeatable location and as much stability as you can have in the current climate.

I get calls and emails all day from people who not only have limited grasp of the digital marketing landscape, but who also probably have made little effort to even read the aforementioned CV. I know the market is hard at the moment but I’m surprised that anyone would think someone current in a job would be interested in taking a step down the career ladder with a pay cut and a relocation to the sticks.

Dear recruitment agents… I don’t want a non-management role in Kent paying £10,000 a year less than what I get paid now for a company I have never heard of. Please don’t be surprised when I tell you this. I would not like to see the job description anyway. I realise that you don’t immediately know that I am not actually looking for a job but if I don’t return your call, please don’t leave me 17 voicemails. And when I reply to your email saying, no thank-you I am not looking for a job right now, sending me twelve other irrelevant job descriptions is not going to change my mind.  I would understand if you were chasing me for jobs that match my experience level and skill set but you’re not even getting that right. You’re like the letting agents of the job market. If I looking for a job, I certainly would not trust any of you with my future. Thanks, Abbi.

It makes me even more aware of the intense frustration that anyone who is really looking for a job must be experiencing. All I can say is, good luck, you’re better off doing it yourself online and avoiding the vultures, and if anyone needs any good “blow off” lines for getting rid of them, I’m happy to help.

Never mind diamonds… underpants are forever!

Recently I bought Mr Osbiston some new undergarments in the hope that it would give him the push to part company with some of the less savoury pairs in his collection. I’m talking about the underpants that lurk in the bottom of every man’s knicker drawer… the stained, colourless, baggy-elastic, broken buttons, holey, sexless legacy pairs… in other words, the most favourite.

To Paul’s credit he bid farewell with exactly three pairs of grotty pants in exchange for three brand new pairs with a quiet dignity and only one or two longing glances at the tragic jocks of the past. But I had to wonder why he had hung onto them for so long and why men develop such deep emotional attachments to clothing that is way past its sell-by date.

Is it the comfort factor? Although I can’t imagine that a pair of bottoms that no longer provides any kind of support and regularly allows your junk to escape, is particularly comfortable. Is it fear of the unknown… what if GAP has changed their boxer-brief formula and secretly added a thong back? Or is it possibly a desperate attachment to a last vestige of individuality and power? She can change my toothpaste brand and make me watch Geordie Shore but she will never take my boxers?

Whatever the reason behind the hoarding of the underpants is, I found myself briefly feeling a sense of enormous superiority as I inspected my underwear drawer and found everything to be in a good state of repair. However it was very short lived.

Last night we were clearing out our wardrobe, rounding up bad decisions, “when I was thinner” and things that had been worn to death. I got to a particular pair of red leather, pointy pumps that were stained from too many nights out, worn down through the heel and one wear away from a hole in the toes and I felt a wave of love and nostalgia. When Paul asked me if I wanted to add them to the discard pile, I sighed and said, “I think they probably have a couple more wears in them. I think I’ll keep them for now.”

Come on, I'm sure they still have a couple of wears in them!

From now on you will address me as Lady Petronella Biffi-Katoomba

I have a confession to make. Well two confessions. The first is that I really love Fuck You by Cee Lo Green. I don’t know how it happened but I can’t get it out of my head.

But moving on from that, I also have to admit that I am finding myself getting sucked into the Royal Wedding spectacle. When Wills and Kate first got engaged my only response was “whoo-hoo free bank holiday” and now rather than being nauseated by the endless media coverage of the “wedding of the century”, I’m finding myself a little fascinated. I even looked longingly at a commemorative mug or two in M&S the other day while trying to find the perfect pair of slippers (which opens up an “am I aging faster than the speed of light” minefield of its own) and I can’t wait to see the American made film version of the romance that preceded the wedding.

I’m not sure what is behind all of this. With every socialist bone in my body I should want the Royals ousted and made to work in Lidl and but in my heart of hearts I suppose I see them as this sort of quaint and hilarious institution that provides us with our money’s worth  of joyous gaffes and entertaining behaviour. However that might just come from following @Queen_UK on twitter. I know it’s not the real Queen but I like to imagine that it’s pretty true to life. And if I were single I don’t think I’d say no to Prince Harry… mmmm… ginger…

Best merch ever??

Maybe with my own very simple wedding mere months away, it’s a chance to live vicariously through someone else’s princess wedding. I would never want that kind of pomp circumstance for my own wedding but I think we all have a four year old inside us who wants to be a princess. So while I am sitting on my sofa super-gluing my home made invitations together tomorrow, I think I might have it on on the telly in the background. I think Kate missed out by having her invites made. Nothing beats peeling off the super-glue second skin at the end of the day.

For now while we wait for the show to get going spare a thought for this very special chap, who might be a little too excited…

And if you’re feeling a little posh yourself why not work out your Royal Wedding invitation name:

• Start with either Lord or Lady.
• Your first name is one of your grandparents’ names.
• Your surname is the name of your first pet, double-barrelled with the name of the street you grew up on.

From now on I’m going to be addressed as Lady Petronella Biffi-Katoomba. Leave me your names in the comments…

Josh Groban sings Kanye’s tweets, what happens when parents text and some very slow Bieber

Here are three quick things that amused me enough to get through the first couple of days back at work:

First Josh Groban singing Kanye West tweets. Ever since the first time I saw Josh on Nevermind the Buzzcocks, I’ve loved him. He’s the most surprisingly funny person I’ve encountered.

Next is this awesome site called When Parents Text. If you ever get weird and incomprehensible text messages from you parents. This is for you. Below is my favourite:

And finally, some genius has taken a Justin Bieber song called U Smile and slowed it down 800%. It sounds a bit like Sigur Ros partying with whales… awesome!

But what if the queen and the prime minister had a fight…

Last night I was watching Outnumbered, which I have newly discovered. It features a British family with a teenage son and a younger son and daughter just going about their daily lives. Rather than going the American route where sitcom children are generally portrayed as adorable little bundles of sunshine and light (except maybe the kid from Two And A Half Men… who I love), these kids ask the endless bizarre questions, run off, attempt to break everything they touch and have strong opinions on pretty much everything. If you watch the most recent season, the seven year-old’s take on art as welll as her confusion between the elections and X-Factor is particularly amusing.

What struck me though was how much the show proved that I have not grown up at all. During a historical tour of London, seven year old Karen and nine year old Ben have the following conversation with his father.

Karen: What can the queen do? Can she tell her army to attack people?

Dad: No

Ben: Can she burn Protestants?

Dad: No! She is a Protestant!

Karen: Can she say who’s on the Royal Variety Show?

Dad: Um… no…

Karen: Well then that’s unfair! What’s the point of being queen if you can’t boss anybody about?

Ben: What would happen if the queen and the prime minister had a fight?

Dad: Well the constitution…

Ben: No I mean an actual fight. I know she might be old but the queen could stick her finger in his only eye

Well… Paul and I had more or less the same conversation about a week ago with me in the role of the kids and him providing the selfsame responses as the dad…

The thing is I don’t understand the queen. Technically she does have some power. I mean Dave and the Cleggster had to ask her if they could have a parliament and technically the army swears an oath to her so if she decided they were both ballbags then she could say no and have them nuked. Paul says this will never happen so it’s not worth considering. I say many things that people said would never happened have happened and that little old lady and her hat collection is a time bomb waiting to go off.