my fucking job hunt.

I’m in a very angry and hateful mood right now, I figured it might be a good time to write it out. This will either prove to be cathartic and help, so I can go and watch One Tree Hill in a relaxed stupor, or it’ll make things much worse and I’ll set myself on fire and jump out the window. Place your bets, ladies and gents…

Not much has been going on, apart from the fact that I got swine flu. It was really fucking boring, aside from my bad reaction to tamiflu, which I think was cooked up by the Devil in the darkest pits of hell. Projectile green vomiting and shaking so violently that my bed was quaking, I was on some next level chick-from-the-exorcist shit. After I got switched to relenza, I mostly just spent a few days lying in a pool of my own piggie sweat (makes a change to vomit), hacking up funky coloured phlegm and forcing my flu-friend (my mother) to attend to my every need. Fuck the swine ship and all who sail in her.

Anyway, my bad mood was brought on by my aunties husband lecturing me about how I must not be trying very hard to get a job. This was after I had looked after his 9 year old son all day – his son who is fucking mental. I mean proper, chicken oriental. He only ever talks about death, murder, the best ways to kill people, how hes gonna be an assassin when he grows up and his bedtime reading is ‘The Encyclopaedia of Knives’. His dad came home from work and started telling me how I should check the job centre website every day (O RLY?!) and sign up to agencies (WOT SHOX!) as well as checking shop windows in town regularly (O MAI LYFE!). Fucking pretentious cunt. Incase you were wondering, he sells third rate cleaning products to second rate cleaning companies for a living.

I have a little book where I write down all the jobs that I apply for, just so I can keep track of things, chase things up if need be and know whats going on if by some fucking miraculous chance I should get called for an interview. So far, I have applied for 73 jobs. SEVENTY THREE. I didn’t even realise it was that many until I counted today. I am both impressed by my efforts and struggling not to commit suicide at the same time. 73 jobs and I have had 3 proper interviews. And I still don’t have a job. Fuck my life, anyone?

My first interview was the one I mentioned in my last post, a surprise job for the government. I turned up and had to fill in a bunch of forms before they would tell me what I was actually applying for. After giving a list of all the places I’ve lived in, people I’ve lived with and ex-boyfriends for the last 5 years (that last bit was a good time) I was told the job was processing terrorist deportation forms. When I said ‘surely we don’t deport our terrorists? dont they just go to prison?’ the nice lady replied with ‘oh no, we process forms from other countries, theres less chance of you getting hunted down over here!’. Great!

I then went to an interview with 2 fucking terrifying men in suits at the city hall – one of whom was DEFINITELY wearing a man bra. And a toupee. They asked me if I had ever been involved in terrorism (“only the sexual kind”) or espionage (“I don’t think so, but then again I haven’t a fucking clue what espionage is, so I could be little miss espionage 2009 for all I know”) and testing how easily I would be bribed (“I’ll do mostly anything for a fiver. But no anal.”) they offered me that job, depending on me clearing the security checks. That takes 6-8 weeks. I am not hopeful.

My other proper interviews were for Gerry Weber, the clothes shop for old ladies who think theyre something special cause they have a few quid to spend on some fine woven chinos, and at A COMPANY*, for a PA position. I really want the PA job, even though the daily tasks sound about as easy as trying to cram my tits into a training bra. The position is as PA to A MAN who is a foreign correspondent for ITN and is a well important broadcast journalist or summink. The salary is incredibly attractive to both myself and the rum demon on my shoulder who needs feeding, and the dude lets his staff go on holiday to his holiday home in A COUNTRY. He also looks like he might want a bangin in the stationery cupboard every now & then, but I’d take one for the team. I have a second interview for that, but don’t know when it is. In retrospect, the lady who interviewed me the first time may have just told me I had a second interview to get my sorry begging ass off their premises.

*name of company and man and location of his holiday home have been left out, incase they have some fucking mental MI5 style computer hacking systemz that can seek me out.

