Monday, 19 August 2013

My inner prostitute

Well, that was fun - a while back now, it seems so, I did enjoy a freebie to London for a rigorous interview to become a value free, grubby, educational prostitute in the jolly old Kingdom of the Magic Stones. It is not a teaching gig for everyone - least of all me. The brutal client is a hard bastard  who deals in oil, vicious weaponry and medieval high tech torture equipment (probably) for the greater benefit of  Britain and this part of the unethical conscience free business sector of course. They take unfeasibly large sums from folk who, like them, don't give much in the way of a micro-toss,  and of course they could see right through my facade of enthusiasm and a few days later thanked me so much and said they would keep me on file - adminese for naaaah not wanted. That said I knew I would not accept any offer not least because of the hassle I was getting from people around me and the sober finger wagging voice within that was telling me that it was a compromise of jaded and faded withered principles too far. There is just so much yogic bending over and contrived contorting and Obama style empty self-justification you can make.

I had found and breached my limit which, after times in the semi-slave feudal Gulf, is tolerably, worryingly, too high for a once high-minded wet lefty. My twenty year old self would loath what he has morphed into - or perhaps not?  Still, by desperate default I have kept the ragged shreds of my distressed dignity.  Yet my cheap and nasty inner prostitute (you have one too) would like to have at least been offered the gig with of course the option to high-mindedly turn it down. The terms and conditions were really rather good. Droolingly good - in such a place they would need to be. I could have closed my eyes, served my time painlessly and been out in three years with several heavy swag bags full of untaxed cash that Grubby Gideon and his fellow lizards would not get and who knows do something useful like erm...teaching for the good guys.

Ho hum, what next? See out the contract in the sleepy end of the Gulf or maybe I should get some tatts for I  am the only man or woman left in England without one, and do a crash course in the latest whacky wheeze from that educational colossus G*ve and sign up to the soon to be piloted teachers to troops programme...?

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