Jobs

Oh, my life. A common accusation spat at prominent atheists is that “There are no atheists in foxholes”. As with the “Atheistic genocidal regimes of the troubled twentieth century” attack, such claims have a sheen of credibility, but no logical mass. The idea, presumably, is to show that desperate and fearful humans will unashamedly resort to supernatural protestation to wish away an imminent, violent death. Apparently, mortal wish-thinking in the uttermost end of need can be seen as theological justification, a claim made rather crass by the millions upon millions of suffering souls who made the final cry, only to be met with divine indifference and a heedless bullet. Note that, as with almost all apologetics, the claim is not logical, evidential or philosophical, but emotional. And, as an appeal to emotion, one can empathise with mindset of the poor creature described in the example. Who would not cry to God? It is with this in mind that I can offer a similar, but less dramatic statement: “There are no atheists in the Job Market”. When word reached me that the job was mine, I threw up my hands and thanked God for my deliverance.

Still, divinity swiftly receded (as it is wont to do), replaced by fuzzy, difficult reality. I had misgivings at the interview. Central London is just, well, fucking mental. One is keenly aware that this is the heart of one of the great capitals of the world, where the scrape of humanity on this planet ossifies in a teeming frenzy, like whirling microbes encased in glass. Regent Street, though broad and long, is ill designed for the weight of biomass that fills it, and even a drizzly, late-spring Monday afternoon brings no respite. Some of the great brands of modern capitalism have their spacious mother-ships here or hereabouts, as can be seen by the giant Apple with a bite taken out that greets me every morning. Next to a Calvin Kline outlet with tennis-court sized windows and absurd prices is a small door leading to a foyer of sparkling chrome, white stone and pine. Surly and improbably pretty hostesses man the desk, all dressed like air stewardesses, all of Mediterranean origin, all quick to glare and bark at any infraction in the use of entry passes. Above are six floors of endless corridors, behind every door a business. My office is at the back, overlooking an ally, perpetually plagued by insanely loud roadworks. In this void, I sit with three salesmen and a bitchy marketing director. The salesmen are insufferably cocky, ribbing each other with every sentence, and, to an increasing extent, me. They refuse to call me ‘Matt’, instead barking ‘Rodda’. They treat every conversation like a sparring match, picking out and amplifying errors, mocking my accent (what fucking accent?), making uncouth implications about my country origins and choice of Hackney as a place to live, and attempting to illicit racist, sexist or homophobic opinions from me. In short, a bunch of fucking tossers. The job itself is of a renewals type, retaining customers that the salesmen have caught, which means spending inordinate amounts of time on the phone to aggressive business types, trying to get them to part with their cash. The system we use is difficult and precocious (as, I have learnt, are nearly all IT systems used by companies). I received one week of training from a man who didn’t care, I know a fraction of what I should. I fucking hate my job. I hate, hate, hate it.