Showing posts with label The Primark Diaries. Show all posts
Showing posts with label The Primark Diaries. Show all posts
Sunday, 14 October 2007
The Primark Diaries
Below are the complete diaries written from my ill fated, and extremely brief, employment at Primark in 2006.
Saturday, 14 October 2006
The Primark Diaries: Day Five
There's a supervior position that has just become vacant at Primark, and it's naturally the talk of the town. Of course the real entertainment is observing whether or not some of the candidates are even going to successfully apply for the position, let alone obtain it. 'What's a covering letter?' Asks one perplexed adolescent, who appears to have had pot of value hair gel throw up all over him. What's a covering letter? How did they get this job in the first place? How do these people even dress themselves or find their way to work in the morning? Observing the undone top shirt button and the white socks and black shoes, the answer is all too apparent. Not very well. Another one queries, 'what do I put under 'hopes and ambitions?' Again George, dressing yourself? Finding your way to work? Finding a new hair product? Purchasing new socks? Is that enough, are we done here? There are only two applicants, and one of you is probably going to fall in to a skip on the way home anyway, which I would imagine might make the application process all but redundant. So don't put yourself out, just follow the trail of bread crumbs you scattered on the pavement to find your way home ok?
aaa
I'm not sure how this particular strain of stupidity began, or who thought it was a productive or useful response to a question, but a large proportion of the Primark clientel have taken to responding to questions such as, 'would you like to keep your hanger?' With, 'can do'. Forgive me, I thought I asked you a simple yes or no question, apparently what I asked for, was for you to inaudibly regurgutiate the simple options I gave you back to me. Can do, is not an answer, it's not a solution, you're an idiot. How have you survived the evolution process? The dinosaurs died out, yet somehow, inexplicably, you're surviving! Thankful no doubt, that rather than go out and hunt for food yourself, Tesco Metro is now responsible for bringing food back to your tribe. Otherwise you really would be staring extinction in the face.
I'm not sure how this particular strain of stupidity began, or who thought it was a productive or useful response to a question, but a large proportion of the Primark clientel have taken to responding to questions such as, 'would you like to keep your hanger?' With, 'can do'. Forgive me, I thought I asked you a simple yes or no question, apparently what I asked for, was for you to inaudibly regurgutiate the simple options I gave you back to me. Can do, is not an answer, it's not a solution, you're an idiot. How have you survived the evolution process? The dinosaurs died out, yet somehow, inexplicably, you're surviving! Thankful no doubt, that rather than go out and hunt for food yourself, Tesco Metro is now responsible for bringing food back to your tribe. Otherwise you really would be staring extinction in the face.
aaz
A large proportion of the Primark garments, I have concluded, must surely be bets by members of the design team. Assessments to discover exactly how stupid and how void of dress sense their customers actually are, and whether they will in fact buy absolutely anything. Today a woman waddles towards me, carrying something that I could only compare to a mutilated zebra. 'I can't believe this is £7!' She bellows enthusiastically. Neither can I love. Perhaps she had just been grossly misinformed about what was going to go on during her Safari holiday, I'm sure becomming one with the animals is allowed but not encouraged by most holiday companies, although looking at her it's probably the best thing that could happen. A life roaming the planes, bellowing sporadically, sounds like an altogether better fit. Sadly whilst her zebra print tarpaulin says 'safari', her tattoo says 'electronically tagged, passport revoked', so perhaps she won't be going anywhere after all.
A large proportion of the Primark garments, I have concluded, must surely be bets by members of the design team. Assessments to discover exactly how stupid and how void of dress sense their customers actually are, and whether they will in fact buy absolutely anything. Today a woman waddles towards me, carrying something that I could only compare to a mutilated zebra. 'I can't believe this is £7!' She bellows enthusiastically. Neither can I love. Perhaps she had just been grossly misinformed about what was going to go on during her Safari holiday, I'm sure becomming one with the animals is allowed but not encouraged by most holiday companies, although looking at her it's probably the best thing that could happen. A life roaming the planes, bellowing sporadically, sounds like an altogether better fit. Sadly whilst her zebra print tarpaulin says 'safari', her tattoo says 'electronically tagged, passport revoked', so perhaps she won't be going anywhere after all.
