I have
worked an array of crappy jobs. I used to work as a community artist, getting paid loads to do murals and run workshops for kids and stuff.

At one point I was working in the arse-end of Newport, South Wales in one of the largest council estates I've ever seen.

I ran some workshops in youth centres, one ran by a Welsh Jabba the Hut who used boast that he'd cut his Coke intake down to "just the three bottles a day", make his small, put-upon wife everything for him because he could barely walk while talking inappropriately to the teenage girls who came to the centre.

I worked with a painfully shy graphic designer who spent his time hiding behind large murals to stop Jabba and the kids abusing him and encouraging him to take me "in the van for an hour".

This was not the worst of it. I worked in another youth centre, a few streets away. There worked a pikey 'junior youth leader' or something. He came in for a chat, and knowing the project was coming to an end, hovered around the subject of us going for a drink.

I chose to go off to have lunch, and returned to a post-it note with a carefully scribed message.

'My number 07************'
It was bad enough he was a pikey, was five years younger than me and was hugely unattractive, but he didn't have to write on a sexual health helpline post-it.
*shudder*
(Medibot, Thu 24 Jan 2008, 11:55, 1 reply)

Newport? Large council estate?
That'll be Ringland, then. They found a cannabis factory in one of the houses there last week. (BBC story here).
( eXOBeX, Thu 24 Jan 2008, 23:22, closed)