I'm the Cockney Chameleon without a Job

Over three years ago I wrote a blog announcing that I would soon be moving to London, where I would be attending the University of East London to study Journalism and Creative and Professional Writing. I spoke mostly about how worried I was about having to endure the local language, and how I was fearful of catching Cockney, and becaming alll Landan like. I now write this blog post, having completed my degree and moved out of our outrageously-priced South London flat that overlooked the Thames.

I confidently stipulated that I was 'not worried about picking up the accent and the slang however, because I'm very hard to influence.' Unfortunately, that doesn't seem to have been the case. Many people have been noting that I have a slight Landan twang. Luckily, I don't think it's critical, and I should be able to recover; in time at least.

However, I have become somewhat of a chameleon, being able to assume a persona which is similar to those around me. Back home in Kent, I am a bumbling, slightly posh-sounding lad. Should a Cockney gas engineer enter our flat, my language and personality change; partly in a foolish attempt to sound more manly and in a desperate attempt to be accepted. "Alright mate? How's traffic get'in 'ere? Bin busy? You still got your motors?" And so on.

A drawing for A Misanthrope's Guide to London, by Chris Parsons.
(Click to enlarge)

Our flat was very nice; apart from the constant presence of gas engineers having to resuscitate our boiler back into life. Oh, and apart from the numerous water leaks; all those magical evenings spent mopping up water from under the now bowed laminate flooring. Mind you, that's made up for by the evenings I spent watching the woman across the road get naked with her blinds still open; until she noticed. Those memories will remain with me for a long time. However, not as long as the dent left in my savings by paying nearly £1,000 a month for a flat. We could have never afforded that place if it wasn't for our generous student loans.

It's a cliché I've heard an innumerable amount of times, but those three years at University really did fly past. It doesn't seem that long ago since myself, my other half and a box of half-eaten pizza, were abandoned in Landon by my parents and left to endure the next chapter of our lives. Well, that chapter is finished, and it ended with us getting 2:1s, so yes, thank you for your congratulation. However, my grade is still a sore point. I was less than 1% away from a 1st. 0.4% more would have given me a 1st. And you know what? I can pinpoint the exact mistake in my dissertation that lost me that higher grade. If I had just italicised the words A Misanthrope's Guide to London, in the handful of times I wrote them together, I think I would have gotten a 1st. FOR FU...

Anyway, it was a mixed three years. I met lots of, as everyone says, awesome and amazing people who were mostly all far more talented than I. Some modules I loved and excelled at, and others I hated and just about scraped through. There is something about Sociology that makes me look and feel like I've just had a lobotomy. The next time someone talks me about the similarity between Adorno's theory of the Culture Industry and Marxism, I think I'll go into a coma from which I'll never awaken.

The Creative and Professional Writing side of my degree has proved invaluable, and despite feeling trepidation about what it would entail, I absolutely loved almost every minute. It made me read books I never would have, and yet enjoyed. It pushed me to constantly improve my writing, which having read some of my old stuff, is glaringly obvious. It has even made me look at my own writing very differently, and I have produced pieces I could not be prouder of. My dissertation project A Misanthrope's Guide to London, is one such example where I have really honed my style of writing. That is in no little part thanks to the teaching on the course.

At the start, I was most looking forward to the Journalism side of my studies, and I did very well and learnt a great deal. However, towards the end I dreaded Journalism modules. That was, in the most part, because I felt a great deal of resentment towards the fact that no matter how well I did, I would still not be qualified to be a Journalist, and would still find it immensely hard to get into a profession where experienced journalists are being culled, rather than new ones being hired. By the end, I had lost my desire to be a journalist; for now at least. Unfortunately, that in part also falls on the below-par teaching for journalism my University offers.

So, the bit of paper has now finally arrived confirming my attainment of a 2:1, and three months after finishing University, I am the stereotypical graduate who is failing to get any sort of job. Currently, the past few years look to have all been a delaying tactic for going on Job Seeker's Allowance. There are various reasons for this, such the little experience I hold, and trying to get a career in a specific sector. However, a large reason for this is because there has been a major push in apprenticeships by the Government. It means jobs that might have once gone to the likes of people like me, are now going to younger people who can be hired for a criminally low wage for a couple of years, whilst getting on-the-job training. If I was 18 years old now, and looking at what to do, I think I would be looking at being an apprentice too.

However, I keep sending out CVs in all directions (probably approaching a figure of around 40), and only getting responses from a few. Two job interviews in three months. The sad and depressing life of a graduate. Maybe it's because of my accent which has become tapestrised. Or the fact my University is at the bottom of the league tables; despite being a great place. It could be because of the economy, or that fact I am part of, what the media keeps calling 'the lost generation'. Possibly it is due to so many hundreds of thousands of young adults having a degree, it has become a worthless piece of paper. It could be because I have about as much professional experience as a foetus, and being stuck in the paradox of needing experience to get a job, but not being able to get the necessary experience. Who knows?

