“Write for the paper” they said. “It’ll look good on your CV.” Alright then.
Ah the old Curriculum Vitae, that inescapable conduit to the hallowed world of employment, your very own sickly little exercise in public relations, one part of the protocol of being a good little capitalist.
But we have to go through the motions, we’re told, we all have to do it. So at some point your going to find yourself sitting at your desk, laboriously typing away, thinking of new innovative ways to potentially whore yourself to any prospective employer who might lap up the self indulgent drivel you churn out. Perhaps.
Surely though, the employer was at some point, unemployed. And he or she wrote a CV too. So then he or she must be familiar with the cringe worthy experience of systematically sugar coating every aspect of your working career thus far, sycophantically reeling off a list of skills you apparently possess and vivaciously describing the leadership qualities you acquired working on the cigarette kiosk at Somerfield. That is what you’re meant to do, isn’t it?
It’s an exercise in PR. It’s something we do every day. Whether consciously or otherwise, we all project an image of self that best suits how we wish others to perceive us. We might project individuality. We might project conformity – or nonconformity – or maybe emo or goth. Whatever tickles your fancy! This however is a different kind of projection of self. It requires you to predetermine an image that you think will be most pleasing to others, namely employers. It may even require you to fabricate two whole A4 sides of complete and utter tripe about just how ‘employable’ you are.
That word. ‘Employability’. It’s everywhere. The now overbearing focus on a student’s ‘employability’ takes away some of the charisma from the university experience (from the learning bit that is). For me it reduces visions of the august traditions of the places of learning that are universities, to a factory generating hundreds of anonymous suits who will one day roam the business district of a city near you with a mocca-chocca-frappo-latte (skinny, two sugars) in hand and a sour depressed outlook on life. You might get a nice car though. And with a bit of luck, one of those parking spaces with your name on it, yeh.
I remember the days when I use to think suits were cool, not even a marathon of the finest mob films could rectify that for me now. The mere thought of it makes me want go all Alexander Super Tramp and just do one to Alaska. Though he didn’t fare too well so I might see if Bear or Ray are keen to tag along. Ah it would never work anyway. They’re probably too busy, plus I don’t have the cojones to be a proper hippy. I’ll just go and write my CV instead. And another thing. Curriculum Vitae? What do they think I am? Latin?