Tag Archives: job

An open application for the Liverpool job

I think I’m going to apply for the Liverpool job. The board seems to be approaching pretty much anybody in the world to take over, yet nobody wants to step up just now. As such it is my duty – my calling as a human being – to take the reigns and bring questionable (racist) glory back to the team lovingly referred to as “not liked”.

As such, here is my application letter – available publicly and aimed squarely at Fenway Sports Group. I do so hope I get it!

Dear Fenwar (Group Sports),

I would like to apply for the job what you got at Livingpool United.

I think I would be well good at it because I have been to Liverpool before and didn’t go to Anfield – BUT I also didn’t go to Goodison Park so haha take that. I also know what football is.

I am experienced in football, because I play it sometimes and I’m quite bad at it. But that doesn’t stop me because I’m tenacious! Except when I can’t be bothered, or when I’m too tired from running around. I usually get tired within minutes, because I’m really unfit.

But we can turn that into a positive because it means I will be unlikely to ever leave the office, as that would mean standing up. Bonus! Plus, I am lazy so I would be more or less guaranteed to always be on the premises, available at your beck and call to manage the team into oblivion.

The good kind of oblivion, I mean. Does that exist? WELL IT DOES NOW.

See that? Rogue re-writing of facts? I’d fit right in at Liverpool, clearly.

I also play Football Manager a lot. Now I know you get lots of applications mentioning this hilariously, but it’s serious business and I’m really good at it. I mean, I’ve got like 74% of the achievements on Steam or something, so I must be radicool at it. Plus I only rarely cheat, and seeing as you can only rarely cheat in real life I think it shows I’d be great at… wait, what am I writing?

Also I am racist. Massively, hugely racist.

Thanks for the job,

Ian “Definitely (Defiantly) Racist” Dransfield

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Bank holidays: shit, or REALLY shit?

Bank holidays – bit shit really, aren’t they? Having a day off is great, clearly, but they’ve never really had much of an allure to me, myself, personally, to me, in my opinion, personalopinionally.

When I was a student they were irrelevant. I mean, if I didn’t want to go to school then I just didn’t go – the day didn’t matter, so an official day off meant little more than there were more wankers out at the pub. More wankers in Preston: A GREAT THING.

Then I moved into the fast-paced, fine and utterly lovely world of unemployment, where no days matter apart from Sundays – because they’re when the post doesn’t come so you have a mental marker point for what day it actually is – and one day every two weeks, when you had to remember to go out of the house and lie about searching for jobs. Bank holidays did little more than remind you banks existed and were the places that held the kosh over you because of your massive debts. Sigh.

Working in a shop? Well that just meant bank holidays were horrible. They are some of the busiest days of the year, seeing as shops only open at working hours on normal days, and working hours are the hours when people are at work, meaning people who work can’t get to the shop in working hours. As they’re at work. Then when they finish work the shop is closed and… sigh. Anyway, as these days are so busy at shops they were the days when we had to work. You couldn’t get a day off unless you’d booked it approximately eight years in advance, and they were always massive ballache days where every dickhead under the sun would come in and make unreasonable demands, like you having to ‘deal’ with them or something.

Then – after more unemployment and some freelance (N.B: exactly the same as unemployment) came this job. This job is based on monthly – and weekly – deadlines. I am contractually obliged to complete a certain amount of work per week, regardless of the week. You can see where this is going. Obviously normal days off you aren’t expected to work and when you’re out and about on press trips the workflow is limited accordingly. But bank holidays? Nope – you still have to do a full week’s work. Which means I’m now sat here on my extra day off doing work that I would have been doing at work.

Screw you, bank holidays. All you do is slow the world down for a day and get in the way. Banks shouldn’t fucking take holidays anyway. Get on with looking after my money*.


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Working in CEX was the best/worst time of my life… ish

I worked in CEX for 364 days of my life, and in that time I realised they were the best and worst days of my life. Well, maybe not that far. It was the best and worst job of my life. Well, maybe not best. And it’s bound to be at least pushing for worst because I’ve had so few jobs.

Right, try again: I worked in CEX. I disliked the job, I hated the scum we had to deal with but I liked the people I worked with. We had a lot of fun taking the piss, getting drunk, planning to form socially-aware punk rock bands that also sing about dragons, accidentally going on strike after falling asleep upstairs, being threatened by morons, getting drunk, being unable to open phones and getting drunk.

