I read this news story yesterday about a proof reader who worked for a major American publishing company. Allegedly, the man died of coronary failure while working at his desk and nobody noticed for five days.
It got me thinking about where I work at the moment. I doubt very much that anyone here would notice if I croaked at my desk; let me explain.
The company I work for is run by a group of very limited, short-sighted, narrow-minded individuals who are obsessed with instant gratification and gross profits. Any genuinely creative ideas which reach them are either ignored altogether or instantly dismissed due to Management's lack of vision, intelligence and understanding.
Explaining to some of these men (yup, they're all men. The big man's wife has some kind of honorary role but she doesn't actually do anything. I think this business would be greatly improved by the presence of some dynamic females at the top, but that's another rant for another time) that sometimes it's worth looking at the medium, or even long term goals and outputs of the organisation is like explaining to a very seriously retarded child how thermo-dynamics work.
My department has no budget (the company does not advertise. "Make PR" they say, without having any concept of what that means) and our emails do not get read. The only thing we hear in response to our ideas is "no" -usually without an explanation, but when explanations do come they sound as though Management has consulted with a specially appointed "Board of Logic" made up of a professional WWE wrestler, a Creationist and the guy responsible for selecting which contestants get into the Celebrity Big Brother house.
The big exciting thing today is that Management have acquired two robot hoovers: small disc-shaped devices which scuttle round the floor hoovering up waste. Watching Management standing around these devices, scratching their heads and grinning is a bit like that opening scene in Space Odyssey with the monkeys and the cube. This is what's important to these people: miniature novelty vacuum cleaners.
The very same day (today) I have been told there is no budget to support the campaign I have been planning for the past week. I wouldn't have objected to this news, except that there have been dozens of opportunities for Management to tell me not to go ahead with this plan: from the initial heads-up email to the Big Man which stated I was having a preliminary meeting, to the full report and shorthand transcript I submitted to them. But hey, they've got their mini auto-vacuum robots so I guess the company is going to be fine.
Then there's the other stupid shit eating into the company’s budgets: life-sized cardboard cutouts of Management (most of which are still sitting in 6’ piles in our department –there’s just no use for them), sponsorship of the Big Man's delusions of sporting grandeur (something like £1m per year), four times as many posters as we require describing deals which will be out-of-date long before we have the time even to display them all… the list goes on.
Management all drive around in their big cars, with their off-the-rack suits, the ever-present stench of fast-food following them around everywhere they go. They’re white trash. I hate to use that term; and I don’t use it lightly, but there is no other way to describe them. They believe that the more something costs, the “classier” it is. The result is that their offices are garish maximalist shrines to bad taste: guilt-framed mirrors and imitation antique furniture; 2 inch-deep burgundy carpeting and pleather armchairs. The first time I saw one of them I had to (literally) stifle a laugh.
And it’s not just management: I find myself hating almost everyone else who works here. I hate the empty McDonalds containers on their desks, I hate their noisy, high-pitched discussions about meaningless trite like “which reality TV show they watched last night”; most of all I hate the fact that they seem perfectly content to come here every day and contribute to the questionable success of a company which is as morally repugnant as it is nationally unknown.
And then there’s me: King of the Hypocrites. I’m still here, 10 months on. My friends and family have urged me to “stick it out” for at least a year for the good of my CV, which is the excuse I use most frequently to justify my tenacious presence here. The truth is, there is very little work around and I don’t want to move house. Where else can I leave work at 5pm and be out on the sea by 5.30? Where else can I drive for under five minutes to get from my flat to my desk? Where else can I drive home at lunchtime and watch half an episode of
I did find a job within driving distance as the Personal Assistant to some slimy suit, which pays almost £2000 more than my current job. Though this illustrates how badly paid my position is (and here’s me thinking Public Relations is a lucrative job? Lucrative? More than half my monthly salary goes on rent. Subtract car insurance, petrol, council tax, electricity, broadband and I’m worse off than most dinner ladies. Even worse off than dinner ladies who don’t have 5 years of FE/HE media training). So no, I’m not going to apply for the secretary job; it’s not my field and if I leave media at this point (so early in my career) there’s a significant risk that I might never get back in.
The phone just rang: it was my “media contact”. I had to stall her, saying I would call back later once I’ve had time to think of a polite way of saying: “Remember that meeting we had? Remember all that preliminary groundwork you’ve set out? Remember all the conversations we’ve had about advertising/marketing/publicity/profile? Well, it turns out there’s no budget after all and we’ve both been wasting our time.”
I’m about 5mm from tipping point. The next person who talks to me will be taking a very serious risk that I might snap and ram their forehead through the glass plate of one of the many photocopies dotted around this building.
I wonder if there are many PR opportunities in
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