SHOULD I APPLY? AN OLD FRIEND ASKS FOR ADVICE

In yesterday’s mail, I received a letter from an old friend, long retired, who following an unwelcome change in his personal circumstances is pondering a return to the workforce. 

He wants my advice as to whether or not he should apply for a job with our local government, the Shire of York. 

Frankly, I’m not sure how to advise him, so with his permission I’ve decided to publish his letter.  I do so in the hope that readers will help him with suggestions regarding what he should do if he decides to go ahead and apply for the job he has in mind.

Here is his letter, with his name and address redacted:

Dear James,

The other day I was browsing the Shire of York website and came across an advertisement for a records officer.  It piqued my interest straightaway.  I’ve been looking for work for a while now, but what got my attention is that this job is billed as an exciting opportunity. You know me, I’m always in the market for a bit of excitement.

Naturally, I wanted to know what sort of workplace the Shire is.  Over the years I’ve had the sack many times from some pretty grubby outfits.  So job security matters a lot to me.

People tell me local government is a great employer.  Hardly anyone is shown the door, unless they’ve done something really terrible like making off with a shitload of municipal funds (sometimes, not even then) or worse, dishing out uncensored information to inquisitive members of the public. 

No problem for me. I know how to keep my mouth shut. My lawyer told me ages ago never to talk to the police.

Mind you, Rockingham City Council let the side down by sacking a building surveyor for sending saucy messages and pictures of his you-know-what from his mobile phone to some of the young ladies working with him.  What’s more—get this—they didn’t even try to keep the story under wraps!  I read it in the paper!

Can you believe it?  I reckon all this ‘transparency’ guff must have gone to the CEO’s head.   Didn’t the idiot understand he wasn’t meant to take it seriously?

Still, fair go, the bloke that got the sack wasn’t an old mate of the CEO, so I guess there wasn’t a cast iron reason for keeping things quiet. 

When I clicked open the position description, the first page was about York’s ‘value’.  I think it should say ‘values’, because there was nothing there about house prices, which as you know have gone through the floor.  I’ve been trying to sell my home for years.  Not a nibble.  I’m glad I don’t own it.

The page went on to say the Shire is ‘nimble and dynamic’.  I remember you telling me during one of your boring long-winded monologues that ‘nimble’ comes from an Old English word meaning ‘to take or steal’. 

That would suit me fine.  Believe me, I could show the Shire a thing or two about taking and stealing, though ungrateful ratepayers might say that in that department it already has plenty of form.

For a man of my age (88 in September) I’m amazingly dynamic.  I’ve been keeping company, if you know what I mean, with a very demanding young woman I met on Tinder who is now pregnant with my nineteenth child.  Nineteen kids from nineteen different relationships!  No wonder they call me Roger the Todger.

My eldest boy is touching 60.  I haven’t seen the little sod for donkey’s years.   He’s always been a bit up himself.  He wouldn’t let his kids come near me.  Fact is, he’s never forgiven me for poisoning his mum.   I suppose he was bound to find out eventually that she hadn’t really run off with a chartered accountant back home to Humpty Doo.

My last lady turned out to be a bit of a handful, so I’ve given her the heave ho, but she says that when she drops the kid she’s going to hammer me for something called child support.   What a nerve.   That would make a big dent in my fortnightly Centrelink payments (three under different names), which is why I’m going to need paid employment to supplement the pension. 

I did consider going back to one of my former occupations, but dynamic as I am, at my age I don’t think I’m quite up to climbing through windows and groping my way around strange houses in the dark.

Speaking of age, I thought my advanced years might go against me, but it seems I was wrong.  The law says the Shire can’t refuse me a job on the grounds of age.  The same goes for disability and political convictions. 

That’s very good news.  To begin with, it means I don’t have to worry about my schizoaffective disorder, which as it happens is well under control.  It’s several months since I last chased a copper along Avon Terrace screaming abuse and waving a machete.  

As for political convictions, the Shire won’t be able to reject my application if they get wind that I’m a paid up member of the Australian National Socialist Party and the Aryan Brotherhood, and a firm believer in white supremacy. 

I’m not racist, though.  Some of my best friends are Asians.  That’s why I never run short of crystal meth.

I must admit that when I saw the word ‘records’ my first thought was of vinyl.  I’ve got quite a collection.  My all time favourite is a 78 of Vera Lynn singing ‘The White Cliffs of Dover’.  It’ll come in handy if I ever stand for parliament.  I’ll be able to tell the punters that I have a war record.

My thoughts then turned to criminal records, on which for family reasons I’m a bit of an expert.  My younger brother (he’s 82) has just added to his.  He was done for exposing himself indecently to a lady chaplain at the correctional facility where he’s currently held.  Not his fault.   I’m not religious, but I’m dead against women priests.

I’ve also got a couple of cousins who did time for petty offences like drunk and disorderly, threats to kill, assault with a deadly weapon and lifting ladies’ handbags with a steel hook while riding a Harley at speed.  I believe that used to be called ‘snatch and grab’.

The ad says I’ll need a police clearance. I’m certain to get one.  Mostly, when I was caught and charged, I managed to charm the judges (some were women and the rest were gay) and get off with a spent conviction.  So no worries there, I’d say.

On reading more closely, I realised that what the Shire wants is somebody to keep letters and other documents safe from prying eyes and to deal with something called freedom from information. 

I could do all that standing on my head.  Nearly fifty years ago, after my dad kept his appointment at the crematorium, I discovered that the sentimental old fool had made a will leaving all his worldly goods to children’s charities and nothing to my brother and me. 

He’d left the will tucked behind the S-bend of his toilet. You won’t be surprised to learn that when I got hold of it was the last time it saw the light of day.  The paper was a bit rough, but I had no trouble flushing the pieces down to the septic tank.

Well, old toff, there you go.   That’s my story.  If I apply for the job, how would you rate my chances?

Cheers and nil carborundum,

Your cobber till the crack of doom,

(Signed) RPM

PS A local JP says he’s going to put in a good word for me.  He’s got a wife and kids, so didn’t need much persuading.