zzz
It was about two hours in to my shift when George made his attempt to reach out the hand of friendship. 'I got four girls numbers last night!' He proclaimed proudly. 'Let me guess George, two of them were joined together, one was a pirate, and the other a cousin?' I queried, only half in jest. 'Do you want to add me to MSN?' He proceeded, unfazed by my question. George, wow, I mean thanks, but you know, no. Not really. I mean, if it wasn't for the promise of £5.25 an hour, I've got to tell you, even this probably wouldn't be happening. Really, honestly, once we walk out those doors at 6.30, you're dead to me George. You hear that? Dead. But thanks though! George mutters something that I heard as 'you've got great fingers, I've got podgy farmers fingers,' before skulking off in to the stock room. Once again I'm led to wonder if I'm going to be hacked to pieces and stored in a freezer in some remote Norfolk village. A feeling that is proving to be a weekly occurance.
It was about two hours in to my shift when George made his attempt to reach out the hand of friendship. 'I got four girls numbers last night!' He proclaimed proudly. 'Let me guess George, two of them were joined together, one was a pirate, and the other a cousin?' I queried, only half in jest. 'Do you want to add me to MSN?' He proceeded, unfazed by my question. George, wow, I mean thanks, but you know, no. Not really. I mean, if it wasn't for the promise of £5.25 an hour, I've got to tell you, even this probably wouldn't be happening. Really, honestly, once we walk out those doors at 6.30, you're dead to me George. You hear that? Dead. But thanks though! George mutters something that I heard as 'you've got great fingers, I've got podgy farmers fingers,' before skulking off in to the stock room. Once again I'm led to wonder if I'm going to be hacked to pieces and stored in a freezer in some remote Norfolk village. A feeling that is proving to be a weekly occurance.
aaa
Finally the utterly ridiculous clocking machine is broken. How? The rather simple excersize of putting a hand in the machine isn't a test that anyone should be failing. What exactly have people been putting in there? Actually, forget it, I'd rather not know what they interpreted 'hand' as. But if the only alternative is for the mass ranks of complete imbeciles to make their mark with a cack handed cross on a sheet of paper, then what choice remains exactly? So as 6.30 drew close, the working day was proclaimed over and a scene reminiscent of the opening credits to Grange Hill broke out as children kitted out in shirts and ties bundled up the stairs, and I went home to drink myself in to my happy place.
Finally the utterly ridiculous clocking machine is broken. How? The rather simple excersize of putting a hand in the machine isn't a test that anyone should be failing. What exactly have people been putting in there? Actually, forget it, I'd rather not know what they interpreted 'hand' as. But if the only alternative is for the mass ranks of complete imbeciles to make their mark with a cack handed cross on a sheet of paper, then what choice remains exactly? So as 6.30 drew close, the working day was proclaimed over and a scene reminiscent of the opening credits to Grange Hill broke out as children kitted out in shirts and ties bundled up the stairs, and I went home to drink myself in to my happy place.
The Primark Diaries: Day Six
As I sat in my room, in the dark, amongst a pile of unwashed crockery, writing a lengthy 750 word resignation letter that seemed destined to be binned by the Primark hierachy without so much as a second glance, I wondered who was really winning. None the less, today I finally gave in, and walked out. The previous weekend I had already disregarded work, in favour of a communal trip to Nando's which was altogether more enjoyable, and rather like The Office, The Primark Diaries needed to end whilst there were still stories to tell. What follows is an open letter to my supervisor. It contains some strong language.
Primark Stores Ltd
Norwich
Norfolk
NR5
Alex Allen
26 Friends Road
Norwich
Norfolk
NR5 8HN
Tel 07774613735
Email: Alex_Allen63@hotmail.com
Dear Master Robert,
I am writing to resign from my post as 'Primark Checkout Monkey'. During my brief period serving under your iron fist, I found you to be rodent like in appearance, musty in odour, and your complexion greasy to touch. For this I can only form one plausible explanation, that you are regularly locked away from the world in the folding table cupboard during non-opening hours, where you scuttle from corner to corner, gnawing frantically upon morsels of food that have been left by the day's customers. Aside from my feelings of general contempt and loathing for you, I must think also in terms of the preservation of my own personal hygiene. If the Bubonic Plague has taught us anything, it is that rats have little or no place at all in the public retail sector. We are from two very different worlds, one the civilised West, the other ridden with disease. Those worlds must maintain their distance for the greater good.
