Poverty Princess VS The Real F*cking World

Chapter 2

Surprise Bitch! I bet you thought you’d seen the last of Queen Bee.

So here we are, I’ve sold my dignity to the McDevil along with my personal appearance, what was the point in washing my beautiful platinum locks to shove it under a McCap. Even if ‘Estée Lauder Double Wear’ was around in those days; it would not have survived those shifts.

Great progress has been made in regards to my slightly peculiar phobia of milk during my time at the salon, due to being required to make teas and coffees. You don’t know real fear until you run out of ‘Coffee-mate’ and those little sachet/pot type things we bought in bulk. When this great trauma would intrude upon my life I would be forced to dash to Waterfields to buy an actual carton that I would have to open all by myself. However as Leona Lewis once belted out, ‘It all gets better in time’. I was now able to handle milk like a pro, until I faced the McDonalds milkshake machine.

Rock bottom is a debatable situation but I’m pretty sure it doesn’t get much worse than lying on the staff toilets floor, violently vomiting having to hold back your own quiff.

It can be argued that the way I hauled ass out of both these employments was not the most professional, I will hold my cocoa butter mositurised hands up to that. As I was attending college three days a week, committing to an intense sun bed routine and a great love affair with the Baa Bar on Hardman Street (RIP, GBNF);  this meant I had limited availability. Add two jobs to that hectic, basic bitch lifestyle I had to be as flexible as I could, therefore I could not throw too much shade when I was scheduled into work every weekend; both Saturday and Sunday. 8:00 am – 3.30 pm in that unnamed airport store,  then 4pm-12am in Happy Meal Hell.

College closed for summer the same day as I attended an interview for the Malmaison, desperate to escape my current dire situation of sweat, tears and more sweat. I dashed across town the moment I finished my last assignment, careful not to perspire too much and aggravate my oily as sin T-Zone. Luckily I arrived on time, my interviewer did not. Now the perspiring really begun.

My hair was booked in for an hour after the interview, a half an hour bus away in that wonderful salon that I had not so long departed from. That evening I was making my Grammar School comeback at Prom, “Surprise Bitch, I bet you thought you saw the last of me! But here I am in a beautiful, powder blue, ASOS suit that I may have not know was linen till it arrived – but hey i’m making it work.”. It was also reduced by a £100 a week after prom.

Clearly flustered by the late arrival of my interviewer, living in fear I wouldn’t be able to squeeze in an eyebrow tint, the interview went to shit. I slated my two current employers and managed to pour a whole glass of water down my front. Believe it or not, that was the first time I ever left an interview thinking “Hmm, maybe I didn’t get that one.”.

Accepting my fate for the summer, I politely messaged my McBoss with my availability and requested that I no longer worked the Saturday and Sunday as I had full availability, sun bed routine withstanding, Monday to Friday, any time.

Strutting into work for my next shift and checking my rota, you can only imagine the horror on my face when I discovered I had been put in on both days with the added bonus they had now been modified so that they clashed with both my shifts in unnamed airport store.

Shady f*cking McBitch. Such shade has not been thrown since the days of Heidi and Spencer. YOU KNOW WHAT THEY DID. So I forgave and forgot McDonalds, wrote my notice on a napkin and two weeks later I was Audi.

Not before my boss confronted me to tell me I was throwing my dummies out the pram and was never gonna survive in the working world. Bitch please I wouldn’t throw any of my possessions on that grimy floor, that mop bucket achieved nothing. I even sanitised my bloody bracelet from Kavos, (don’t judge),  after it lay on a tile for less than .5 of a second.

Personal hygiene did not exist in this establishment; I have yet to comprehend how my supervisor didn’t understand why I refused to do a waste count without being provided with gloves.

My early departure from unnamed airport store was not much quieter due to me confiding in a supervisor who I trusted, (backstabbing bitch), that I was handing in my notice the next day and had never actually applied for my CRB. Now she was a really entertaining lady but the only skills she had at work was managing to fit her head inside the boss’ ass. Nobody warned me of this.

The boss bursts in the shop the next day screaming about how selfish I was, we had no customers in, probably because I used to send them to the Spar for ciggies where they were much cheaper, but that is besides the point. I still had no time for her shit. I fled my till and followed the bitch into the office to inform her of her absolute lack of professionalism. I may have left my till unattended and two wrongs don’t make a right but at this point my ability to give a fuck must have been in lost luggage.

