I’d never given much thought to how I would work. But working for less than National Minimum Wage seems like a shitty way to go.
First things first I’m the realest a princess, I was born far too sassy for my own good in a hospital that is now a £2 cocktail bar for students (£2.10 for a double house vodka between 5pm-8pm, correct me If I’m wrong as I haven’t graced them with my presence in a while). However, as I do tend to haunt “cocktail” bars that serve house vodka, which is more than likely bottled in Halewood, it is also pretty clear that I do have self-awareness: I may be a princess, but I am a poverty princess.
It’s kind of like when Cheryl Cole was ‘The National Treasure’, but a lot less fab and I use a lot less L’Oreal Elnett and a lot more Insette hairspray (also produced in Halewood).
You can add to that my tendency to pop herbal anxiety tablets and smother myself in Elle Macpherson ‘Meditate & Relax Pulse Point Oil’ (which I robbed from my mother’s gift set about a decade ago) to try and counteract my pre-morbid anxiety that has greatly affected my attempt at being an actual adult; particularly in the sense of the working world.
I was politely asked to leave Sixth Form at the tender age of 17 due to the fact that my attendance was less than 25%. It was NOT an expulsion – I was too damn classy for that. This was the year my anxiety stepped up a dose, even though I’d dyed my hair dark and quiffed it and was looking hot as shit. Actually I had yet to discover eye brow tint so I’ll crawl out my own ass right now.
As an undriven student, it maybe wasn’t my wisest choice to take four of the most essay driven subjects: Economics, English, History and Spanish, (also General Studies, but can we not). I had zero interest in any of these subjects, except that one article in the English Anthology; where a lovely lady called Kaz100 went on a traumatic holiday to Vietnam where she had her ass grabbed in a museum leading to, in her own words, ‘soyeh I had a lil sob’ #scouser.
Surprise, surprise, I delivered awful work; actually spelling my very own name wrong on an analysis of an advert in Spanish. Of course, I’d chosen Britney’s latest fragrance, ‘Radiance’ aka ‘My Hairs finally grown back and I need dollar for new extensions’. Love you Brit. What can I say I’m an all or nothing type of gal.
Rather than force myself into school just to feel insecure next to all the people who actually gave a shit about the subjects, I spent a lot of time in bed watching re-runs of the O.C. (RIP Marissa, gone but not forgotten).
Around this time I’d joined an Acting Youth Theatre which is where I got my first taste of ‘FAME’. You may recognise me as one of the faces of Quaker Oats porridge? If you don’t, then maybe you remember my co star, Sean Fucking Bean. Spoiler Alert: He stayed alive for the whole 40 second advert. To cut a long, yet fucking fabulous, story short, Sean crept out of the shadows and startled me by looking a tad older, and shall we say more ‘fuller figured’, than I had expected. Unscripted, the words “Is that actually Sean Bean?” slipped out of my mouth and made it into the final edit. It received quite the cult fan base* and I am still recognised to this day.
*By cult fan base, I mean one comment on YouTube that states “Love that Scouser that says It’s actually Sean Bean”. Misquoted, but I’ll take what I can get.
Earlier that day, my inner
goddess diva whispered into my microphone, “If you’re going to mic me, use me”. Sorry, not sorry. I guess I kind of asked for it.
Fresh from my prime time advert fame, I was ready to move on. Sixth form was clearly not my cup of tea so it was time to spill. Goodbye Grammar School, Hello Community College. A lot of tea was sipped.
With two unconditional offers raising me to my Beyoncé best (I was Feeling Myself, and some), I wasn’t particularly arsed that my time at Sixth Form had come to an end – though I did demand I was allowed a proper eviction at lunch time. This bitch weren’t slipping out of no diary room door.
24 hours later, I was enrolled in a hairdressing college and within 48 I had entered the working world at a fabulous salon in Woolton Village #classy.
I will never understand the logic behind my brief hairdressing career. To hazard a guess, I really enjoyed getting my hair done and probably just wanted discount. I lasted a whole year in a fast paced, demanding yet extremely entertaining working environment, but even a poverty princess like me can-not survive long-term on an apprentice wage, and with my lack of confidence in being able to perfect a curly blow and highlights, I certainly wasn’t getting promoted anytime soon.
My notice was handed in on the Friday and it was time for a change of scenery; the local airport. Of course, my apprentice wage hadn’t seen me raise enough for airfare out of Liverpool (Spoiler Alert: yet…) so it was merely to work at a certain retail store; known for it’s overpriced bifters, special offers on Buxton water and the Health Lottery.
Big mistake. I was doomed from the start – the air conditioning did not work and I had to haul huge ass trolleys of drinks around with my matchstick arms. However, it was more money and closer to my home so I was determined to see it out till the next best thing came along.
In what was to be my last week, several people had handed in their notice and I knew I had to haul ass out with them before I got asked to cover their shifts. It would have proved difficult to do so since I wasn’t allowed to work in Arrivals as my CRB check “hadn’t arrived yet”. Listen, I’m going to be honest with you all; it was £25 pound and you had to start shifts at 4 in the morning and I just was not about this life at 18 years of age, it would have totally fucked up my sun bed routine.
The ‘next best thing’ actually crashed and burned during my four months at this unamed overpriced retail store. Goodbye expensive ciggies, Hello Happy Meals.