It didn't start well ...
My first interview at 17. I was hoping to become a draughtsman (this was in the day when we still used pencils instead of CAD software tools ... er ... 1984). I took along my portfolio, which was a think wad of drawings rolled up in a plastic tube.

I entered the building, ignoring the amused stares of the receptionist coz in them days I was a really fat fuck. The guy who interviewed me was sitting next to reception, so he got up, proffering a sweaty mitt in greeting.

There was a step down to reception. Just one fucking step. It was hard to miss. Yet I missed it.

My momentum launched myself forwards in a fucked-up stumbling motion. The thick wad of drawings launched themselves forwards from my tube with all the ballistic-ness of a rocket launcher. They whistled past my interviewer, grazing his ear.

He smiled politely, pulled out a handkerchief and dabbed at the blood now seeping from his lug-hole. We carried on with the pointless interview.

Miraculously I got the job ... in another dimension, possibly as I never got it in this fucking one. I never became a draughtsman. I ended up in data entry and slowly worked my way up over the next 30 years to become one of the country's leading experts in a bespoke set of programming tools with a handsome salary. Which I then blew when I was sacked last year when the large multi-national conglomerate I worked for summoned me to Birmingham for a high-level meeting. They explained to me following managerial complaints about my work-rate they'd been monitoring me, and found out I'd really done bugger all for six months. Meh. I'd lost interest. Se lavvy.
(jrd, Fri 22 Nov 2013, 20:28, 2 replies)

Well I'm certainly glad you one of the country's leading experts in something

(the other guy not the one that gave you coochie warts, Fri 22 Nov 2013, 20:35, closed)

Indeed. A bespoke software tool and being a bit of a nob.
(jrd, Fri 22 Nov 2013, 20:46, closed)