"I'm only working here 'cause I need the fucking money," sang Frank Turner on the Million Dead track To Whom It May Concern. And for nearly two years now, that song has begun playing in my head every Saturday morning as I walk in to work, often continuing throughout the day. However, recently, that hasn't been the case.
Thing is, as I write this, it's been exactly 39 days since I last got paid and, after talking to my manager earlier this evening, it looks as if it could be another 39 days until the money starts trickling in again. Allow me to explain - as I'm currently contracted to work at two different stores depending on whether I'm at university or at home, each time I change stores it's up to the personnel department to transfer my details to whichever one I'm due to be working at. After Christmas, though, one store decided that they weren't going to transfer me back. Better still, they thought they'd remove me from the company's books altogether.
So, after over 18 months of loyal service in the world of shelf-stacking, I was (and still am) left with nothing. Well, I still have a place to live and clothes to wear and everything, but all my hard-earned privileges, such as my discount card and, most importantly, my monthly payslip, are no more.
Apparently this isn't the first time it's happened either, and it's a good illustration of just why so many people dislike shop work. Sure, the job is tedious (for a basic Customer Assistant, at least), the customers are a pain in the arse and the pay is far from remarkable. But the biggest kick in the proverbial three-piece suite is that, more often than not, you end up working for a bunch of brainless twats who hate their jobs just as much as you, if not more. And how can you honestly entrust someone who can't stand their own job with the task of making someone else's easier?
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