Regardless, if you're an employer looking for a marketing assistant/junior (or something not too dissimilar) somewhere in Kent, who's ideal candidate is a misanthropic, yet slightly amusing and committed individual, then I'm your guy!

P.S. I know prospective employers are reading this blog, because I put it on my CV, so why not beg? If you don't ask, you don't get… I am highly skilled after all.

P.P.S. I am aware that I'm applying for jobs that are not marketing related, and that plea might be off putting to other jobs; but I'm versatile and not as picky as perhaps I might have sounded. I'll do anything... apart from telesales anyway.

An Hour In The Life Of Me

You’re probably wondering why I think anyone would care about an uneventful hour of my life two weeks ago. You’re probably right; no-one does. That doesn’t stop me though. The following words are a stream of consciousness: Stuff my brain ordered my fingers to type with any direct input from me, as part of an assignment for the ‘Creative Writing’ side of my University degree. Make sense? No. Oh. Well essentially I sat outside my University accommodation for an hour, and wrote down what I saw, heard, smelt and felt. Anyway, I found it quite interesting to type, and it is relatively humorous, so I thought I would share it with you good people. I hope you do enjoy it.

“I’m sat on a bench, with my shower fresh hair, underneath the forever watching CCTV camera. I decided seeing as I was outside, in public, with people, with my laptop, I would sit somewhere that I would consider safe. Well, not safe, but at least should someone walk past and casually steal my laptop from underneath my finger tips, I would at least have more chance if catching the bastard. Should I drop the laptop and begin crying, the people watching the CCTV images would at least get a laugh too.

I’m sat in intense sunlight, with half my keyboard shadowed by the screen, as a result of having the sun increasing in height behind it. This has now shown to me how dusty and dirty my laptop actually is. It is terrible, and should my Mum see the state of it, she would moan and immediately fetch a cloth and some cleaning liquid to achieve the task of cleanliness. I am hopeful that seeing as there is a rather strong breeze, the dust will be blown away. Maybe this little assignment will help in my cleanliness…

So, as I sit back on the uncomfortable bench, and look over the laptop screen, I can see water, glistening, and full of movement as it flows in the direction of sea. On the other side of this water, I can see a runway, in which a plane is noisily manoeuvring itself on. Now pausing, the engines are increasing in speed and volume as I imagine the pilot asking for permission to fly. He clearly has it, as the sounds are increasing. The plane is taking a run up, forever increasing in speed, and as it moves away, the sound goes with it. And UP it goes, rather confidentially too. The plane is now en route to its destination, and all I can see now as I glance back up to the sky after my running commentary is a faint white shape which I imagine to be the plane.

Now it is quiet again, I can return to admiring the natural beauty of the water as the sun makes my black laptop rather hot and also making my jean laden legs becoming increasingly hotter. I spoke of silence too soon, as behind me I can hear the screeching brakes of a train and the far away sounds of another plane about to manoeuvre itself to the end of the runway so that it too can make a confident leap into the sky to get to a destination far away from the rudeness of London. The said plane is a CityJet, with its propellers spinning. Again he positions himself. Again he speeds up, and again he speeds off into the distance taking the loud sounds with it.

However, here comes a plane falling from the sky in the nervous, wobbly fashion they seem to always do. It shakes upon near contact with the runway. He puts his nose up and bum down. He has landed bum first with a little puff of smoke from the wheels as it lands. Now he chucks his nose down and as he now exists the runway to a designated area, here comes another plane; and he seems just as nervous as he flies in front of the sun and casts a shadow over me, if only for a split second, and he lands.  Now, all I can smell as the wind blows into my direction, is burning rubber and aeroplane fuel. Not exactly the smell of flowers and noise of birds singing that I get back at home in a lovely Kentish village.

Now it is quite again. The water looks filled with crystals. It is almost like God, if he existed, had dropped a pot of glitter onto the water. It hurts to look up, not only into the sun, but also into the pool of intense light that is sitting on the water in front of me. Birds are flying too. A seagull is floating in the sky, pointlessly and effortlessly, thanks to the help of the wind. I think he is lazy. Other seagulls sit on the water, and look at him, either in awe of their floating friend, or bitching about how lazy that other seagull is. It is hard to tell from the wooden bench I am perched on, which one it is.

There are other birds here too, but seeing as I am not Twitcher, I cannot reveal their names. I can only really, safely, tell the names of five types of bird: Seagulls, Pigeons, Ducks, Swans and Robbins. The other birds in front of me in the water are not one of those five. I would make a guess at it being some type of goose. There are few, baby ones sitting on the water and bobbing up and then down again, before bobbing up and down again, repeatedly. An adult, (what I am calling a) goose, is standing proudly on the edge of a bank and is constantly ruffling his feathers; I think he must have an itch which is bugging him.

