The dog got the job, not me.
I was an industrial photographer in the Middle East. Having spent some time under Secret Police escort I left the country, with my Landcruiser, SCBA gear and belongings all in the flat, never to return. Paronoid bastards.

I needed a job at Christmas quick like.
I answered an advert to be a Savoy Social Photographer, you needed your own 2 1/4 sq camera. I took my £8000 Hassleblad system along
and took some test photos, which this chap developed in the coal bunker, next to the basement office around the corner from the Savoy.

I thought it weird that the female boss was wearing a giant overcoat, gloves and a scarf. Mind you its was bloody freezing in there and they told me it was a temporay glitch.

The photographer insisted we had to buy and wear our own black shirt and trousers, although his had egg spilt down the leg.
Anyway they were actually genuine, they took photos of guests after conferences and dinners in their diamonds and furs, the companies paid them and the photos mailed out - 10x8 colour.

I can do this I thought - for a bit, if there is cash involved. I passed the photography part of the live interview.

Next I was asked to type a full letter to a client on an old black Remington Typewriter, like the one in the Science Museum.

The swaddled female muttered and address and I typed up a full reciept. (turned out to be a real one too.)

I gave it to her and she looked it over and told me I had to sign it off too.

I placed it back into the Remington (all journos can type y'know - just with 2 fingers though)

So I thought - what shall I type?
Well there no reason to use my real name on a dummy test letter is there?

So I thought hard and typed:
Yours faithfully,

Fred Bassett


(It's a cartoon dog in the Daily Mail, which I was found and was reading in the foyer before the interview)

I was told the fat swaddled female couldn't type in the cold, her fingers were too sore that day!

They said they would let me know and I left.
The next day I took a lowly job in Fenwicks Brent Cross and sold a massive reserve of cabbage patch dolls to the stupid public.
Boy the other staff were morons, I mixed up Action Man with Sindy in the tank and put the Alien on her Horse. I also raced multiple slot cars on the same tracks and sold loads and loads to rich kids with their parents Gold Cards.

2 weeks later a badly hand written letter with terrible spelling arrived in my mail drop.

I opened the cheap envelope and unfolded the cheap post-war style paper.

Same letter head, post-war printing I think - they'd been in that bloody coal cellar for years it seems, the postcode gave it away.
Only three letters y'see.

Well someone had got the job but it wasn't me.

You see the letter and envelope were addressed to Mr Fred Bassett and congratulated him on getting the job and could he start Monday?

I still shudder at the idea of coming form 6 years in the middle east at a daily temp of 32C to a savoy coal celler at minus 5C.

Bollocks, Brent Cross was warmer.
(chrisjw, Fri 21 Jan 2005, 21:55, Reply)