As well as that, I went to a recruitment evening at Ted Baker. They told me it was an interview, but when I turned up there were about 8 other people waiting outside. The 8 people turned into 40 others, all there for one position. This was a fucking joke. First we all had to have our photos taken (front and side angles, unfortunately no money shot or I’d be working there now) and fill in some forms that asked why we wanted to work for ted baker, where we saw ourselves in 5 years time and 3 words that our friends would use to describe us. Now, I could’ve chosen to fill my form in honestly – why do I want to work for ted baker? Because the pay is good, I could easily do the job hungover/drunk and I appreciate the discount Id get on every Christmas/birthday/anniversary/fathers day/bah mitzvah present I’d ever have to buy again. Where do I see myself in 5 years? Bangin an old rich man and plotting his demise so I can steal his skrilla and run away with my one true love, tinchy strider. 3 words that my friends would use to describe me? Dangerous drunk whore.

Of course, I lied and told them what they wanted to hear.

After that, we all stood in a line and were told to introduce ourselves. Of course, it was my spunked-on luck that I was first in line. I went for a simple “I’m Niki, Im 23, just graduated from Leeds University, I previously worked for Gap which I really enjoyed so I’m looking for a new position in fashion retail”. Yeah, I came off like a really normal, well rounded individual! But other people started getting cocky and telling little ditties and jokes - go suck a donkey off you ball lickers, I hate you. This one girl decided to tell her life story and how her claim to fame was that she ‘nearly got on shipwrecked’. Again, fuck off, I hate you. One poor bloke who was in his 50s, complete with comb-over and unfortunate sweat patches was just screaming ‘I’ve been made redundant and my wife might leave me permanently for the man shes secretly been humping for the last 10 years, please give me a job so she doesn’t take my cats too’ came off with the brilliant line “my name is David and next time I’m in this store, I’m gonna be on that side of the counter instead of this! YEAH!”. With the YEAH! there was a fist pump. I loved that dude. I hope he didn’t intentionally run out infront of a bus on his way home, you could tell he was close.

The manager then asked if anyone knew anything about the company. At this point, nearly-shipwrecked girl stepped out of the line, went to stand with the staff and started telling everyone every available fact about ted baker. She knew how the business had started, how many stores there were, what their mission statement was, like everyone who had done their research did too. But she went on – she knew about ted bakers family, the annual turnover, their annual losses through theft, fucking everything. I was genuinely surprised she didn’t tell what ted bakers favourite flavour of hula hoops were or how big his cock is. She was a fucking tool.

We got divided into 4 groups and were told to come up with an advertising campaign. Again with my luck, I got nearly-shipwrecked-knowitall-cunt in my group. I gave up before we had even started and decided to turn my efforts to getting to know the pretty little thing with the nice eyes and good beard instead. I managed to score a date with him and he took my number. It later transpired that he was 18 years old, so that date never did happen. But its nice to know I still got it, right? Oh fucking hell.

So there it is. An update on how fucking awfully my job hunt has been going so far. I’ll link my aunties husband to this blog and let him see exactly how hard I work to get jobs. I’ll just cut out all the bits about gettin pissed, engaged and stalking men, which actually takes up most of my spare time when I should be learning about Ted Bakers wifes favourite dildo model.

I’m off to find me some kerosene and a box of matches.

o mai lyfe

It’s been a while since I spent some quality time with my little friend bloggy, typing away my woes and venting frustration by bashing on my ancient and constantly malfunctioning keyboard. Heres a general life update on what I’ve been up to over the last couple of weeks. Unfortunately, its mostly involved binge eating, crying myself to sleep and screaming at morons through my phone.



Life ruining – now, this was previously a major factor in my life. The last couple of weeks have been pretty quiet on the life ruining front, by comparison. My parents had a barbeque a couple of weeks ago, which ended in me having 2 riots, punching a man in the eye and accidentally on purpose setting another man on fire before falling asleep at the bottom of the garden. Amy has a superb video where a man asks me who the fuck I think I am, and I respond with ‘oh baby boy, right now I’m your worst fucking nightmare’ while doing gun fingers in his face and my mother physically carries me away from him. My mum now thinks I need to have anger management. Again. Its not my fault I suffer from rage blackouts.


I went to London at the weekend for my best London birds birthday. When me and The Kit Borry get together, its usually absolute madness. Whisky drinking, man terrorising, pantie losing, mother shocking madness. This time, it was relatively tame. The worst thing I did was nestle in a mans beard for a while and convince him that my name was actually Sugar Honey Ice Tea. I woke up each morning, knowing exactly where I was, dignity and all underwear in tact. Best quotes from the weekend include “you know how I sleep with loads of people? Does that mean I’m a slut?” and “seriously, I might sleep with a lot of people, but my cooch is surprisingly tidy!”. Good days.


