Boot Camp
“It’s all highly unfortunate PJM, but I’ve every confidence that you son will be back on your feet and able to continue with the studies within a few weeks”

This was the first good news I’d heard in some time, for the last four weeks I’d been effectively bedridden and had lost two and a half stone. To say I was feeling a wee bit under the weather was something of an understatement.

Life was frankly shit. Five weeks beforehand I’d been making considerable headway into a course at uni, partying like a thirsty Rolling Stone and courting a rather comely brunette who’d got the hots for me. Now I found myself sleeping eighteen hours a day and reduced to a soaking wet nine stone in my socks, but the icing on the fucking cake was that I’d just heard that the pert and lovely brunette had gone back to her ex-boyfriend and was by all reports enjoying noisy, athletic sex on a nightly basis. Not only was I enduring the worst Christmas of my life, but Mister-Fucking-Blobby was playing on radio all the fucking time.

“Thanks Doctor” I replied wearily “I’ll buy you a pint when this is all over”.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Two years later and I was still in piss poor shape. I’d passed the time not getting better by suffering the crushing banality of late night ITV television and wanking to the point of risking calloused elbows and Tennis Cock. I’d all but turned into the agoraphobic bloke out of “Game On” and had pretty much had enough of the indignity of receiving spazzy vouchers so I decided to do something about it.

A potential route to salvation came during a visit to our nearby careers advisor, who helpfully suggested that the local Adult Education Centre set aside a number of places for the long term unemployed AND anyone receiving Disability Benefit so that they had an opportunity to study something useful.

I qualified on both counts.

I had expected to be mixing with students from all backgrounds and of all ages and learning the intricacies and subtleties of finance as a way of getting a toehold on the career ladder.

I hadn’t expected to be attending an employment Boot Camp aimed at getting the unemployable in employment. Any employment.

Jesus-titty-Christ…

The lucky students fell into three categories, firstly there were those who’d just left school and were utterly unable to hold down a job for more than a few hours. Mostly, this first category had spots, fewer teeth than was usually the case and a look on their face that suggested “if-I-fuck-this-up-my-probation-officer-won’t-be-happy”. The second bunch consisted of freshly divorced middle-aged women who had committed the heinous crime of being a “Single Mother” in Tory Britain. Again, they were easy to identify with their uniform application of excessive make up and clothing choices verging on the ambitious. This lot were generally good company until mixed with excessive quantities of cheap wine, whereupon they transformed into an ageing pack of cackling nymphomaniacs.

Lastly, we have the shambling feckless, the walking dead as it were whose sole purpose was to draw dole money until they died. Somehow they'd been bribed and/or blackmailed into signing up for a course to better themselves and to make a valid contribution to society. Looking back, I can recall several characters worthy of note:

The sixty year old who’d at some point been a taxi driver from Walthamstow but for whatever reason had been unable to source gainful employment since and spent far too long leering at the female spotty, NACRO sponsored contingent and making unintelligible and faintly improper remarks ending in “darlin’” whilst rubbing his groin.

The reedy woman with an unhealthy pallor who’s plan was to smoke her way up the career ladder. Although this tactic had failed to net her a job for the last thirty years, but she was giving it one last try. I last saw her in the local free newspaper, where she was pictured being rescued from the locked lavatory of her local ASDA at one o clock in the morning.

Then there was the short, chubby guy who turned up on his first day dressed in a home made Star Trek uniform. His sartorial elegance didn’t improve much, for the following week he topped that with a blue nylon suit of 1975 vintage complete with a brown kipper tie as wide as the flight deck of the HMS Ark Royal. Oddly, he was almost proud to admit that in his thirty one years of existence he’d never had sex, much less a career. Poor bastard never stood a chance.

Lastly we had the bearded guy who apparently never once engaged in conversation with anyone. He was of indeterminate age; somewhere between thirty five and fifty and always wore a padded grey anorak. One afternoon his Pat Jennings sports bag fell open as he wordlessly shuffled into a classroom to reveal a collection of Commando war stories comics, read by boys between the ages of eight and eleven. He'd have preserved more of his dignity had it been copies of Razzle.

Stupidly, I never did turn around on my first day and say “not on your fucking life mate” and duly spent the next month being shown how to lick envelopes, open letters and insert a toner cartridge into a printer without spilling drool everywhere.

After four weeks, my tutor-cum-drill sergeant decided I had “potential” and I was given the coveted title of mentor to a small group of students. See if you can guess which ones?

A few months after that and with my health improving, I was offered a job elsewhere. The drill-sergeant tutor actually took me aside and suggested that if I feigned a relapse, I could continue receiving disability benefit and would be fast-tracked on their “Assessor” course with a view to being bona-fide full time tutor. Unpaid of course.

Even the most piss-poor paying job was a step up from that.
(Bicycle Repairman "you're also a bit of a wanker", Fri 3 Apr 2009, 16:47, 4 replies)

Great post
mate, nice one!
( SpankyHanky, Fri 3 Apr 2009, 16:51, closed)

Inspired...!

Indeed this QotW has seemed to have re-ignited the brilliance of our beloved regulars.

This post, peppered with fantastic descriptions, whilst being evocative, rich in humility and showing great understanding...this is a lesson in how it should be done.

And of course, it wouldn't be a PJM post without a dig at Tory Britain thrown in for good measure....

I clicked like a hairy mofo on a sponsored click-a-thon

...

But to be honest...you had me at 'Tennis cock'.
(Mr Twisty Cheeky The worst kept secret in B3ta..., Fri 3 Apr 2009, 17:42, closed)

Until?
"until mixed with excessive quantities of cheap wine, whereupon they transformed into an ageing pack of cackling nymphomaniacs. "

Until? Ah, me, youth is wasted on the young...
(13thfloor, Fri 3 Apr 2009, 18:16, closed)

An eloquent return.
You're welcome back too :)
( Noeli overtheshoulderboulderholderthingstraplatchboobs, Fri 3 Apr 2009, 22:50, closed)