Categorically, I can state that I’ve never had to wade ankle-deep in chicken guts. I’ve never sorted small bits of things repeatedly as they slide slowly past me on a conveyor belt and I’ve never photocopied 1000 pages of rubbish to distribute to people who don’t care. I’ve never had a “normal” job; one of those edifying occupations that builds character and performs an essential (if unacknowledged) service to humanity. I’m coming to realise that, perhaps, I’m less the man for it.This came up after that sports panel-show run-through the other day. I sat around a table with lovely, talented people. It was top company. We discussed everything from the state of comedy today (you have to start there – it’s the law) to the origin of various words. It was fun and animated and inclusive until we got to the thorny topic of jobs. I shut down. I clammed up. It was a blessed relief to the others as I’m sure that, up until that point, I was enjoying my own contributions way too much. But here, I had nothing to offer; since I started acting in my early 20s, I’ve only done this or related jobs. That being said, I’ve had my share of part-time or interim work; some of that was more hellish than chicken guts…
I’ve busked in the freezing cold til my fingers nearly fell off and my right thigh was bruised from banging a tambourine off it. I’ve been the back end of a panto-type dog; we’d be picked up at 5am, drive to a school and perform Irish legends to kids so small they were terrified by the sword-fighting (I did that, too) and would leave puddles of wee all over the hall. I sold horrible fluffy cashmere sweaters to American tourists in the heat of one college summer. I once manned a stall selling tiny glass ornaments: not one made it into the tissue and carrier bag unbroken once I got my stubby fingers on it. I’d hear the inevitable “chick” as I touched it, and then wrestle with my conscience – confess to the customer, and lose my commission for the day, or not tell them, reasoning that the pieces were so ugly I was actually doing them a favour. I always ‘fessed up. I’m not very bright.
But none of these quite cut the mustard when competing with stories of slaughter-house sluicing or hackney-cab driving. That’s not to say I haven’t made my own stab at bravery.
I’ve done the required stint as a waitress – it’s part of your acting training, really – and loved it. That can’t come under the umbrella of shite jobs. But I did once go for a tele-sales training day; and that was the worst. I didn’t last til the 11 o’clock break. I handed in my security badge to the jolly lady who genuinely told us that we didn’t “have to be mad to work here, but it helps” and I know she thought I simply wasn’t rock ‘n’ roll enough to work her floor. She was right. I’m not bright, but I’m not mad, no matter how much it helps.
