Paper Boy - Ormeau Newsagents
The owner of Ormeau Newsagents was by all means, a nice old guy trying to run a shop which the western world was beginning to have no use for. Who needs a newspaper when the internet will provide you with up to date coverage of world events? Perhaps those of older generations still want to play sudoku or do their crosswords with a biro on an actual piece of paper, whilst truck drivers still get a kick out of page 3 of the Sun but sales of paper editions are on the decline. Meanwhile confectionery and soft drinks can usually be picked up on offer from any of the twenty million Tesco's that seem to dot the city-scape of Belfast. So old Stevie had to keep his primary source of income keep running whilst he entered his retirement phase by acting as an old school newsagent, providing services like you've guessed it door-to-door paper delivery. If you lived near the Annadale Flats building or on the Ravenhill Road area you could have the service just by paying the daily price of the paper plus an additional weekly 20 p delivery charge. The money from that delivery charge went to the courier, in that case - 16 year old me. Even with nearly forty people per area this didn't amount to much. Especially when you consider how long it would take you to deliver that many papers. Now the job wasn't as difficult as playing the NES classic - I never got mauled by any dogs or knocked over, but the whole affair wasn't exactly easy. Papers couldn't be thrown, they had to be dropped onto the porch of every paying customer, on time - or there'd be complaints.
Classic my hole, hated this game almost much as I hated that job
On a few occasions I'd be late to the job either due to having to stay late at school or because I wanted to stay home and wank over Sabrina the Teenage Witch. When these academic/masturbatory debacles kept people from getting their papers before their 5.30 supper they'd start whining. Customers would ring the newsagents up, demanding that the paper would be left there on time. Some even came out of their houses to tell me to my face that I wasn't doing my job properly. I'd typically freeze up in my teenage awkwardness, unable to respond with anything other than stuttered apologies. In the same position today, I'd love to tell those cunts to fuck off, but unfortunately it's an opportunity I will never have.
The job took too long to complete every day and often meant striving through horribly wicked weather just to complete it. It also on a number of occasions put my back under immense strain. Have you ever lifted a stack of 40 newspapers, including all of the extra magazines and glossy adverts? Now imagine trying to jam that same stack into a PVC bag and cycle it around for an hour and a half. Not exactly a comfortable bike ride. When I tried suggesting to Stevie's wife who ran the shop that she should have dumped the advertisements before I picked up the load she would roll her eyes as if to say "why should I waste my time doing that". Splitting the load into two piles and delivering them in two runs would have increased my delivery time to about two hours an evening. I might have been a loser teenager with few friends and no romantic prospects but even two hours a night for a measly £7.50 a week. Not to mention I seemed to spend half of my miniscule pay packet on sweets as soon as I received it at the end of every Saturday afternoon.
Whilst the job was generally awful, I think the absolute lowest point was meeting some drug addled smick in the Annadale area and having this conversation
"'ere mate, my aunt lives on Lower Ormeau and they all know I'm a protestant and they'll get me if they can. Lend us yer bike would ye?"
"No, I can't."
As I cycled on he delivered this threat
"If I see ye again, I'll chase ye!"
Now at 16, I was far too old to be starting that job - a job that was meant for a younger kid, who didn't have as much AS Level Coursework as I did at the time. I think the main reason I stuck the job out for a full year was that I was told the last paper boy had received big money in tips that previous Christmas. Maybe it was my occasional lack of tardiness that meant only half of the customers seemed to give me anything at all. Maybe those that didn't tip didn't realize they should have been tipping their paper boy. Or maybe those well off middle class types of the Ravenhill area were just tight as a duck's bum and if that's the case then I hope they end eating breakfasts of microwaved dog turd.
I made a lot more money when I was ten going door-to-door offering to wash people's cars for a quid and I was my own boss. God I miss those days of being a small business owner.
Sales Associate - TK Maxx
In the summer of lower sixth, I decided it was time to get a "real job". At least one that paid at least minimum wage and provided shift work. This meant filling in a job application form, lying a little about experience and gaining the position of Sales Associate. I don't know how long the position of "sales associate" has had the title "sales associate". Really it should be "teenage cunt that works the tills" or "shelf stacker/bitch that has to clean up the entire store after grown women have trashed it on their hunt for a bargain. This was my first and last play in the retail sector.
Whilst I still shop at TK Maxx from time to time as it genuinely is a good place to pick up reasonably priced fashionable items, I would recommend working there to no-one. It desperately tried to follow the corporate stylings of its American brother "TJ Maxx" and in doing so encouraged its minimum wage paid staff to be Shiny Happy People saying "have a nice day" with a shit eating grin to every customer who traipsed through the doors. I still remember the badly acted "educational" videos shown to us how to detect store thieves, price ticket-swappers and what to expect if we were ever caught "skimming".
The job was full of things that plagued it - incompetent mangers, rude customers and awkward hours. I was typically scheduled to work 6-10 on a Tuesday and Thursday night. The store would close at 9, much like all of the other stores that shared the retail park. However, whilst all of the other employees would get away within ten or twenty minutes, TK Maxx had a long "recovery" process required. Because of its layout and the fact it stocked such a varying range of clothing, customers (more often female than not) would pull things clothes off of the rails and throw them out of the way like packs of shit tossing chimps. I think the latest I ever got out was around midnight, whilst my father sat in his driver seat waiting for me to emerge. When the Christmas period ended, I decided focusing on my raising my dreadful grades was far more important than enduring red shirt slavery.
Sandwich Artist - Subway
If Sales Associate sounds like a made up position, the official job name of a regular Subway employee brings things to the next level. I made bread sculptures, painted them with a variety of thick sugary sauces and filled them with freshly prepped, insecticide covered vegetables and heavily processed reconstituted meats. I was another pimply faced teenager in a American chain fast food franchise and I hated it. The late night shifts were the worst, feeding drunken students the means to soak up some of the cheap alcohol they'd spent the night guzzling. When they were finally ushered out by a security guard (the fact these places sometimes need a security guard is simply hilarious) the dreadful clean up would involve taking a scrubber to a meatball marinara encrusted steel saucepan.
Unsurprisingly my co-workers tended to be unskilled Eastern European workers whose limited English skills prevented them from getting better tipped hospitality roles and archetypal stoners. I quit to focus on my studies and spend more time involved with a much more enjoyable part time position: Officer Cadet.
On the upside, I got a free Sub on every shift I worked. Within reason I would create Scooby Doo style monstrosities which would tie me over for the seemingly never ending six hour shifts. For most employees, this perk of the job was quickly ignored. The GMO flavoured garbage would become intolerable. As a result, I now only eat Subway about once every three years. There are rare occasions the smell of that preservative enriched pre-rolled dough baking drags me in and I just can't help myself ordering "Sub of the Day" or steak and cheese with extra bacon. I may never have a fantastic "Veggymax with Ham" on honey oat again though. C'est la vie.
I do not miss this one bit