My own life has been ruined by the finest wankers of them all at Abbey. They have decided to steal £1700 of my hard earned cash (their overdraft tbh) back, leaving me with a paltry £300 overdraft. I cant remember the last time my account was actually in credit…2005 maybe? They can see my account activity, they can clearly see that I have monthly outgoings to pizza places, chicken establishments, liquor stores, shoe shops and cash withdrawls at 7am when I’m desperately trying to get home from whatever tools house I’ve ended up at after a night on the sauce. I have an appointment with my bank manager on Wednesday to discuss my ‘issues’. After we’re done with my cashflow problems, I think I’ll start on my body dismorphia issues (thinking I’m thinner than I actually am and thus purchasing items of clothing made from ‘lamé’) before moving on to my image issues and asking him if he thinks my nail beds are too short to have 1 inch acrylics attached. I think it’ll be a good meeting.



Job hunting – this has been as depressing as ever. At one point this week I was driven to thoughts of suicide and decided I’d shove a 2ft dildo down my throat before choking to death in a pool of my own faeces. I got very low and applied for a job in nandos. I figured, my best friend Chicken will always be there for me, when I need a job, Chicken will come through. Well, Chicken fucked me. Chicken fucked my up my ass. I got a text from nandos saying ‘Hey! Thanks for applying to join our team! Unfortunately you didn’t make the cut this time, but keep checking back. We’re always on the lookout for Grillerz in the mist!’. Welllllll how about you suck on it, you pretend-to-be-a-bit-classy-but-actually-are-well-shitter-than-chicken-cottage-and-arent-even-really-a-real-‘restaurant’ chicken joint. Getting rejected by nandos = all time low.


However, I got a call today about a job I applied for a few weeks ago. The lady called and asked me to come in tomorrow to fill in a few extra forms for security clearance so we could get me started. I’m not entirely sure if this means I actually have a job or not, but whatever, we’ll see tomorrow. She said on the phone that she would email me details of where to go and a list of some ‘things’ that I had to bring with me. I figured it’d be the regular passport, proof of national insurance, that sort of shit. But no. I got the email and almost shit myself. This is on some next level mission impossible shit. Actual extract from the email…..


Please bring with you the following
- Passport
- Full driving license, including paper document
- Long birth certificate
- National Insurance card and P60
- Consecutive bank statements from the last 6 months
- Bank account details
- 3 utility bills
- Details of BOTH your parents places and dates of birth


You should also be prepared to discuss details of people you have known in the last 5 years, including boy/girlfriends and give full details of every property you have lived in over the last 5 years.



Erm….do you want a shit sample too bruv? The worst thing is, I’ve gone through my emails and have no clue what this job is. The woman on the phone mentioned something about government. I cant work for the fucking government! I really don’t think rockin up to work in last nights make up, reeking of rum and seminal fluid, wearing my mums suit jacket over my raving dress will really cut it there. But fuck it, I might have a job or something!



Men – this too has been rather quiet. I got a text last night from a boy who I’ve been having sporadic good-cause-its-a-bit-bad humping with over the last 2 years to say he’s getting married to the girl he told me he had split up with. Fiiiine, go settle down in your shitty flat that smells of mushrooms with your Oprah lookin girlfriend, see if I even care.
Oh, I so totally care.

My good friend Will is moving into his own flat round the corner from me, so we’ve decided to basically live like we’re married from now on. I’m learning to bake pies and he’s learning to become a high earner, we’re gonna go get a pug puppy in a couple of weeks and treat it like our child, before I inevitably realise that having a baby really is the only way to save myself and let him knock me up. Itll be a beautiful thing.



Yeap, that’s pretty much all. Just your usual fortnight of setting men on fire, shitting your pants about going through security tests for a job you don’t remember applying for, owing the bank nearly 2 grand and being bitter about your hump buddys impending marriage.


Oh and some people think I’m some kind spoiled little hussy whos living off her momma and livin the life of a low class hooker with no repercussions. If only my breds, if only. I’m still hustlin cash moneys by making pretty pictures for this mental man who asked me for a bronze body cast of myself (I politely declined that commission), doing some costume making work for a lady I know at the Lyric Theatre and helpin my moms & pops by doing their paperwork and replying to all the emails that they cant bother their asses to deal with.

