Week 2 Part One

This week has been an interesting one: the slow transition from boy to man... well, at least in terms of this one gay's journey.

On Monday, I thought that I would never find respectable work again: thrown once more to the top of the slag heap of part time administration for out of work actors and aspiring novelists the world over. Worse still, as an actor (and aspiring novelist), if you're not good for administration as a reliable source of income... what the fuck ARE you good for? That "Golf Sale" placard loomed ever closer.
If I had to endure the condescending eye of yet another temping agency dolly bird; giving me the once over and asking: "So.... Why the move from London?" then I would scream. They always ask that question as though my years of professional experience in the all conquering capital was irrelevant now that I was on their turf: literally begging with my bowl out. Oh, do me a favour luv. If you hadn't got knocked up in 1997, you'd have been the first in line for a place at drama school in London as well!

Finally, I had a breakthrough. A very pleasant female employment agent, one of the few who I had not contacted personally- bizarrely, called offering me part time admin work for £7.50 an hour. So desperate was I that I practically screamed "I'LL TAKE IT" the second I answered the phone. 
I was thanking her for her consideration in the same way that someone might if they'd been donated a kidney: after years of painful servitude on "the list".
"Okay then, that all sounds fine. And how much were you getting per hour in London then, Ed?"
"Er.... My last temping job was £12".
Long pause.
"Well, things are a bit different here I'm afraid"
I could sense her discomfort, even over the phone. Her exasperated sigh told me more than words ever could.
"There is also another problem, you don't drive and this job is near Littlehampton".
I am aware of the skills that I don't possess.
"Oh, I've seen a bus to Littlehampton. I'm not adverse to getting a bus. We did have them in London. I'm sure it will be fine".
Turns out it was near Littlehampton. Well, if you call a 48 minute walk from the closest bus stop in the blistering wind and merciless sleet: near.
Cut the bus out altogether and it would have been an easy one hour and thirteen minutes schlep door to door. And trust all the soles of my shoes to give up the ghost in the month when I didn't have a disposable income.
Still, I was persistent, I didn't want to appear ungrateful. They're hardly banging the doors down with job offers at the moment
"I tell you what, perhaps I'll brave it for the first week, and who knows? Hopefully my natural charm will bag me a lift from a nice, generous colleague who lives in the city centre"
It was a risk.
I mused a second as I remembered the journey I had already made along the virtual route via Google maps.
"Because that two mile cross country road that I'll have to traverse daily does look a bit treacherous. Particularly since its evidently a hotbed for black ice and has a distinct lack of council funded lighting"
My agent was on the case.
"Well.... perhaps you could dummy run the walk tomorrow, see what its like and then give me an answer in the afternoon".
A genius idea. I was actually considering it.... for £7.50 an hour. £868 a month..... £10,416 per annum.
I told her I'd sleep on it.

This morning, one look at the driving rain and my good friend: reality kicked in.
"Morning, could you please tell the agent that I won't be doing the walk and I won't be taking the job"

This evening, however, was my debut voyage into the world of community radio in the Shire, and one that I was looking forward to.
I was instructed to meet the charming and motherly representative at the door - a lady who had obviously donated a great portion of free time to this cause. This was highly admirable and something you see often in hospital radio. Admiration aside though: this is 2012 and I was about to become a professional nightmare.
Her tour didn't take long. Everyone was extremely pleasant and welcoming and what the studio lacked in size, it made up for in charm. The music library room bore a slight resemblance to Fritzls basement... if Fritzl liked storing his vinyl on stackable wooden shelving. The presenting procedure was a little old school. I spent most of the evening sizing up a decent bit of shelf space for my two solid glass presenting awards.
My desire to inject a little much needed change into the place was immediately palpable: I was half barging my way under my tour guides armpit to march into her office with a measuring tape, a John Lewis furniture catalogue and a desk sized picture of my nearest and dearest to replace the signed photo of "Diddy" David Hamilton. I jest.
Fifteen minutes in and I found myself having to pull rank.
"So, would you be comfortable presenting tonight? You don't have to say much if you don't want to"
She was sweetly challenging me to sink or swim - hoping that I wouldn't cower in front of her headset microphone combo. I could hear a gauntlet crashing somewhere in the distance so I raised one eyebrow and nodded towards her Broadcasting Association certificate.
"Erm, I did tell you that I'm the incumbent Best Male Award Winner 2012....... didn't I?"
Her face dropped as she practically threw herself at me and shouted: "You're not! OI, PATRICK?!? WE'RE IN THE PRESENCE OF ROYALTY HERE!" without a shred of irony.
I had no need to be cynical. She was totally sound and I had just found myself a new best friend. We're a strange breed us radio types.

And god bless my handsome and gifted seventeen year old co presenter. Not just for putting up with me beginning every sentence with: "And, as an award winner....."
After he handed me a script for the evening's presenting duties (a script!!!) and tried to ignore the bamboozlement on my face (one of the closing lines actually read: So its goodnight from me INSERT NAME HERE and its goodnight from INSERT NAME HERE), he informed me that the radio for him was a sort of voluntary community service after being somewhat of a teenage tearaway in his formative years. I couldn't understand this since he was so polite and helpful. He was also studying an array of A Levels that put my advanced GNVQ to shame. I detected a hint of self doubt.
He told me he was there primarily because he loves music. I couldn't help feeling that his luck was down since we'd played nothing post 1977. Only a few Irish ditties, the song from the Clover advert and a canon that even Pachalbel himself might wrinkle his nose up at when asked to choose the tracklist for a greatest hits compilation.... if he wasn't dead. 
My colleague was also eager to learn the technical side of radio production yet hadn't been taught anything yet. Well no, since the current technician appeared to be governing the proceedings courtesy of an SX Spectrum with adjoining joystick.

Needless to say, I nailed said script and practically got a standing ovation from the control room situated behind the bullet proof glass at the back of me; my new lady friend clapping with admiration spread across her face. I was beginning to like her. My teenage companion leaned over and graciously remarked that it was the best night he'd had there so far. Look at me: contributing to the rehabilitation of the youth via the medium of staunch professionalism and a hefty dose of camp.

I gave him a wink. "Don't worry mate, give me a few weeks, I'll have my own show and I'll teach you the ropes". It was sweet: just like we were in prison and trading information for respect.

I think I might just be okay.

PS. If any of you are reading this, I write it all in good humour. x