The following is a compilation of your rules and regulations that I found particularly ridiculous. No humming – It distracts customers. Distracts them from what? Are these people really so stupid as to require perfect silence in order to recall a four digit number to put in to the chip and pin machine? No talking. No white ties. No leaving the store on fifteen minutes breaks. As for your helpful sheet of name badge care – Do's and do not's, I have taken the privilege of conducting some tests on my name badge for your use in compiling future badge care constitutions. I believe the slang term is commonly recognised as, 'going Medieval on its ass.' Please find my research attached.
Your clocking in machine is a horrendous mess, and quite frankly, is the most ridiculous waste of money I have ever seen. Only you will know how you can justify spending that much money on such an utterly unnecessary monstrosity, and then inexplicably announcing that to sign on to the checkouts themselves the employee must sign the till receipt, which will in turn be checked by 'handwriting experts.' Experts? Who are they? How many employees at this establishment are experts at anything? As a store combined, your accolades surely stretch no further than a solitary third place medal in the egg and spoon race, and a level two commendation for good badge care. So please forgive me if I don't share your faith in your two 'experts', who I imagine by sheer coincidence, are also the two only literate employees in the entire company.
There is only so far a store can descend in to complete disrepair and still have realistic ambitions of being 'recovered'. It is a task I might liken to mopping up all the water that drenched the Titanic, with a single roll of kitchen roll. It isn't going to happen. Ever. Upon attending my induction day I was informed that Primark's main competition is Topshop. A valid point. Of course in Topshop customers aren't required to roll around on the floor like agitated livestock wrestling over a sequinned, embroidered carcass, as they in Primark. Nor do they live in fear of a slightly drunk, unshaven man of no fixed address disrobing in store and shouting 'it's contagious!' Nor in fact does their whole store hinge on the functionality of a series of white doorbells summoning some of the counties greatest and most infamous imbeciles, who frankly should all be locked away in padded cells. Nor most crucially, does their entire store feel like a horrible dream where you are forever an extra in an episode of popular children's programme, Grange Hill.
In short this is without question the worst, most ridiculous, most demeaning job I have had the displeasure of having. I wouldn't work another hour at Primark Ltd for £52.50 an hour. The sight of some of the monotonal, enthusiasm drained employees who have had their simple dreams of becoming astronauts or firemen cruelly dashed by a harsh and unforgiving discount clothing store such as your own is a very sad one indeed. As you have previously demonstrated, your incompetence in regard to basic arithmetic has often led to you come to me for aid in balancing the books. In my absence I have taken the liberty of attaching a sheet of the times tables from the one's through to the twelve's for your attention. Treat it well. So to summarise, you – Horrendous mess. Your store – Horrendous mess. Alex – Gone, forever, like the wind.
Warm Regards,
Alex
Primark Stores Ltd
Norwich
Norfolk
NR5
Alex Allen
26 Friends Road
Norwich
Norfolk
NR5 8HN
Tel 07774613735
Email: Alex_Allen63@hotmail.com
Dear Master Robert,
I am writing to resign from my post as 'Primark Checkout Monkey'. During my brief period serving under your iron fist, I found you to be rodent like in appearance, musty in odour, and your complexion greasy to touch. For this I can only form one plausible explanation, that you are regularly locked away from the world in the folding table cupboard during non-opening hours, where you scuttle from corner to corner, gnawing frantically upon morsels of food that have been left by the day's customers. Aside from my feelings of general contempt and loathing for you, I must think also in terms of the preservation of my own personal hygiene. If the Bubonic Plague has taught us anything, it is that rats have little or no place at all in the public retail sector. We are from two very different worlds, one the civilised West, the other ridden with disease. Those worlds must maintain their distance for the greater good.