My main man Diddy posted a P-Twit a few days ago with a quote from Abe Lincoln - "Things may come to those who wait..but only the THINGS LEFT by those who HUSTLE .” OH DIDDY, U SO DEEP, I LOVE YA.

After last weeks man related stupidity, me & Amy started reflecting on where exactly we go wrong with men. It was discovered that we don’t actually go wrong at all, seeing as we set out to bag the worst, most inappropriate, womanising, momma horrifying little boys that we can find. I’m not looking for someone to marry (contrary to what last weeks events may have suggested) so these travesties against human nature will do for now.

We also started thinking about our past relationship fails and which of our pitiful ex-mantoys were the best and worst. So here it is, a definitive and sort of cut down list of my past boyfriends. Let it be known, some of these boys cannot be considered human, most of them cannot be considered to be previous relationships because they were mostly a fucking joke and I have left some of my more serious involvements out because, quite frankly, theres fuck all that’s funny about some of the poor excuses for males that I’ve been involved with in the past. Unless they have chlamydia now.

These are listed in order, some names have been changed because I know these pricks are the kind of morons who google themselves.

Ian Walker – my first ‘boyfriend’ when I was 14. I met him in the dark days when I spent my Friday and Saturday nights at Dundonald Ice-Bowl. We went skating every weekend, I had my own speedskates and was proper good and everything.

Why? – he was really popular and played ice-hockey and all the girls loved him and he was 16 and just a dream. He was really fit – acne, bit ginger, wore stonewashed levis and rockport jumpers and brought his own tuna sandwiches with him on Saturday nights. A lot of it was probably because I was a little bitch and at the time when I started going out with him, I’d had a big fall out with one of my best friends who really liked him, so I took him instead. Don’t fuck with me or I’ll steal your pikey boycrush innit.

Best bits – being able to skate with him while holding hands during the ‘couples session’. Every week they played flying without wings by westlife and we skated round together in a big sweeping dream of love and tuna odours.

Worst bits – he alone is the reason why I don’t like crisps. One night he had eaten a bag of prawn cocktail crisps and decided to kiss me, with half the contents of said savoury snack still on his tongue. Swear down, I just wretched while thinking about it. I’ve never liked crisps since.

The break-up – he found some slag who wore belly tops and tiny skirts and decided to drop me for her. After a week with the hook-nosed hoe he wanted me back, but by then I’d realised that he was actually really vile and make me sick in my mouth a little bit every time he looked at me.

Dave Carson – he was the first boy that I seriously liked, we were together for about 6 months which I guess is long enough when youre 16.

Why? – my first example of internet grooming. He was a friend of a friend, my friend was on msn when I was at her house one night and he signed in with the screen name ‘Coby Dick’. Papa Roach were my favourite band ever at the time (no shame, first album is a banger) so I was automatically in love with him. We started talking online and eventually met eachother at a party that we were both going to. I thought he was the most attractive thing in the world and he was so cool cause he wore baggy jeans and vans. Fucking hell.

Best bits – when he came to meet me from school and all the girls were dead jealous cause he was such a fitface. When he passed his driving test and I thought I was the don when he drove me to Sainsburys in his black Ford Focus.

Worst bits – he got ‘THUG LIFE’ tattooed across his stomach, cause he loved tupac so much. He lived in a big mansion in Comber with his dad and his grandparents – one day I was pushing his nan down the street in her wheelchair when a mental dog started going apeshit and jumping all over me. I shit myself and accidentally pushed his nan out into a main road, full of moving traffic, causing a minor road traffic accident. She was old and mental and thought I was trying to kill her for the rest of time.

The break-up – he went away to uni in Dundee and I cried for about 129237461278 weeks. I saw him last year and he’s a fucking mingdog now. Still a nice bloke though.

Big Poppa – this is what he saved himself in my phone as, which says a lot about him. Me & big poppa have been on & off for years, when we do decide to stop fucking around and be legit, it all goes up shit creek.

Why? – it started because he was the most attractive man I knew and he bought me a pair of sunglasses. Yeah, I’m easily pleased. When I first met him, he was a vegan straight edge mommas boy. Several years on, he’s the guy who gets baked at lunchtime and has about 6 ladies at any given time. His hair is of questionable suitability for modern society and he still wears a shoelace for a belt. He texts me biggie lyrics as booty calls and calls me at 5am to tell me he loves me and ‘I’ll always be his number 1 bitch’. Clearly, hes my ideal man and I go back every time he snaps his fingers.

