For Better or for Worse

I have just been turned down for a job. Again. It's something I've got used to now, especially at my age. I'm too old, too white, and too male.

Am I grumpy? You betcha, but there's not much point in teeth-gnashing - my teeth are bad enough as it is. 

Unlike the Olympics where each event has three winners - Gold, Silver and Bronze for first, second and third respectively - when there's a job vacancy there is only one winner. Everyone else is a complete and utter down-and-out loser, including those so close to the finishing line on the shortlist who fail to get the job.

The role I went for was with the BBC as a staff comedy writer. And before you say, 'Well, you were never going to get that; that's way too ambitious', what you don't know is that I also recently applied for a vacancy as a cleaner. I didn't get that either. (And no, that wasn't for the BBC), so I am unemployable at either end of the scale.

I was actually holding out a slim hope for the BBC role as I ticked all the boxes in the job description and requirements. So, I duly went online and filled in the application template. I dislike application templates because they tend to be restrictive in how you can present yourself to best effect; they're more akin to multiple-choice exam questions as opposed to, say, having to write an essay on something. But I gave it my best shot, and I was delighted to see that the application also required me to demonstrate some creativity.

In one of the template windows they asked me to write a 500-word speech for the best man or matron of honour at a wedding where the couple should definitely not be marrying each other. Perhaps I failed to get the job because my speech came to 499 words.

In reality, the polite but-nonetheless-infuriating BBC rejection email said that because I didn't already have two broadcast comedy writing credits to my name I was discounted. And yet, as I highlighted in my application, I have written comedy - for the Stand-Up and be Counted show I initiated and produced through Radio New Zealand in 2009 (when I was not only producer but also the show's host), and multiple times for my own comedy gigs, either solo or with other Kiwi comics. But that doesn't count. Could it be because it wasn't for the BBC?

To make me feel better they told me they'd had over 800 applicants. I don't care about that, but obviously one of those has already written for TV and so is 'established'. It's the old vicious cycle thing again: you can't have the job unless you've had the job.

Anyway, I did like it that the Beeb actually wanted to see some evidence of comedy writing - it makes a change from just having to fill in your school grades (at my age for God's sake! What possible relevance do they have??). But rather than the wedding speech ending up in Auntie's 'Deleted' box, I present it to you here and now, all 499 words of it. You never know, you might find a use for it :-)

The Wedding Speech

Image courtesy of 
SnappyGoat.com

In a moment I will be asking you to raise your glasses, those of you who are wearing them, so that you'll better be able to see our celebrated couple, Professor Sir Ahmed Al Abdin-Amdad... and Charlene – or Chazza as she likes to be known – in soft focus.

Why? Because – in the photography sense – soft focus enhances, filters, and – as any big screen star knows – hides blemishes.

And it's the blemishes of course that Chazza and Ahmed know very well. It's the flaws, the many imperfections that they have accepted in each other, as today they not only tie the knot but soak it in vinegar so that it may never, ever, ever be undone.

For theirs is a union unique. And when I say union, it is because I turned, as all good best men do, to the dictionary to be assured I have chosen my words correctly.

A union, we are told, is a joining, a coupling. But in an engineering sense it also refers to a particular type of bolt usually found on carburettors, which allows the flow of fuel from one place to another. Yes, I can hear some of you understandably sniggering, but let's not forget that fuel mishandled can be a dangerous thing.

And so it seems appropriate at this stage for me just to point out the fire exits: there's one behind you and a second at the end of the corridor just past the gents' toilets – should any conflagration break out.

But for Chazza and Ahmed there are only the flames of passion. Blind to any alarm bells
clamouring and ringing, they smell not the thick black acrid smoke creeping under their door.

Not for them the mad dash down the back stairs to safety, oh no. Together they are their own breathing apparatus, and we can only hope that their air supply doesn't run out.

Instead, ensconced within their asbestos-like envelope of love, singeing though it is as the flames lick all around, they are ignorant of the desperate cries of the people outside shouting 'Fire, fire! Get out now!

Or is it that we can never see things from their point of view? That we, on the outside of their exclusive Freemason-like members-only club, can never know the secret handshakes and passwords, or feel the security that these two share that makes them bulletproof, and of course fireproof.

Image from Pixnio

Perhaps if they were to stare with us into the crackling flames, they too might question the incorrect application of flammable materials, the illegally propped-open fire doors, and the dangling broken bulbs of emergency lighting.

Oh yes, the familiar green exit signs have been there since the beginning for all to see, but as we well know, familiarity breeds contempt, and Ahmed and Chazza have been very, very familiar.

And today, as we all witnessed, they became as one, and agreed that it would be for better or for worse.

Please raise your glasses to our extinguished couple, Chazza and Ahmed!