The following is a compilation of your rules and regulations that I found particularly ridiculous. No humming – It distracts customers. Distracts them from what? Are these people really so stupid as to require perfect silence in order to recall a four digit number to put in to the chip and pin machine? No talking. No white ties. No leaving the store on fifteen minutes breaks. As for your helpful sheet of name badge care – Do's and do not's, I have taken the privilege of conducting some tests on my name badge for your use in compiling future badge care constitutions. I believe the slang term is commonly recognised as, 'going Medieval on its ass.' Please find my research attached.
Your clocking in machine is a horrendous mess, and quite frankly, is the most ridiculous waste of money I have ever seen. Only you will know how you can justify spending that much money on such an utterly unnecessary monstrosity, and then inexplicably announcing that to sign on to the checkouts themselves the employee must sign the till receipt, which will in turn be checked by 'handwriting experts.' Experts? Who are they? How many employees at this establishment are experts at anything? As a store combined, your accolades surely stretch no further than a solitary third place medal in the egg and spoon race, and a level two commendation for good badge care. So please forgive me if I don't share your faith in your two 'experts', who I imagine by sheer coincidence, are also the two only literate employees in the entire company.
There is only so far a store can descend in to complete disrepair and still have realistic ambitions of being 'recovered'. It is a task I might liken to mopping up all the water that drenched the Titanic, with a single roll of kitchen roll. It isn't going to happen. Ever. Upon attending my induction day I was informed that Primark's main competition is Topshop. A valid point. Of course in Topshop customers aren't required to roll around on the floor like agitated livestock wrestling over a sequinned, embroidered carcass, as they in Primark. Nor do they live in fear of a slightly drunk, unshaven man of no fixed address disrobing in store and shouting 'it's contagious!' Nor in fact does their whole store hinge on the functionality of a series of white doorbells summoning some of the counties greatest and most infamous imbeciles, who frankly should all be locked away in padded cells. Nor most crucially, does their entire store feel like a horrible dream where you are forever an extra in an episode of popular children's programme, Grange Hill.
In short this is without question the worst, most ridiculous, most demeaning job I have had the displeasure of having. I wouldn't work another hour at Primark Ltd for £52.50 an hour. The sight of some of the monotonal, enthusiasm drained employees who have had their simple dreams of becoming astronauts or firemen cruelly dashed by a harsh and unforgiving discount clothing store such as your own is a very sad one indeed. As you have previously demonstrated, your incompetence in regard to basic arithmetic has often led to you come to me for aid in balancing the books. In my absence I have taken the liberty of attaching a sheet of the times tables from the one's through to the twelve's for your attention. Treat it well. So to summarise, you – Horrendous mess. Your store – Horrendous mess. Alex – Gone, forever, like the wind.
Warm Regards,
Alex
The Primark Diaries: Day Three
I''ve discovered a new sign at the checkouts today. It reads 'would customers please be aware that in the interests of hygiene, briefs are non refundable'. It made me think. Firstly, if we're talking about making hygiene, quite a boring subject I think we'd all agree, interesting, then maybe we should let people return them. Perhaps more worryingly, what had happened to make this sign that appeared to be little more than common sense necessary? I shuddered to think. Although after some of the people I'd met and gaped in concerned fashion at over the past week and a half, it would I thought, explain a lot.
aaa
In the absence of any authentic Primark carrier bags, we were going with plain white today, a decision which infuriated one woman, who argued that 'she didn't want her clothes to look like some cheap market knock offs or anything'. No sorry, that should have ready 'anyfing' - Apologies. To be honest, I'm not sure whether it was her gold hoop earrings, her Chinese writing tattoo, or the pram she was pushing, but I didn't think we were going to have call Quincy out on his day off on this one. 'Cheap' was a word she was going to have to get used to hearing loud and often, Primark bag or no Primark bag. The following customer screamed at me for not knowing where New Look was, and came in a full fifteen minutes to tell us that she'd found it on her own, and that we were all 'idiots'. That may be true, but my badge is fucking spotless love, is yours? There is a large French market going on outside Primark this weekend, and work is accompanied by more or less continuous French sounding music. It's probably a bad idea. It gives members of the general public a chance to air their political views, which frankly, is less than anyone wants. Xenophobia ranged from the light hearted, 'wouldn't go there mate, hairy legs and all that,' to extremes which it's probably best for everyone concerned I don't regurgitate.