Best bits - when we’re good, we’re very very good. The day I met him in New Jersey and we spent the whole day trying to taste something from every Mexican joint we could find was a good one. He also had a methadone addicted dog who always provided goodtimes. The time we drank a bottle of whisky and several hundred beers, went out with our friends, argued about following eachother to the bathroom, went home and made up over a dominos, then spent the entire night throwing up pizza & liquor into my toilet while rubbing eachothers backs.

Worst bits – when we’re bad, we’re very very bad. I threw a knife at him and cut his arm once. I also chipped his front tooth by throwing a mug at his face. Let it be known, he provoked each of these events. My mum hates him because hes made me cry more than any other person, place or time in all of history.

The break-up – which one? It always ends when one of us does something stupid (we have a good habit of kissing eachothers friends to piss eachother off) or when one of us leaves the country. He moved to Canada a week or so ago. I like to think this has nothing to do with the fact that he knew I was coming home for good and I’d be coming for him but realistically, moving halfway across the world is the only way we stay away from eachother and keep out of trouble. I still think we’ll get married when we’re 60.

Aaron – horrible boy who I may or may not have been with to piss off Big Poppa. He was fucking mental. I cant even divide this into sections, it was all just one big worst bit. Actually no, wait….

Best bits – when he told me he only had one testicle.

Worst bits – he actually only had one testicle. We broke up because he was jealous and mental. He had the outline of my ex boyfriends silhouette painted on his bedroom wall. When we broke up, he wouldn’t leave me alone, calling me non stop and showing up at my house and work. One night, about a week after we broke up, he showed up at my house and when I opened the door he was standing there with his shirt pulled up, showing his stomach. When I asked what the fuck he was doing, he replied with “LOOK AT MEEEEE! I HAVENT EATEN SINCE I LOST YOOOOU!”. He was still a tubby bitch, but I brought him in, fed him a sandwich and sent him on his merry way.

The next day, I came home from work and had some food, pottered around downstairs a for an hour or so before going to my room to get changed. When I got into my room, he was sitting on my bed. He had got a key to my house cut when we were together and had used it to let himself in and wait patiently for me on my bed. I obviously went fucking apeshit and threw him out, threatening him with a restraining order. After that he got funny, whispering hilarious threats into my ear when he saw me on nights out.

Amy saw him a couple of weeks ago and said he’s a fat mess. I have also heard some confirmed reports that he tattooed a smiley face on his own bellend. As mental as he is, he’s obviously a fucking hero.

This is getting too long and a bit too soul destroying to finish. I’ve left out all of the boys I was unfortunate enough to encounter during my time at uni. There was one who came to my house drunk out of his mind and took a shit in my bin in the corner of my bedroom. There was one who kept stealing my money to buy sandwich ingredients. Oh and there was the one I was with for almost 5 months, before he confessed that he was already in a 3 year relationship.

So when I start thinking about how maybe I should settle down and find myself a boyfriend who I can start a little love nest with and start wearing pink cashmere sweaters and get soft focus sepia portraits of us done, I just look at my dating history. If that doesn’t convince me that I’m better off hustlin men in bars for drinks and going to their houses to drink all their whisky and steal their monster munch before running back home, nothing will. Besides, if I was tied down I couldn’t pretend to be Beyonce and dance like a warrior princess when ‘Single Ladies’ comes on in tha club.

Another Sunday, another day filled with regret, crushing guilt and calls for help to my mother and best friend. Such is life.

This week started off fine, lots of applying for jobs that I don’t want, grooming men on the internet and consuming my weight in saturated fats, as standard. I planned an old skool all day drinking session and night out with my best friend Amy. Me & Aims (or Titty McEverest, Double E, Lake Areola or whatever big breasted related name I’m calling her this week) met in sixth form when we became united by a burning hatred for most other people in our year and a love for bad nu-metal music. She was a nice, normal girl when I met her, living in Saintfield so she didn’t get out much. I ruined her. I took her out in Belfast, fed her beer until she was falling asleep under tables in the Limelight or climbing into bed with my little brother. My favourite memory of a night out with Amy was when she drank a bottle of wine and a half bottle of white label vodka before leaving the house, threw up on the doormans shoes while waiting in the queue for the Limelight before brushing the vomit splats off her tits and swanning on past him and into the bar. My hero.

