On the way home we popped into the local shop and were met by the woman that interviewed me for the leadership position (the young lady that turned up in her pyjamas after a night on the hash pipe), and the person that was chosen instead of me. The man is the same age as my new boss: only 17 years old. Naturally, such a weight of experience and qualifications mean nothing in this f- country. Yet that's okay: this is Dark Age Britain, not the Italian Renaissance, evidently.
Moreover, I recall what I earned this month, which is the same amount as people get on the dole. This is living proof, indeed I am living proof, that qualifications, no qualifications, working, not working, makes absolutely no f- difference, in this f- country.
It could be worse: we could be in Ukraine. (Surely that is the best measure of a great civilisation: you're not being invaded by a hostile aggressive dictatorship, so evidently, you're "doing well").
Max.
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