Bar My Bum

Yesterday, I had an interview for a job at Revolution. Turns out they aren’t trying to start one, they just want to make shit loads out of the ‘weird and wonderful world of vodka’. Well, someone’s got to do it. I suppose.

I turned up early, wearing a cardigan I forgot I had ripped a hole in the previous evening (it was dark, I was drumming and using the cardigan as a matting implement for the rather unwieldy drum sound, ok?). I duly introduced myself to the nervous-looking, quiet candidates at the group interview.

Why is it that at every interview for every measly job I turn up for, I have to be the one to initiate the talking? If I don’t, I feel immensely uncomfortable as I know I’m sitting next to people who could well become colleagues and therefore friends – and the first impression I’m making is of sitting silently, only a few inches away from them, pretending I’m an extra in a still life painting of a bowl of apples.

Eventually we were shepherded to a ‘quiet’ area of the impressively ornate bar. I believe it used to be a bank – like most of the best buildings in Newcastle. A chirpy woman (always chirpy women do recruitment, thank god) made us draw pictures of ourselves and our favourite type of vodka drink. I know it’s just a bit of fun, but hey, I patronise easily.

It’s cool. I drew a sketch of an underdeveloped hippie holding a guitar and a book. Jesus, when you reduce yourself to a cartoon, it’s depressing.

Once interviewed, I duly explained that I required full time hours mostly because I’m sick of contributing to the horror that is spiralling student debts, early adulthood alcohol dependence and ugly people kissing.

They nodded. They understood. I have a full year’s bar supervision experience. I’ve worked in bars forever. I was asked how I would cope with having to start from scratch, being bossed around again, not being a supervisor. I said that school prepared me for that kind of bullshit.

I didn’t get the job. I got an answer machine message today explaining that a longer term position needed filling, that I’d interviewed well but blah blah, I didn’t just secure myself a cushy number in a trendy boozer.

Hmm. I do hope that the decaying sack of onion wire that lolls off my temple didn’t have anything to do with it.