She burst into tears and tried to guilt trip me by saying she had let people go who really needed the job so I had to give her a reality check on how many resignation letters she currently had on her desk. She had also been absent for 75% of my employment so how did she have any idea if I was more suitable for the job than other employees? I wasn’t.I did shit all other read the Hunger Games Trilogy and Fifty Shades of Grey.

Magazines such as ‘Take a Break’, ‘Chat’ and ‘Full House’ really gave me a confidence boost on days where I needed reminding it could be a lot worse. My Cruel husband hadn’t came back as Splashy the goldfish nor had my ninja kitten left me for dead’.

Genuine articles, Google them.

The day after departing I began working on a mobile phone charging stand at festivals, mainly Creamfields. To sum this up as quickly as possible; I once had a customer raging and accusing me of personally losing his phone. He was clearly ‘intoxicated’. There was sweat pouring out of places I did not know was possible. Nostrils. I calmly invited him into the back and offered to assist him in locating his phone. Whilst he was calling his number using the phone he was holding I noticed something peculiar: a raffle ticket stuck onto the back of the phone. We stuck raffle tickets on the phones. “Surely not?” I thought.

The gentleman shrieked that it was going straight through to voicemail. This was when I noticed he was calling a number saved as ‘Me’ in his phonebook and politely asked him to come back when I was less busy. Or maybe just when the 50 grams of Ketamine had left his system.

Actually lets get real, it was Creamfields, definitely MCAT.

For the record I have now worked at Creamfields for four years on the run and my New Years Resolution is to finally be financially stable enough by August to politely reject it, although the money is amazing and the it’s the best people watching you will ever do for free.

By this point I was beginning to question if the working world and me were really meant to be, so I decided to focus on my drama studies and returned sporadically to the salon which I actually really enjoyed despite the apprentice wage situation. I ‘completed’ a HNC course once college had finished, during this time I realised that I would be retiring from acting. Things had dried up and I had just never reached such peaks as I did alongside my good friend Bean.

I use the word completed very loosely as at this point in life my anxiety was sky high and I was convinced that I was bi-polar. My attendance  and confidence reached their lowest low. One of the only scenes I was in for my Final Major Performance I was lip syncing in. LEAVE BRITNEY ALONE. It is not as easy as it looks.

With the instability of that industry, my personal issues and my lack of versatility, because let’s be honest who is going to pay to see a play in which I star as the straight male lead, I decided it was time I stopped trying to chase a career. I was ready to return to the working world and try find a job that did not make me want to die.

Countless job rejections later, including a certain cinema chain I was perfect for leading to a four month boycott, I was exhausted. Spilling out clueless quotes in job interviews, due to my nerves, did not seem to be getting my anywhere. Especially once you yell out ‘HAUL ASS’ in an interview to be an admin assistant.

Everyone was dressed in black suits, I’d personally opted for a red, ‘Reiss’ cardigan I had fought to the death for on eBay, for £9 may I add, and navy pants. Everyone had business degrees to talk about in their introductions, everyone except me who had realised straight away that I was unbelievably out of my depth. Thinking well at least if I’m funny they’ll remember and possibly pity me. I introduced myself as a lover of Lambrini, (Cherry particularly – it’s like a free lip tint!) and Batiste dry shampoo.

You can imagine that I wasn’t all that surprised when they sent me the standard polite rejection e-mail; especially since when they had asked what type of wage I was expecting and I had replied that anything would be better than my current £3.13 an hour at the salon. I would take what I could get. As long as I could afford a cheeky bottle of Lambrini at the weekend.

Having exhausted all local jobs I decided why not give the overseas section a browse.

First I was tempted by teaching English in China, but the application form was daunting, plus I’ve heard horror stories about squatting in the public toilets there. A similar programme in schools in Spain seemed much more appealing.

I had my Skype interview approximately 17 days before the term started yet a week later I’d heard nothing back. Not so surprisingly I decided to go drown my sorrows with a bottle of Glens handbag vodka at a showing of American Psycho in Camp and Furnace.

I woke up the next day with a mysterious missing sock, an awful hangover and a phone-call from the lady who had interviewed me requesting that I hurry up with my references. I told her that was fine but it would be great to know if I had actually been accepted onto the programme; seeing as I would be leaving the country in 10 days. Always check your spam folder folks.

Ten days later I was Audi on an EasyJet,  day-dreaming of dancing daily to Beyoncé on the beach. Spoiler alert; there was no beach.


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