In the absence of any authentic Primark carrier bags, we were going with plain white today, a decision which infuriated one woman, who argued that 'she didn't want her clothes to look like some cheap market knock offs or anything'. No sorry, that should have ready 'anyfing' - Apologies. To be honest, I'm not sure whether it was her gold hoop earrings, her Chinese writing tattoo, or the pram she was pushing, but I didn't think we were going to have call Quincy out on his day off on this one. 'Cheap' was a word she was going to have to get used to hearing loud and often, Primark bag or no Primark bag. The following customer screamed at me for not knowing where New Look was, and came in a full fifteen minutes to tell us that she'd found it on her own, and that we were all 'idiots'. That may be true, but my badge is fucking spotless love, is yours? There is a large French market going on outside Primark this weekend, and work is accompanied by more or less continuous French sounding music. It's probably a bad idea. It gives members of the general public a chance to air their political views, which frankly, is less than anyone wants. Xenophobia ranged from the light hearted, 'wouldn't go there mate, hairy legs and all that,' to extremes which it's probably best for everyone concerned I don't regurgitate.
aaa
I don't know if the over 60's read my Primark blog. They might enjoy it a lot, and I might be about to make a huge mistake in saying this, but frankly it's a market I feel I can survive without pandering too. In Alex Land (patent pending) old people could, and must be banned from all places of retail. Among the better ones today, 'chip and pin? I don't know what that is! I can't remember all these numbers!' Firstly, how has this woman survived the last year and a half? How has she bought food? Does she just barter poetry and items of equivalent value with people? Secondly, it's a four digit number. A monkey can memorise a four digit number. Are you a monkey? This is completely fucking ridiculous. The women proceeded to give up on the card (and leave it in the machine) and pay me with her back up method, a pocket full of 'cash'. This consisted mostly of buttons, house keys, and fluff.
I don't know if the over 60's read my Primark blog. They might enjoy it a lot, and I might be about to make a huge mistake in saying this, but frankly it's a market I feel I can survive without pandering too. In Alex Land (patent pending) old people could, and must be banned from all places of retail. Among the better ones today, 'chip and pin? I don't know what that is! I can't remember all these numbers!' Firstly, how has this woman survived the last year and a half? How has she bought food? Does she just barter poetry and items of equivalent value with people? Secondly, it's a four digit number. A monkey can memorise a four digit number. Are you a monkey? This is completely fucking ridiculous. The women proceeded to give up on the card (and leave it in the machine) and pay me with her back up method, a pocket full of 'cash'. This consisted mostly of buttons, house keys, and fluff.
aaa
Amongst other things of note, I served next to 'Craig' today. He's a scary guy. Some choice comments I thought important, 'Come to me my precious customers, my sweet customers, I am Lord of the Clothes!' I became overcome by a sinking feeling that I was going to be hacked to death and stored in a freezer somewhere. I could picture the headlines now. 'UEA Student outwitted and murdered by oaf'. After telling him he was 'a complete fucking state', Craig spent the remainder of his shift hitting me with clothes hangers. Lessons must be learnt.
Amongst other things of note, I served next to 'Craig' today. He's a scary guy. Some choice comments I thought important, 'Come to me my precious customers, my sweet customers, I am Lord of the Clothes!' I became overcome by a sinking feeling that I was going to be hacked to death and stored in a freezer somewhere. I could picture the headlines now. 'UEA Student outwitted and murdered by oaf'. After telling him he was 'a complete fucking state', Craig spent the remainder of his shift hitting me with clothes hangers. Lessons must be learnt.
