The (unemployed) Graduate

Mrs Robinson, are you trying to motivate me?

Being unemployed is a bad thing, like being pooed on twice in a day by a bird, which is something that has happened to me. Being an unemployed graduate is, however, not quite as bad. It is one bird poo bad. The term ‘unemployed’ has certain connotations, when opening a new bank account recently I had to state my employment status. ‘Actively seeking’ wasn’t an option. Neither were ‘procrastinating due to summer social arrangements’, ‘hoping the perfect job offer will arrive in the post’, or ‘hoping to be paid money to write a blog, the rate; £1 per apostrophe’. I resigned to utter ‘unemployed’, knowing that the one word which had immediately appeared in the bank clerks head was ‘bum’. Once I would hesitate to say ‘student’ because of the predictably tiresome questions that would inevitably follow:

“What do/did you study?” (This question is either never followed up due to its customariness, or it is followed up with “ooooh“, implying ‘well aren’t you clever’; making you feel like a patronising tit just for answering a question honestly to the less cleverer than you hairdresser person.)

“Where do/did you go to uni?” (This is always followed up by either: The listing of friends in attendance at the same university, usually with a 10% success rate of mutual friendhip, or a dull, and more often than not incorrect fact about the city in question {Nottingham does not have 1:7 male to female ratio, don’t be absurd.})

“Oh yeah?! Get smashed every night I bet?!” (This is a myth perpetuated by the fear of social stigma which would result from answering more honestly; “Not really, quite often we played cricket with cereal boxes on the landing, and once we were so bored we had a whip-round and paid one housemate to have his hand defecated upon by another.”

Now whilst these questions still rear their familiar heads with new acquaintances, they are at least less frequent than when I was a higher education lay about. Now I have to contend with the onset of bumness, and the guilt of knowing that I am on the verge of living up to the unglamorous reality of many a graduate. I have no swimming pool to fall into like Dustin Hoffman, no middle aged temptress to make my current predicament interesting, just enough time to watch said film thrice daily. I haven’t actually done this, but it is a more interesting prospect than the arduous BBC work experience applications which I am currently neglecting.

The problem is that university, at least for arts students, makes you an unproductive, over-expectant dreamer. The cliche that most students are lazy countdown watchers isn’t far wrong, it is certainly true of this one. What is equally true and often overlooked however, is that these habits don’t leave as soon as you fling your graduation hat in the air. They linger on. Within two months of looking for a job you realise that you don’t know what you want to do, other than be paid for what you are currently doing. Which is…

Xbox 360: This mind numbing piece of equipment is the equivalent of a cannabis habit. Many people who dedicate hours of energy to this thumb exerciser also imbibe the experience with weed. It is frivolous. My Xbox numbs my mind well enough, lowers my ambition, and is accountable for an impressive imprint in my couch. In the innumerable hours I’ve spent killing other morons on the internet I could have read the entirity of my unread book collection (approximately 75% unread), written twice as many blog posts, or applied for twice as many jobs.

Twitter: I love twitter, but it is a time consuming and ultimately pathetic pursuit sometimes. Yesterday I conversed with my sister on it whilst she was in the room next to me and safely within talking distance. I am constantly flitting to my twitter tab in the hope of exciting correspondence or multiple retweets, only to be informed by Stephen Fry that it is in fact morning, or Ben Goldacre repeatedly informing me that Gillian McKeith is a fraud to the point of spam tweeting. I was always more concerned that she was just a poo-hoarder with a public platform and a book deal.

This blog: I’ve just spent 5 hours (including intercessory Xbox sessions and twitter distractions) writing this blog post about the dangerous possibility of becoming a bum with a degree. Of this utter blog~generation~ irony, I am truly ashamed. Whilst I am applying for jobs and pursuing work experience, (I have only included this information explicitly in case any prospective employers read this) I am also justifying unproductive pursuits to myself in favour of the monotonous routines which will ultimately secure meaningful employment. One of these is Edinburgh Fringe.

I’m off to the world famous arts festival next week. I’ve told myself I’ll make loads of contacts, and get some inspiration or perhaps even advice on how to make a career of writing. I imagine however that advice on such a vague ambition will be sparse, and any hope of inspiration will be dashed by the realisation that an abundance of talent is riding the wings of motivation and making waves in the Scottish capital; resulting in increasingly demotivational feelings of inferiority upon my return. As for ‘making contacts’, this is a phrase so cringe inducing I prefer to think of any Nathan Barley type character who spouts it as literally making contacts; by prowling through a crowd, furtively and sinisterly brushing past people like a pervert. And no matter how much unwarranted self pity I feel, (it’s actually virtually non-existent, I’ve embellished it for the sake of this blog post) I won’t be doing that.