Gas Bag...
Oh Lord. Let me start by saying that one of my personality traits is I just don’t do confrontation. So quitting in a blaze of glory is not my style. Sneaking out the back while the object of my ire is distracted, I’m your girl. But telling a boss, a friend, a lover what I really think… ugh. No, better to keep it all in till it gives you an aneurysm, that’s my motto.
I’m also averse to starting things I can’t finish. I rarely engage myself in projects I think I might fail at or not enjoy, purely because the notion of having to admit to anyone, least of all myself that I couldn’t hack it is not something I can do.

With this in mind, I wonder how the hell I ever thought I was going to make a living as a door-to-door sales monkey. Back in the mists of time, when I had no money and was slowly beginning to realize that my embryonic alcohol problem was not going to pay for itself, I spent a summer back at my mum’s house, applying for every god forsaken job that your average sized sea side town has to offer. Firstly, I applied for a position as a bartender at a local “sports bar” (for “sports” read “full of televisions in lieu of an atmosphere”). I was prompt to the interview, polite and engaging, even when the bar manager, a slicked back 30 something called Dwayne stopped mid interview to ask me, at full volume, whether I thought the customer on the table next to us was wearing a wig. The fact that a pile of kittens would have made a more convincing head covering kind of gave it away, but to be polite to the gentleman I muttered something non committal, thus sealing my fate as unemployable in Dwayne’s eyes.

My search for an alternative seemed to be fruitless. I applied to a vaccine company to work as a chicken checker – the person who looks at embryos to see whether the current vaccine lot has caused the chicken to chirp its final cheep. I applied to the same company for a job packaging the anthrax vaccine. Apparently I was over qualified, with my A levels and half a degree.

Finally I resorted to the small ads in the paper. I found something tempting; “Earn stacks of cash doing fuck all” was what it seemed to say.

I duly went to the “open day” where I was brainwashed into believing that persuading elderly couples and young mothers to change their gas supplier for the small fee of 30 quid was indeed a philanthropic service.

Armed with a uniform and clipboard (to be paid for out of my first weeks sales) I set out in a nice suburb, not too far from my house. Initially I was sent out with an experienced sales rep to see how the patter went. The technique was basically charm your way into the home of someone vulnerable, scare the shit out them by convincing them that there was an outside chance they were paying thousands of times over the odds for gas, then browbeat them into signing on with you. I was discomfited by this approach. It seemed bordering on immoral; “Nonsense,” my co-worker told me, “no one’s forcing them to sign up.” I wasn’t too sure.

I was let loose on my own, to work my own patch. I lasted 10 minutes; it was the sight of yet another terrified granny hiding behind the net curtains, praying that this shiny jacketed foghorn would leave her in peace and stop bellowing “can I, CAN I INTEREST YOU IN SAVING 200 POUNDS A YEAR, MADAM? MADAM???”
But then, salvation came. I knocked on a door which was opened by the mother of a friend of mine. I poured out my trauma to her. She listened, nodded, called the people I was working for “a bunch of thieving scum” and took me inside. We spent a happy afternoon getting leathered on Chablis and smoking cigarettes.

At our allotted time to meet the rest of the “sales team”, I rolled into the pub, cross eyed with drink. A survey of the group showed they’d had mixed fortunes, some had got the knack of the job, others, like me, had hated each wretched second.

Finally, my team leader approached me. “And how did you get on, Rakky?” Swaying, I put on my best big-girl smile and said “I didn’t sell a fucking thing.” “That’s okay, Rakky, there’s always tomorrow.” “No there isn’t,” I beamed, “because you can shove your job up your arse.” My team leader laughed. “I trust you’re joking” he replied. “Nope,” I responded, swaying a bit more this time, “job, up, arse, shove. Would you like it written down? Maybe I could illustrate it through the medium of sock puppetry?” Leaving him aghast, I waltzed (staggered) to the door and flounced out…

…where my natural cowardice kicked in and I promptly did a sick all over my shoes and had to phone my mum to come and pick me up.

I spent the rest of the summer working for the Child Support Agency.

Apologies for lack of funny, but if you’d like to sign this form and give me your bank details, we can make sure that you get access to the best QOTW answers each week for a small fee. Hello? Hello? Oh…
(Rakky (forgot her password) The muffin maverick, Mon 26 May 2008, 20:37, 11 replies)

No need to apologise, there's plenty of funny
The sock puppetry reference alone makes this clickworthy!

And it contains flouncing. Top marks.
( K2k6 has a proper job these days, Mon 26 May 2008, 20:43, closed)

*click*
brilliant!
( crackhouseceilidhband Fuck off back to Mumsnet, Mon 26 May 2008, 20:51, closed)

Magnifique!
As they said, the sock puppetry bit alone did it.
*Click*
( Duke Of Belmsford has got 99 records, but Jay-Z ain't one, Tue 27 May 2008, 5:56, closed)

A well deserved click.
Good on you! Shame more people don't share your outlook. Great storytelling, too.
(eesnahk, Tue 27 May 2008, 7:47, closed)

*click*
The sock-puppetry did it for me!
( Boss Keloid Got your mother's maiden name tattooed on my arm, Tue 27 May 2008, 10:55, closed)

Fantabulous!
I had a friend who did the same as you. I was driving along one day when a madman in a polyester uniform jumped out in front of me.

It was my friend who leapt in to the car, ripped off his tie and said "sod this for a game of soldiers. Pub?"

And that was the end of his door-to-door career.

*clickety click click click*
( Devil_In_Tights the *real* DiT!, Tue 27 May 2008, 12:16, closed)

Classic Rakky
Had me spluttering aloud. Don't quite know what's worse though - the door to door stuff, or working for the CSA (thankfully, the one arm of the public sector that I seem to have been able to avoid getting sucked into).
( Davros' Granddad a voice of calm reason in a world of spastics., Tue 27 May 2008, 12:39, closed)

"I promptly did a sick all over my shoes"
thankfully I've finished with my yogurt, otherwise I'd be cleaning a grubby screen,

heh - funny :)
(tweebianmonkey Should be known as Widget, Tue 27 May 2008, 14:19, closed)

*clicks*
I love this story, but the CSA...?

Inept, theving bastards, the lot of them, I paid double my child support for a year and didn't get all of my money back. C*nts. (Not you though, you're clearly great :D)
( Bert Monkeysex is waiting for the mods to delete him, Tue 27 May 2008, 14:22, closed)

In my defense re the CSA
I had nowt to do with the collecting of money, nor the stopping / starting of payments. I was the post girl and overlord of the office supplies cabinet. A suprisingly powerful position... At the CSA offices the doors to each floor were controlled by a keypad entry. All the codes for each floor were the same. The only area that had a special code that onyl a select few knew was the office supplies room, to reduce incidents of staff leaving with a year's supply of tippex to go and huff in the car park. Well, it was Liverpool. No, I'm not Boris Johnson in disguise.
(Rakky (forgot her password) The muffin maverick, Tue 27 May 2008, 15:07, closed)

Re: The CSA
The way to get around paying for your child/ren?

Get a good accountant.

Then you can have an income of less than £5 a week on paper and still afford a brand new 4x4....and not have to pay a single penny for your offspring.
( chickenlady b3ta's very own Elizabeth Taylor, Tue 27 May 2008, 17:20, closed)