Anyway, Thursday we started drinking gin & tonics at about 4pm, by 7pm we were falling over ourselves and declaring how we’d always love eachother and be there to pull eachothers babies out of our cooches and stuff. Beefeater gin is 47% dun know. After terrorising my brother and his 3 friends for half an hour, we danced in my bedroom to hits such as ‘Hotel’ by Cassidy, ‘Never Leave You – Uh Oooh Uh Oooh’ by Lumidee and my personal favourite, ‘Home Alone’ by R Kelly. Amy asked the taxi driver what his favourite brand of coleslaw was which progressed into us screaming abuse about man mayo. Shoulda got him to turn around and take us home there & then really.

We went to Sketchy, which is a club full of school kids but Rigsy always drops Jay Z and Ghostface for me so I’ll always have love. We were behaving as we usually do, dancing inappropriately, trying to do the dutty wine, bunking the queue at the bar by touching men in the gouche and drinking Hennessy, thinking we were ghetto supastars. A lot of our male friends were there who we take out with us to supervise and make sure we don’t get ourselves shot or knocked up or nuthin. We realised we’d had a bit much and Amy had already been punched in the tit by some blokes angsty girlfriend, so we called it a night and came back to my house to spoon eachother to sleep.

Friday morning came around, I struggled to get my mascara glued eyes open and made sure Amy was up for work – anyone who had a burrito from Boojum on Friday would’ve been wholly disappointed with its quality. After about 20 minutes, I discovered a big shiny ring on my finger that I didn’t have before. I figured the magpie in me had spotted it after some poor bint took it off to wash her hands and I pilfered it. Then…then things started flooding back. One of my male friends taking me to the side and telling me how great I am (he was right), how beautiful I am (he was right), how funny I am (he was right) and how I’m gonna grow up into a really great woman (he was so wrong). Then the “we’re such good friends and you deserve better, I think we should get married” came back. Now the problem is, I ask men to marry me on nights out ALL the time. They rarely say yes. The fact that the tables had turned and my lovely little friend - who is pro-bmx and has some sort of hookups that could keep me in free rum for life – had proposed to me obviously made me squeal with excitement, roll around on the floor in a fit of manic laughter and say “yeah bruv we can get married, but only if I can wear a gold lamé leotard at the wedding” (true story) before going to buy a celebratory shot of Jagermeister.

After a conversation with Amy, it was confirmed that I was engaged, to my friend who I had never so much as groped in public let alone been on a date with, he had been totally serious and we had celebrated with a bowl of pasta and hotsauce when we got home. This was a new low. Although I did have a bloody huge diamond on my hand that Lil Kim would’ve been well jelz of.

After an hour or so of mental torture, lying in bed in the foetal position and repetitive whimpering, I decided to man up and go call off my 12 hour engagement, armed with a sheepish look on my face and a caterpillar cake, cause caterpillar cake solves everything innit. I explained as best I could that as much as I really love my little friend, I didn’t wanna marry him cause I didn’t like the idea of him ever seeing my fanny in anything other than a non-comedic scenario. Oh, and that I just didn’t think it was a good idea for him to throw his very good life away to try to save mine. I also asked where he got the dollar to buy me my super bling ring, when he told me it had belonged to his dead mother. Guilt. Burning, gut rot, crying inside hate myself and want to throw myself out his 4^th floor window guilt.

It wasn’t half as bad as it could’ve been though. He realised it was probably a bit extreme, gave me a proper telling off for havin such low standards and chasing men who are no good for me and will treat me bad cause they have daddy issues then gave me a hug and told me it was okay. We spent the rest of the day watching come dine with me and eating caterpillar cake, I analysed the smell of his armpits and stole one of his hats. Everything was right with the world again.

So, my job hunt. What a crock of shit this has been so far. I wasn’t under any impression that it’d be easy and I always said that I’d do literally anything to keep me going until I get something else, but dudes, it is HARD. I still blame the media for being bastard scaremongers and making places stop hiring.


After I finished uni, I went to stay with my grandparents in Spain for a while. I had planned on staying there indefinitely, probably for a few months. However, living with pensioners in 42degree heat and having no regular access to television, phone or internet started to take its toll and I only lasted 3 weeks. In those 3 weeks, I made enough money to keep me in food, rum, ridiculous dresses and shiny new kicks for a few months by hustlin old men in card games and placing seemingly stupid bets that always came off. Despite this, I hate not working – being able to roll around in shallow pools of liquor all day while wearing a bikini made of 50 dollar bills with no responsibility sounds like a dream, but I need to keep myself in the real world. So on my return to Belfast, I set myself up meetings with 7 recruitment agencies.



