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JP Morgan’s grad scheme chewed you up and spat you out. You don’t have to struggle with finding ethically sourced ketamine any more because you ARE ethics. All of them were set up by promoters you at first wouldn’t let you into Swingers, but now form most of your Whats App conversations.After treading all over the competition, you thought you’d made it, only to look up on your first day and have your face relentlessly stamped on by the polished brogues of sleep deprivation. Problem is, getting to go to most festivals for free to educate pilled-up revellers on the alarming change in the median temperatures observed at thirty two key sites worldwide isn’t quite enough to make up for how little you get paid. You still visit Newcastle more than you should, and wear black shiny puffers more than you should.
You could move further into London proper, and work your dream job at a publisher or in marketing, but in five years time you might only just be getting your foot on the ladder, especially after three consecutive summers travelling around South America, then China, then New Zealand on a motorbike, then a road trip up the coast of Mozambique. This temp work is getting boring, but at the letting agent, you found your calling. Shame though, turns out being a political lobbyist for Shell really was your calling all along.You make a quarterly zine exploring experimental fashion memes. Five years time for Glasgow – moved to Edinburgh or stayed in Glasgow, doing a graduate placement with some kind of management company or failing that, fell back into retail and moved into your parent’s Edinburgh flat, you’ve graduated from the student clubs and now live for Saturday nights at Light, Kushion, Sanctuary or Garage or if you’re feeling edgier then Sub Club, you wear literally the same things you wore to uni “jeans, puffy jacket, hipster glasses” to work as it’s smart casual and on the weekends you get your one smart shirt out. The highlight of your week is 5 aside football on a Friday night. You don’t need a conventional job, and conventional relationship, a conventional home, a conventional salary.Everyone has a five year plan, some even have a 10 year plan. Once the Brummie accent you picked up at uni faded it was much easier to sweet talk your way into the chain of command at Robert Dyas Fuck the system right? Shiny Topman suit on your back, 20 pound houseboy haircut, obnoxious but still shit Audi, you my friend will have all the trappings of an estate agent selling two-beds in Chingford.Where you end up is often far different from where you want to be, either on a yacht with your dream job and a penthouse apartment or in your single bed in your parents’ place. But all that extra curriculum and rugby has dramatically gone to waste. The corrupt taking richer, the poorer being robbed of what they deserve right? Three years spent living in the shadow of your far superior neighbours has left you well equipped to cope with all the night shifts you have to pull as the office bitch.Except it’s still your dad’s suit, you’re carrying coffee round and haven’t really made any impressive connections. Xanadu identifies as a dolphin now, so xe will not be working in a “job” as part of a “career” if that’s what you’re calling it.
Even your parents are starting to pick up on how often you describe your job as ‘definitely not pyramid selling’.
Skiing holidays, beach holidays, every half term filled with holidays, as long as Kingsley the Bichon Frise gets a spot in the kennels.
Pacing the corridors of Westminster in a bespoke suit, rubbing shoulders with the rich and powerful.
Sheffield Probably still in Sheffield you boring, boring bastard. If you finally left the grasp of Tooting, you are most likely now somewhere dotted around the country treating patients and saving lives after all those years at George’s. You went travelling for a bit, until you realised the only place on Earth you can wear a baja hoodie without getting mocked is Brighton.
It’s no secret you still listen to all the songs from the cheese room, but that’s as about as exciting as you get. Either because of ambition, or because you’ve got nothing else on your plate. Now you’re back in Sussex putting together a tearful Master’s thesis explaining how Corbyn was hung out to dry by the Blairites.
Founders was by far the most exotic thing you’d ever seen, but now you’ve been tattooed twice, met three times the amount of boys who even existed at Royal Holloway, and lost your shit on a few occasions. Your first night in the single bed at your parents’ house felt like so long ago. It’s not as glamorous as your ideal world in advertising, but for now it will do. Next stop, double beds and less nights at your other halves place.