The Primark Diaries: Day Four
It's a horrible experience. You awaken, and in those first few seconds you groggily try and establish some basic information. Which day is it? Whose bed am I in? What the hell happened to me last night? My brain concludes it is Friday. Incorrect, brain. Suddenly the realisation hits me that not only is it not Friday, it's actually fucking Saturday. I have work today. In the space of about fifteen seconds everything has turned from gold, to shit. After standing up for a few seconds and realising I was still slightly drunk, I decided to hoover up the Nice and Spicy Nik Naks I had inadvetantly mushed in to my carpet the night before.
aaa
In total, It took me about half an hour to retrieve my iPod Shuffle from the hoover bag. It was an incident which, quite frankly, could have happened to anyone. As Apple say themselves, it is the size of two packets of chewing gum. Still, lessons must be learnt. Eventually I gave up trying to put the hoover back together, and left it in a pathetic heap on the floor, corpse like, with it's inards scattered everywhere and covered in Nik Nak mush.
In total, It took me about half an hour to retrieve my iPod Shuffle from the hoover bag. It was an incident which, quite frankly, could have happened to anyone. As Apple say themselves, it is the size of two packets of chewing gum. Still, lessons must be learnt. Eventually I gave up trying to put the hoover back together, and left it in a pathetic heap on the floor, corpse like, with it's inards scattered everywhere and covered in Nik Nak mush.
aaa
Bay City Roller Junior was proudly showing off his new calculator today. 'This is my brand new calculator, Casio, £1.96 from Tesco', he said in the manner a 47 year old might describe their new Lexus to a neighbour. 'Well, £1.96 of my mum's money anyway,' he continued, 'but that's another story.' I was dangerously close to walking out at this point, more so than I'd ever been in fact, but I still hadn't seen what was inside the 'void room', and that seemed like reason enough to stay for the time being at least.
Bay City Roller Junior was proudly showing off his new calculator today. 'This is my brand new calculator, Casio, £1.96 from Tesco', he said in the manner a 47 year old might describe their new Lexus to a neighbour. 'Well, £1.96 of my mum's money anyway,' he continued, 'but that's another story.' I was dangerously close to walking out at this point, more so than I'd ever been in fact, but I still hadn't seen what was inside the 'void room', and that seemed like reason enough to stay for the time being at least.
aa
Steph resembles a product I might attempt to try and market as 'Primark Barbie'. Pull back her draw string and she will inevitably utter the following phrase, 'I'm not a supervisor, everyone makes that mistake, but I'm just a regular member of staff really, you don't have to treat me any different.' This ludicrous, and poorly disguised desperation to become some kind of figure of Primark authority is completely fucking ridiculous. By simply showing up, and not even reguarly, for any extended amount of time, odds are you will be telling someone else what to do within a month. Steph has been Primarking her little heart out for four years. 'So, Matt, what are you down to do on the rota today?' She continues. Well Steph, I think you'll find I'm down to be treated like shit for seven and a half hours, and to work with imbeciles who should be contained in padded cells and are half my age. Is that on your rota? Because it should be. Oh, and it's Alex. Oh, and I didn't mistake you for a supervisor, I mistook you for a horrendous mess. No, wait, there was no mistake.
Steph resembles a product I might attempt to try and market as 'Primark Barbie'. Pull back her draw string and she will inevitably utter the following phrase, 'I'm not a supervisor, everyone makes that mistake, but I'm just a regular member of staff really, you don't have to treat me any different.' This ludicrous, and poorly disguised desperation to become some kind of figure of Primark authority is completely fucking ridiculous. By simply showing up, and not even reguarly, for any extended amount of time, odds are you will be telling someone else what to do within a month. Steph has been Primarking her little heart out for four years. 'So, Matt, what are you down to do on the rota today?' She continues. Well Steph, I think you'll find I'm down to be treated like shit for seven and a half hours, and to work with imbeciles who should be contained in padded cells and are half my age. Is that on your rota? Because it should be. Oh, and it's Alex. Oh, and I didn't mistake you for a supervisor, I mistook you for a horrendous mess. No, wait, there was no mistake.
aaa
The checkouts operate with a bizzare door bell system. One ring is to summon an employee to go and find a salient barcode for you. Two rings summon Bay City Roller Junior to take care of matters above your limited capabilities. Three rings alert staff that the store is being robbed, or is a hilarious practical joke. Imagine if you will, the manager at the Ready Brekk factory accidentally dropping their wedding ring in to the vat of porridge and saying to an employee 'Oi, Ted jump in there and find that would you?' That's the task facing anyone answering a 'one bell' at Primark. Watching George saunter off, like a salmon struggling upstream against a torrent of women who must have been at least partial inspiriation for J.R Tolkein's 'orks' was a very sorry sight indeed, but a rite of passage for every young Primark boy. Soon he may return to the tribe and be given his adult name, 'acne-a-kaykay'.
