"To hell with it, they don't call me Maverick down at the golf club for nothing; I'm having the profiteroles, with extra cream." 

"Oooh Jerry you are a caution," agree the chattering gastronomes. 

Only the Irish coffee remains, at which point Jerry, Head of Backing out the Vans at the paper clip factory has a great idea. 

"You're self employed Paul, it must be a license to print money - the Irish coffees are on you I reckon. In fact, with the kind of wedge you boys are on, flaming Sambuccas all round... Manuel!" 

Please God, don't just let the flame ignite Jerry's ludicrous porn star moustache, may it react violently with whatever chemicals are in Just for Men, engulfing his chest hair in a biblical conflagration that few shall survive. And when the fire brigade arrive let Patrick Swayze be the chief, and may he turn to me and say: "So, it's just Jerry left in the building right...I'm not going to risk scuffing my helmet for that toss pot."  

It's been the same since time began, even as far back as when orange juice was considered a starter. But will the assumption ever change - that the self employed use fifty quid notes to light cigars the size of a happy donkey's dangler? My last pay slip resembled an entry in the Doomsday book.... ‘It is hereby henceforth and forsooth agreed, that  Master Stephenson, head swineherd of the village of Bad Breath, shall receive the sum of one turnip, a packet of fleas, and a small bucket of dung'. 

So unless you enjoy being insulted by Theo Smellyfeetus and his mates, why climb the stairs towards self employment? 

Because you'll be your own boss of course. No more the supervisor's gravy stained Dennis the Menace tie on your shoulder, as he leans over in a cloud of Kouros. You'll come and go as you please in shoulder pads and crocodile loafers, with a monogrammed briefcase and a ten-gallon hat: 

"Tell my PA to bring me the FT, then FO, ASAP, and bring me a cup of lap sang doo dong." 

Nice idea, but as we all know, isn't self employment about swapping one boss for five hundred, called customers - and although we can technically tell any of them to go and boil their maracas at any time, we don't do we? We smile and say: "You're quite right Madam, if brains were dynamite I probably wouldn't have enough to blow my hat off. Thank you so much for your valued feedback." And flicking the ‘V's at the phone while you're saying this, does not count as a victory. 

Once self employed of course, you'll be spending your days in curled silk slippers being fed Turkish Delight by a eunuch - you will be loaded... right? We've already mentioned this, but even if it were true, there is the additional dimension of predictable income. We all have bad weeks; we will all at some time be sent for a bucket of steam and a long wait, some elbow grease, a tin of tartan paint and a box of sky hooks. Come Friday night we will corner our significant others with tales of weekly woe and foreboding, until the sound of snoring and the visible drool remind us of how interesting we really are.

But if you're self employed you can add to this the possible amusement that at the end of a bad week, two grand has just vanished from your bank account - a customer's gone bust, you've been sued for looking at someone a bit funny, or there's simply been a cancelled order - it's highly unpredictable. Tell that to an employed person who reckons they've had a bad week, and remind them that next week they've somehow got to claw that cash back. Oh yes, and it's January, and there's not a job in the building - after a squeak and a pop they'll be touching more cloth than a duvet salesman. 

But think how much time you'll have when you're self employed - no more ramming your snout in a banker's mildewed armpit on the 6.30 out of Cockfosters. You'll no doubt be awoken mid morning by the sound of orange juice being freshly squeezed by your manservant. A couple of softly boiled eggs and a pot of Darjeeling later, and it's off to the Drones Club for a snifter with Barmy Fungy Phipps and Ooffy Prosser. I don't think we need to waste any time on this one do we? You're likely to do so many hours in the early days of self employment, the kids will start calling you Robinson Crusoe.

Not looking good is it - but what about job security? At the moment it's true; the employed are spending more time looking over their shoulders than a new boy on the Wuffter Wing in Pentonville. But if two out of three businesses fail in their first year, and of the survivors perhaps only three per cent go on to grow in a meaningful way, it's hardly a sparkling option. 

You can't tell Jerry though, or the general public. Tell them that a shampoo containing jizzonobulase will enrich tired hair, and they'll probably buy it; get a blow-dried goon called Barry Scott (who?) to advise them to buy a product called Cillit Bang (what?) and they'll probably have some of that too. But you try and tell them that in real life their favourite comedian is actually about as funny as herpes, but has a great team of writers, or that self employed people aren't bunced up to high heaven, and I'm afraid they will not have it - ‘NO NO NO, it just isn't true' 

So why do it, why paddle your own canoe? I wonder if it's almost genetic - I wonder if Watson and Crick missed a trick back in '53, because somewhere on the double helix, is the self employment gene. Doesn't it creep into everything you do? When you rub your sleepy eyes, regret last night's prawn thal and reach for the TV remote, you'll no doubt see the red warning triangle of severe weather. 

‘DO NOT LEAVE YOUR HOMES UNLESS IT'S A LIFE OR DEATH JOURNEY - WE HAVE A SNOW FLAKE SIGHTING IN HUDDERSFIELD'. 

If you're terminally self employed, you won't care if there are woolly mammoths mating on the M1 and sabre toothed tigers looting Woolworths - you'll get up, get out, and in spite of the uncertain pay, the Victorian hours, the comedy pension and the threat of losing your house, you'll have a damn good go. You'll ask very little of your government, or your country, and you'll create wealth where before you had your daft idea and said ‘I'm going it alone', there was absolutely nothing.

In spite of that you probably won't be in the New Years Honours list; your place will have gone to Ann Widdecombe for services to fashion - but for keeping Britain going against all odds, you should be.

Cheers,

Paul Stephenson

www.bgdf.co.uk

Printwear & Promotion

Printer friendly version

Email this article to a friend

Bookmark this

---