This was one of the worst weeks of my entire 23 years of sorry existence. Don’t get me wrong, a few of them were fine. By ‘fine’ I mean ‘less brain dead than others’. A couple of them were weak and made me want to take their desk staplers and bash little bits of sharp metal into my own eyes. However, there was one agency that was worse than all. We’ll call them Office Angels, which may or may not be the actual name of the agency (no lawsuit yeah?). Long story short, I was there for almost 3 hours and of those 3 precious hours, I was left alone in a room for 1 hour and 50 minutes. For the other hour, I was filling in forms that my CV already covered, taking typing and maths tests that a blind monkey could do and filling in little boxes in excel with big numbers, which was all very pleasant. Unfortunately, I couldn’t stop thinking about the better things that I could be doing during the other 2 hours when I was left to sit and scratch in a well lit room*. When it all got too much and I went to ask what was going on, I was told that my consultant had gone on lunch and she’d be back in ‘half an hour or so’. Nah bruv, I’ll take my 63 word per minute typing fingers elsewhere and give someone else the commission, cheers. As another negative point, it was the hottest office I had ever had the unpleasant experience of spending time in. Yes, it was a warm day but hello, air con? Or y’know, open a window? Or alternatively, all the consultants could stop harbouring the gateway to burning hell between their legs.


*FYI, just a few of the better things I thought that I could be doing with my time included eating chicken, stalking the moderately attractive man who had come out of mcdonalds earlier, downing whisky chasers with questionable characters in the scummiest bar I could find or getting a colonic. Jus’ sayin.



I also spent a lot of this time reflecting on old jobs that I had. Here is a definitive list of jobs that I’ve worked and their levels of dreadfulness.


Dunnes Stores footwear assistant – my first ever job, where I worked in the footwear department of low-brow department store Dunnes. I started when I was 16 and worked there for about 18 months.
Best bits – napping in the stockroom on a big pile of pillows, when we got a pervert who drilled a hole through the joining walls in the fitting rooms and spied on women through said hole, when tramps came in and took brand new shiny shoes but instead of exchanging cash, they simply exchanged their own piss-filled carpet slippers instead.
Worst bits – my boss, who constantly discussed the importance of having ‘nimble fingers’ while working in the footwear department.
Reason for leaving – the smell just got too much.



Tesco local – deli assistant. I worked in tesco for 2 weeks. Let it be known that I was a strict vegetarian at the time and touching cold meats was my worst nightmare. I did 5 shifts and threw up during each one.
Best bit – eating raw cookie dough from the walk in freezer, old people who insisted on giving me tips for serving them their scotch eggs. I hustled an extra tenner each day, usually.
Worst bit – slicing ham. Shit son.
Reason for leaving – the cookie dough wasn’t enough to compensate for the constant vomiting throughout shifts. And I’m sure health & safety wouldn’t have liked it anyway.



Harry Corry – I worked here during my darkest teenage days, when I spent most of my time crawling between the limelight, katy dalys, auntie annies and various houses in the holylands in a cider induced stupor.
Best bits – hiding behind the curtains for naps, crawling into the display beds for naps, nestling in the pillow boxes for naps…the naps, essentially. Oh and the fact that my mum and her best friend were the managers.
Worst bits – the customers and their lack of understanding in what you need to know when ordering curtains. There is no ‘standard sized window’ and I don’t want to take measurements from some knicker elastic that you’ve held up along your window frame.
Reason for leaving – I got fired for dancing infront of the security cameras and calling company merchandise ‘dogshit’. My mum and her friend left, we got a new manager who was a horrid bitch. One night she left me, my friend and the mentally challenged supervisor alone to process a delivery and close up. Instead, we put J-Lo on the cd player and had a rave. During my disciplinary I was asked why I wasn’t putting out the delivery. I responded with ‘well there was no room, if they would send us stuff that we actually need and not the same old dogshit every week, maybe I wouldn’t wanna dance to J-Lo when I should be working?’
Good days.