The checkouts operate with a bizzare door bell system. One ring is to summon an employee to go and find a salient barcode for you. Two rings summon Bay City Roller Junior to take care of matters above your limited capabilities. Three rings alert staff that the store is being robbed, or is a hilarious practical joke. Imagine if you will, the manager at the Ready Brekk factory accidentally dropping their wedding ring in to the vat of porridge and saying to an employee 'Oi, Ted jump in there and find that would you?' That's the task facing anyone answering a 'one bell' at Primark. Watching George saunter off, like a salmon struggling upstream against a torrent of women who must have been at least partial inspiriation for J.R Tolkein's 'orks' was a very sorry sight indeed, but a rite of passage for every young Primark boy. Soon he may return to the tribe and be given his adult name, 'acne-a-kaykay'.
aaa
And finally, I almost got fired today. Apparently I put my coat away and then clocked in, and was consequently paid for three additional minutes that I had not worked. This is gross misconduct, and in future I must put my coat away first, and then clock in. Completely fucking ridiculous.
And finally, I almost got fired today. Apparently I put my coat away and then clocked in, and was consequently paid for three additional minutes that I had not worked. This is gross misconduct, and in future I must put my coat away first, and then clock in. Completely fucking ridiculous.
The Primark Diaries: Day Two
Staff rooms at work are depressing places. They're a place that nobody really wants to be, where solitary members of the work force drown their sorrows with excessive amounts of caffeine, wondering how they came to be 42 years old without ever becomming an astronaut or a fireman as they'd always assumed they would. Mysery at Primark is more or less compulsory. Perhaps that's what the 'void' room is for, removing excess cheeriness from those who didn't know any better. Maybe they just play The Feeling over and over again, or something equally horrdenous like removing finger nails. Celebrity magazines adorn the tables, a gateway to a better world, to a time when the Bay City Rollers ARE in fashion, and all name badges are given the care and attention they deserve.
aaa
Today I am approached by another employee with a haircut of times gone by, who curiously asks, 'why are you like, always so cheery like? How come you don't like, make any mistakes?' I'm a patient enough man, but after hearing no fewer than seven 'likes' in four sentences, I decided enough was enough. Sadly if I hadn't made any mistakes up until that point, then I'd just given away my mistake virginity by striking up a conversation here.
Today I am approached by another employee with a haircut of times gone by, who curiously asks, 'why are you like, always so cheery like? How come you don't like, make any mistakes?' I'm a patient enough man, but after hearing no fewer than seven 'likes' in four sentences, I decided enough was enough. Sadly if I hadn't made any mistakes up until that point, then I'd just given away my mistake virginity by striking up a conversation here.
aaa
'I used to be cheery, but then I was like, I'm not cheery like, so why should I like, pretend to be you know?' Was the general jist of a conversation which was dragged out torturously over no less than 17 minutes. A quick glance at the montone mess that seemed to have been worn down by years of discount clothing made those cheery days look very far away indeed. It also transpired that this unfortunate girl was rain monitor. The rain monitor has one specific job. Whenever the heavens open, they make it their responsibility to tell as many people as possible, in as quick a time as possible, that it is in fact raining. Watch out for it, there's on in every work place, every school, every pub. I'm not sure how they're appointed, or if you need any form of qualification, but it's a widespread phenomenon. 'Wow, it's raining really hard outside!' Was the conclusion that only the partially sighted could have found even vaguely informative.
xxx
Perhaps the highlight of the day was someone courageously calling Bay City Roller Jr a gobshite, to which he angrily retorted 'I am not a gobshite George! And anymore out of you and you'll be up in Mr Williams' office again with another disciplinary! How does that sound?' Ahhh yes, 'Mr Williams'. Surely having respect in Primark is a contradiction in terms, but these offical job titles seemed to be doing their best to strive for it. I've never really been sure why the store manager is 'Mr' Williams. Perhaps he has an undesirable first name he'd like to keep under wraps, or perhaps, he's just a twat.