It’s just a shame the bad points were so massively bad. Not only was it standard shop lore of working menial tasks for low pay (as opposed to now, where it’s slightly-more-than menial tasks for slightly-more-than low pay) and putting up with crap from the public. But CEX is a shop that buys things from the public, meaning this wasn’t the normal ‘crap’ you have to put up with. Oh no. This was a different breed of crap. Spectaculcrap. Some of the most idiotic, moronic, brain-meltingly infuriating dillweeds would come through those doors and stand in that long, long queue.

People – and I use the term loosely – subjected us all to myriad complaints, like the man who (three weeks after I started) hurled abuse at me and threatened to deck me (in front of his kids) because I wouldn’t buy a DVD burner off him for about £2. Oh, and it didn’t work.

Or the guy who tried to sell a game without a cover, which I told him we wouldn’t buy. He responded “oh, I’ll go nab one from Zavvi then”. Minutes later he returned, triumphantly brandishing the stolen game box from across the street and actually expecting me to still buy it off him.

Or the women who tried to sell a phone that looked like it had been gone at with a set of bolt cutters. And, of course, they kicked up a huge fuss when we turned them down.

The man in Hull who accused me of changing his password on his phone as a part of some kind of conspiracy so we didn’t have to buy the phone off him. He failed to understand the concept that I didn’t know his original password so couldn’t have changed it to a new one.

Hull in general. One week of my life I’ll never see again.

That massive guy who would come in 10 minutes before we closed every day with a scratched to balls game that clearly didn’t work to trade in for another. Problem was he was about seven feet tall and absolutely, completely and totally stank – I mean he smelled like he had died or something – to the point that we just wanted him out as fast as possible. He never got any trouble from staff. At least, the ones who stayed downstairs when he entered the shop.

The scrots who would use the front of their trackie bottoms as game/DVD-storing pouches, and would be surprised – shocked, even – if anyone ever questioned why the fuck they used their balls as a carry case.

The multiple idiots who were relying on selling something in order to fund their bus ride home, then had a go at us like it was our fault they hadn’t got ID, or the DVD didn’t work or whatever. Sigh.

The people who just didn’t understand the rules, even though they were printed all over the shop. Though I suppose reading isn’t a strong point.

I could go on much, much more but this will just turn into 3,000 words of bile.

I see CEX staff get a lot of stick on the internet and yes, I agree they can be dismissive, seem arrogant and work in a badly-organised shop that always smells of BO. But the utter dickheads – and these are a brand of dickhead you do not get working in any other shop, unless it’s a pawn shop – the idiots they have to deal with gives me nothing but sympathy for the chaps and chapettes who put up with this gutterscum.

CEX: you were the best of times, you were the worst of times. Well, actually you were just a bit shit. Without the workmates (and the booze) I would have been out of the door in a matter of weeks.


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I’ve been in Bournemouth a year now

It just dawned on me this morning that I’ve lived in Bournemouth for over a year now – I moved down here on July 30 last year, just to take some of the attention away from my brother’s birthday. Oh, and because I got a job doing what I actually wanted to do, rather than being paid very little for writing about things I have no interest in or care about in the slightest. Or working in a shop. No, now I get paid very little to do something I am both interested in and enjoy.

It was tough coming down here, I have to admit. I didn’t enjoy living in Manchester as much as I would have hoped – I just don’t get on very well with the city, it’s too big for me. But I didn’t want to leave the north. Not because of any stupid north/south daftness, but because it’s up there where all my friends are and where my girlfriend is.

But hey, sod all that right? I made a Dransfield Move and did something to suit myself rather than anybody else. I now hardly see my friends from oop north and I only see my girlfriend sporadically. She’s here right now though, which is nice. MAKE ME SAUSAGE AND EGG, WOMAN(na).

But the year has gone in – as cliché as it may be – the blink of an eye. In fact, it’s gone so fast that I still don’t feel I’ve really settled down here or can call this place home of any sort. It doesn’t help that I am just an empty vessel of working, eating and sleeping, I must admit. Maybe the second year will be easier, and I’ll be able to actually go out and stuff? I mean, I’ve lived here 366-and-a-bit days but I haven’t ever been to a nightclub in the town. That’s just weird. The closest I’ve been is a late-night karaoke bar. Hmm.

Anyway, this isn’t going anywhere, it’s just a blog made up of my train of thought, re-arranged to make it more palatable to other humans. As you were.

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