Claires Accessories – I actually liked this job for a while. I cant remember why.
Best bits – things being ‘damaged’ and my jewellery collection expanding hugely. Getting to play with piercing guns. The Christmas CDs.
Worst bits – having to pierce babies ears. The customers. When gypsies (sorry, members of the travelling community) came in and asked why their ears had doubled in size and were producing green fluid.
Reason for leaving – needed more cash monizzle and got a better paying job at…



GAP – I loved working in Gap. I was a sales assistant, then moved on to being a visual merchandiser.
Best bits – my managers and all the other staff were all badmen, I loved them. Making mannequins look like ghetto superstars. Doing new delivery nightshifts, getting drunk, wrapping ourselves in cashmere sweaters and napping under the fixtures.
Worst bits – customers who asked ‘was this made in a sweatshop?’. Getting locked in the front window and having a conversation with a drunk tramp through the glass until my manager came to rescue me.
Reason for leaving – I moved to Leeds, but kept working there when I came back on holidays.



Awesome badges – this was a merchandise company that I worked for in Leeds. When I took the job, it was under the impression that I would be designing custom merch for bands and businesses. In reality, I was mostly loading bits of metal into a machine to make little pin badges. It was factory work.
Best bits – nothing.
Worst bits – everything.
Reason for leaving – left to ‘focus on final year’. Read as – I couldn’t fucking take anymore. Mind numbing.



So here I am, with a plethora of experience and a wealth of knowledge, with 10 GCSEs, 4 good A levels and a degree. Yet it appears that I am utterly unemployable. I am now taking bets on how long it’ll be before I start chicken eating demonstrations for money. Odds on 6 hours are currently tight at 2/1.

I aint no writer or budding journo or anything, but I figured its about time I start documenting my everyday difficulties with life in an attempt to start learning from my mistakes (sha right) and to give me something to look back on and laugh at how much of a tool I’ve been. If we didn’t laugh we’d cry, right?

I’m Niki, I’m 23 and I’ve just finished my degree in Contemporary Art at Leeds University. I’ve moved back home to Belfast and into my mommas house, cause I can’t get a fucking job and my mum provides me with shelter, food and the occasional bottle of rum. I look like this -

In the past, I’ve worked in office admin, as a retail monkey in Claires Accessories, as a visual merchandiser and sales assistant at Gap and in a badge factory. Yeah, a factory that made badges. I’m generally not fussy about where I work, but having just graduated with a 2:1 from a good university, applying for call centre work is crushing my delicate little soul. Expect ‘nuff rants about my job hunt and the idiots that I have to deal with on a daily basis because of it (I’m looking at you, recruitment consultant morons).

My parents are lucky enough to have another house in Millisle (a shitty little seaside town about 45 minutes out of Belfast) where they spend 80% of their time. This means I’ve been living in my nice big house in Belfast with my 18 year old brother since I got home. This situation is slowly making my lose my will to live. He treats the place like he owns it, leaves everything at his skinny little ass and for some bizarre reason he seems to have real difficulty with flushing the toilet. He shows me little to no respect, despite the fact that I wash his shit-stained underwear, throw out his empty Winemark £1.70 cider bottles and don’t complain about the crusty Durex that he leaves in his room.

At the end of August, my mum & stepdad are moving into their house in Millisle permanently, my brother and 3 of his friends are renting this house in Belfast. I’m welcome to move in with my parents, but I’ll be fucked if I’m living in Millisle. I’ve always lived in big cities, I couldn’t deal with having to walk for an hour to get to the nearest shop and I can’t very well ruin my life if I’m not able to go out in Belfast whenever I please. Essentially, I need a job in the next couple of weeks, so that I can afford my own place in Belfast by the end of August.

My life fails mostly come as a result of my love for dark coloured spirits (fuck you, Captain Morgan and Jack Daniels) and intense cravings for a cold beer on a hot night. I go out with the best intentions – have a drink, dance like a hiphop supastar, chat with my mates about how much better we are than everyone else and be tucked up in my heart covered duvet my 2am, alone.

Sadly - my dreams of a civilised night are rarely realised. In the past week I had 2 nights out, one ended with vomit in my shoes and the other ended with the line ‘Seeing eachother again probably isn’t a great idea. You said yourself, youre a trainwreck’. Despite the aftermath of my nights out, I’m not doing myself or anyone else any harm (the only things I’ve damaged in the last week were my own shoes and my mothers opinion of me), so I’ll continue to ruin the lives of myself and those around me for my own entertainment. Why not spread the love?