Perhaps the highlight of the day was someone courageously calling Bay City Roller Jr a gobshite, to which he angrily retorted 'I am not a gobshite George! And anymore out of you and you'll be up in Mr Williams' office again with another disciplinary! How does that sound?' Ahhh yes, 'Mr Williams'. Surely having respect in Primark is a contradiction in terms, but these offical job titles seemed to be doing their best to strive for it. I've never really been sure why the store manager is 'Mr' Williams. Perhaps he has an undesirable first name he'd like to keep under wraps, or perhaps, he's just a twat.
Sunday, 1 October 2006
The Primark Diaries: Day One
As I sat at my table in the Primark induction room, reading my 'name badge care - do's and don't's' sheet, I began to wonder what exactly I had let myself in for. 'Do not keep badge in pocket to avoid coins scratching the surface of your badge' was just one word to the wise, or alternatively 'do not clean badge with alcohol'. I began to wonder how many name badges had been needlessly destroyed through poor badge care, before somone eventually put their hand in the air and resolutely declared 'enough is enough! Something must be done! I dream of a land where badges are clean, bright and well maintained! I shall compile a list, a constitution of good badge care!' The first thing I noticed was that the whole place was run by children, it was almost like being the only adult in Bugsy Malone. My supervisor was 16. He had one of those 70's haircuts that his mum had tried to do herself with a pair of scissors in one hand a picture of the Bay City Rollers in the other. I'm not exactly sure how cool the Bay City Rollers were at their peak, my guess is not very, and certainly not enough to warrant the nostalgic reincarnation I saw before me. Is it unfair to judge someone solely on the stupidity of their haircut? Well, perhaps, but even Pat Sharpe learnt eventually, that life is hard.
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The pride and joy of the whole store is the clocking in machine. It inexplicably had a hand recognition device for clocking in, and measured your hand to make sure it was in fact you that was doing the clocking. It seemed like the biggest waste of money I'd ever seen, why not just have a pad and some fucking pens? Someone had obviously been drunk with QVC on again, and we've all been there, the bread making machine in my kitchen is testament to that. It also all seemed to be a discriminatory. What about the disabled? Or pirates? It didn't look very hook friendly to me, and when you live and employ people in Norwich, these sort of eventualities need to be given the appropriate consideration. Other highlights of the tour were a dark, locked room with the words 'void, no entry'. We were told this room 'didn't go anywhere'. Was this some kind of punishment room? Was this the way to Narnia? Before I'm fired for buzz cutting Bay City Roller Jr I must see the contents of that room. It's mandatory, I freely admit it, I'm immature. The words 'no entry' will forever be a challenge to me. I was Charlie, and this was my Chocolate Factory. The checkouts themselves looked like World War II nostalgia pieces. Inexplicably to 'sign on' to these, you simply had to write your name on the receipt. Theft from them appeared to be almost encouraged. I was told that there were 'hand writing experts' who would study the receipts to see who had clocked on to which till. This had to be a fucking joke. Even Bay City Roller Jr couldn't have gone for that.
aaa
After pondering dotting with my i's with stars rather than dots to deceive the experts and make my fortune, I went to lunch. And by lunch, what I obviously mean to say, is pub. I spent the following four hours serving some of Norwich's most horrendously unattractive inhabitants. Breaking news, all the rumours about Norfolk are true. Around 30% couldn't form a coherent sentence, a futher 25% responded to the question 'would you like to keep your hanger?' With a look of confusion and disconcertion resembling that of a man choosing whether or not to take a loved one off life support. If Primark chose to release a line of clothing for the horrifically disfigured it would sell well. Very well. The Police don't need to tag prisoners who have been let out early, it's a waste of plastic, they're all here. The day ended with 'recovery', which basically involved picking all the clothes off the floor, and putting them back on the shelves. To be honest, there's really only so far something can go and still be recovered. This was a job that you might compare to trying to get all the water that had submerged the Titanic off using kitchen roll. With this is mind I steathily crept away to play around with the hand measuring machine.
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