I can see a reflection of myself in the laptop screen, and I can tell that my hair is almost dry from the sun and the wind. However, this may not be the style that I intended on. I look like a child who has just discovered the power of electricity and the importance of not putting metal objects into turned on plug sockets. It looks positively static…

I keep just looking at the water, and thinking. I am thinking many deep things which I will not divulge into, but I am also thinking about the water that I am starring into. Some waves look like they are part of some rolling mountains, which stretch as far as the eye can see, in miniature. Other waves are bigger, and I think they look slightly reminiscent of circus tents. I doubt anyone would agree with that observation however, and that is why I took it out twice, before becoming adamant that I was going to keep it in, no matter what.

I have just spotted the moon, well, half a moon. It is nearly eleven in the morning, and the moon is out. This phenomenon always intrigues me, and as I think about it, I feel sorry for Australia. It is night there, and they haven’t got a moon. We have it instead. The sounds ‘ha ha’ go through my mind now, actually.

People keep walking past me, with their haircuts and bags and purpose. Look, that boy is wearing a pink top. It so doesn’t go with those jeans! The people that walk past often stare at me, sat on a bench, alone, and typing. They probably think I am sat here writing some essay, but what they don’t realise is that the thousand or so words I have typed, are in fact just drivel.

I am looking out into the distance now, and I can see buildings. Old buildings, but not old enough to warrant paying £10 to walk about and look at the furniture and portraits. They are just old tower blocks that were built after the war. They look rather lovely, with the sun lighting one half, the shade covering another half, another plane flying in front of them and the soundtrack of sirens ringing around. London: It seems to be the only place where sirens try and harmonise with each other.

I am now just looking around, letting my brain wonder off, and there are now clouds in a sky which 10 minutes ago was absent of any. I would love to be able to tell you what types of clouds they are. If only I had brought the book I saw in WHSmiths yesterday! Instead, you’ll have to make do with my amateur, and cliché description of them being white and fluffy. It creates such a lovely and peaceful image in your head. However, in reality, I’m in East London, looking out onto an airport, with workmen drilling and trains clattering and screeching behind me. A million miles away from the peaceful lifestyle I once lived not two months ago. Well, in reality, it’s only 52 miles away.

My bum is beginning to hurt, so I shall end it here, with the clouds relieving me from the sun, if only for a few seconds, after an observation that I have just had whilst looking in the direction of Canary Wharf: Doesn’t the Millennium Dome just look like a dollop of ice cream with several biscuit wafers stuck in around the edge?”

"D'yew Ge' Me, Like? D'yew Know Wot I'm Sayin'?" No.

I'm going to University. Yeah, hark at me aye, all grown up and going into the big world of paying extortionate amounts in pounds sterling for an education and living away from Mummy and Daddy. I'll be in the mature World of paying for a TV license, gas bills, rent and buying Milk from Asda after shuffling around looking for food. All this while attempting to successfully pass a three-year joint-honours degree. And where am I going to University I hear you forgetting to care about? The University of East London. Yeah, not exactly one of the great classics such as Oxford or Cambridge, but you know, a degree is a degree.

My degree and my place of study don't seem to really match each other. When people ask (and they're asking a lot, repeatedly) 'Where you going and what you doing?' I have to tell them that a) I'm going to 'The University of East London', which, let's be honest, isn't the grandest and most inspirational of names; and I then have to tell them that b) I'm studying 'Journalism Studies with Creative and Professional Writing', which, let's be honest, is a pompous name and I feel guilty every single time I say the name of my course. I love it and I'm so excited and I'm itching and scratching wanting to start it now, but I always feel like I'm saying it like a statement that implies 'I'm better than you'. Why I feel that, I have absolutely no idea. I just feel that where ever I spread the knowledge of my degree, I'm leaving a trail of resentment, annoyance and snobbishness. But hey, at least I'm not Philosophy!

I've now made two trips to the area now, and, well, let's just say it doesn't resemble the cast of Oliver!, but the Olympics haven't brought a higher class of people to the area. I am yet to hear someone speak the native tongue of East London: Cockney. I am yet to hear someone say: "Awright geeezzaa! Hello an' welcome. Nice tit for tat yew got there! Sorted mate!"; which in plain English would mean "Hello and welcome. Nice hat you have there!" The language now is still sort of Cockney, but, like English, the young generation have played about with it.  Every sentence will, undoubtedly, contain the words "D'yew ge' me?", "Like" and "D'yew know wot I'm sayin'?" It has the elements of cockney, but I don't recognise it as cockney. You feel like turning around and saying 'YES, I do understand you! Gaaaaawd blimey; yer 'avin' a giraffe!"

My last journey into East London consisted of me parking in a Morrisons. I was sat by my car when a group of teenagers walked past and then hung around near me and my car. Unfortunately, I could hear their conversation, which consisted a lot of "D'yew ge' me?", "Like" and "D'yew know wot I'm sayin'?", with nouns chucked in to form something as reminiscent as a sentence. Surprisingly, it hasn't deterred me from attending there local University. I mean, it just gives me something to moan about, and God knows I love a good rant about society. Anyway, I am now going to share a rough transcript of the conversation. You can imagine it being performed as a sketch. You know, a Catherine Tate-like figure who repeatedly answers "D'yew know wot I'm sayin'?" to every question. If it helps.

Girl One: (whilst sobbing) I don' wanna talk to 'im, yew know? 'e really upset me like. 'e was like, really mean.

Girl Two: Awww, why you cryin'? Don' cry, 'e ain't worth it. 'e was really nasty dough!

Girl One: (While finishing sobbing) I know, like. 'e was really out of order, yew know what I'm sayin'?

Girl Three: Ar' yer, tot'lly.

Girl One: (With conviction) Yew two, like, gonna 'ave to choose between me an' 'im.

Girl Three: We choose yew 'course

Girl Two: Yer, we gotta stick together.

Girl One: 'e really upset me dough, I like, like this scarf an' I can't believe 'e wood dis it like dat. It cost me like two nin'y nine from Primark, D'yew get me, like?

Girl Two: Yer, tot'lly. I really like dat scarf.

Boy: Wot yew chattin'?

Girl Two: We ain't talking to yew!

Boy: (Huffs) I like, di'n't say dat I di'n't like it, d'yew ge' me? I jus' said she shuldn' wear it in summer. Yew know, it's hot like, d'yew know what I'm sayin'?

Girl One: Nar, yew said yew hated it. It cost me like two nin'y nine from Primark.

Boy: What!? D'yew ge' me? It nice scarf yer, but like, yew don' wear it in summer, yer? D'yew know what I'm sayin'?

It's just a load fickle rubbish they kept spewing out. They carried on late into mid-afternoon like that, but I didn't hear the rest of it because the long, open road home was awaiting me.

Anyway, I'll be going to live there in a few months, and I don't think I will be able to properly understand a single word which anyone says to me. I was hoping that maybe there was a Rosetta Stone CD that would teach me modern cockney, but there isn't. Anyway, so maybe Rosetta stone should consider making one. I mean, I'd buy one, and I'm sure I can't be the only one. My current languages consist of English, Sarcasm, a few little hints of French, and I would love to add fluent Cockney to that list. Not this new fangled Cockney because it’s just solely "D'yew ge' me?", "Like" and "D'yew know wot I'm sayin'?", but I want to be able to successfully use Cockney Rhyming Slang. A lot of people know 'Apples and pears' means 'stairs', ‘phone’ is ‘dog and bone’, and everyone knows 'Giraffe' is 'laugh'. Anyway, so I'll have three years to learn the lingo, then, I will write a blog consisted of only Rhyming slang for my East London hommies! (Don't hold me to that though)

Two of the best-known Cockney's: Chas and Dave

I'm not worried about picking up the accent and the slang however, because I'm very hard to influence. I'm quite an outcast from the 'Teenage Stereotype' from my local area. Every Friday and Monday, for example, a lot of people flock to one of the clubs in the local city, Canterbury. I don't. I'm 19, and I'm proud to say, I still not set foot in one. I have legally been able to enter one for 13 months now; I'm yet to do so. I have no plans to do so either. I have no problems with pubs; pubs are great. Some of my favourite conversations have occurred in pubs over a pint of larger and a shot, but, I don't like people enough for the clubbing scene. I don't like being with large groups of people, so why would I want to spend a few hours with drunk, sweaty and horny people with loud, banging music which I very much doubt is my type of music. I've listened to club remixes; they ruin perfectly good songs! Plus, a lot of 'Canterburians' use slang, and I've not picked them up. Well, I only use it to mock. Anyway, if I can survive that with little influence, I'm sure a few years in London's East End will be doddle.

And if not? Well, like I said, I’ll just have to moan and blog about it. However, you do have permission to either slap me incredibly hard or shoot me in the liver should I start using the lingo regularly and finish every sentence with 'D'yew get me, like?" It's what I would have wanted before the disease overpowered my immune system…

Now, you're in for a treat! Remember that transcript above? I've performed it as a skit. I know; lucky right! Anyway, I've joined the YouTube generation of 'vlogging' now. And here, is the, video! Enjoy!

http://youtu.be/eNKVHaOGKC4