Glastonbury 2013, Day One, Part the Second: Keeping Up the Proud Traditions of Arriving at Glastonbury

The coach limped into the service station and wheezed to a stop. We got off, got and settled onto the grassy verge to await the arrival of a coach with a non-broken battery. Fortunately it was quite a nice day.

One hour and several frantic messages to the people waiting in the Clowne Tesco’s car park later, the coach arrived, we loaded ourselves and our gear onto it, and set off to retrieve the Clowne people. I retrieved the Magic Piece of Paper (in whose powers I was rapidly losing face), and waited to tick people onto the coach.

One stop in Clowne and several apologies to the people who’d been forced to wait in the Tesco’s car park later, we were on our way! The coach rolled past the familiar landmarks, I explained some of the history of Glastonbury to the new guys on the team, and we tried to take photos of the Glastonbury signs out of the windows.

Soon, we were stuck in another Glastonbury landmark; the queue to get onsite. The coach drivers looked increasingly annoyed, as their hours of work were running out and they needed to get back to Leeds. Alas, things were not to get better, as the stewards at the festival had no idea where to send us. Despite my best explanations, and several frantic phone calls to the WBC staff, it took another hour before we were in the right place and had been given our wristbands by the management staff. I handed over the Magic Piece of Paper, and my work was done.

Now all I had to do was lead my team to the campsite, get our ID badges, and get the tents put up in the dark. Fortunately, I’m not unfamiliar with this, having had to do it a few times at Glastonbury, including one memorable occasion in 2009 when we arrived at the site at 2.30am. This time around things were better, because a) having learned from bitter experience, I’d insisted we eat something at the service station on the way down, and b) the bar was still open. Half an hour later, the tents were up and the beer was poured. We toasted our safe arrival, toasted the festival, and awaited our first day on site.

First, though, we had to get through the night…

Glastonbury 2013, Day One, Part the First: Coaches and Mayhem

There is an old saying that stress is what happens when your instincts shout "NO" and your mouth says "YES I'D BE GLAD TO". I should have remembered that when I agreed to count people onto the coach to the Glastonbury festival from Leeds.

Yet again, a troupe of trusty Newcastle volunteers were travelling south to volunteer for our union with the Workers Beer Company at the Glastonbury Festival. We'd got six places, I was one of them, and despite a minor hiccup over a railcard on the train, all was well. The sun was shining, and we were waiting on the grass near Mecca Bingo, over the road from Leeds Bus Station, listening to the alcoholics fighting.

I can only assume there's a wet hostel nearby, because they were there three years ago (possibly not the same people, but who knows), the last time I was waiting for a coach to Glastonbury from Leeds - next time we'll sit in the bus station. I'd already had to go in there and get first aid assistance for someone who'd collapsed. I get the feeling this may be a regular occurance, as the security guards took their time getting the first aid kit and wandering on out. By the time they'd got out there, the ambulance had arrived, unlike our coach, and half the people I was expecting to be on it.

At 1.30pm, we had a false positive as a coach drove past us without stopping. As it got round to 1.50pm, I started muttering words in my head that I wouldn't use in front of my mother*, told everyone I was off over the road to check if it was waiting for us in the coach station part of the bus station. It wasn't, but I did find all the other volunteers. Still not quite as many as I had listed on the magic piece of paper with the list of people I was supposed to count on, but it was a start.

Even better, as I started to lead the way over to the grass, the coach we'd seen 20 minutes earlier pulled in haphazardly at a bus stop outside the station. I waved frantically and ran over to ask the driver if this was the WBC coach to Glastonbury. It was. I signalled my volunteers and began counting people on.

I'd been assured that the magic piece of paper was up to date. I should have remembered that where festivals are involved, this can actually mean "four people decided at the last minute to drive down, and there are two people who aren't on the magic piece of paper". There was no way I was telling people they weren't going to Glastonbury, so I let the two people on, reassured them it would be fine, and prayed very hard that I hadn't just booked them a one-way ticket to the outside of the Glastonbury festival wall.

As the coach headed out of Leeds, I got a phone call back from the WBC to confirm that the two people were indeed registered volunteers, and would be allowed in. I leaned back in my seat, mentally thanked God that my team were all reliable, calm people who had loaded my gear on the coach for me, and exhaled for the first time in about two hours. We were running a bit late, so I texted the people we were due to meet in a Tesco's car park in Clowne (coach pick-up points are always such glamourous locations), and told them we'd be a bit late but not to worry.

It really shouldn't have surprised me when, 10 minutes later, the driver turned round and, in tones of deepest gloom, informed us: "Sorry, the coach is broken - we're going to have to stop at the next service station and wait for a replacement".


* mostly from the family of the word "Fuck".

Video For How I Feel About My Current Employment Right Now

Start watching somewhere around 1.40. In fairness, things are not quite this bad, but when you have to watch this speech to remind yourself of that, they're pretty fuckin' dire, as Mr Tucker would no doubt say.

Crossroads

I wanted to carry on with the "Assertiveness for Divers" article, but I hope I'll do that next week. Truth be told, this hasn't been a happy week. Let's just say it's becoming increasingly clear that my face doesn't fit where I work, and I have an uncomfortable feeling that next time, the recipient of the Black Spot will be me.

All together now: "What the hell am I doing here? I don't belong here..."

Time to plan an escape route. Where did I leave that shovel...

Tax Rebate Outcome

Well, the unpleasant selection process is over, and I survived. That's "selection" as in "selection for redundancy". I survived in the sense that I wasn't selected. My boss officially confirmed that I'd been "successful" in the process, which I think both of us considered an odd word to have to choose. In other words, good news for me, but not for my five friends and colleagues who were unsuccessful. I'm reminded of the old line about getting a tax rebate: the happiness lasts as long as it takes you to remember that it was your money in the first place. Hopefully I'll be blogging a bit more often from now on. Let's hope.

Limboland

Well, following the drama of last week, here we are awaiting our results. As is ever the way with these things, nothing is ever simple; one of the interviewers (my boss, incidentally) has spent the week stuck in an industrial tribunal brought against our employer by someone who wasn't successful in the last round of interviews. Also, one of the people in the interview pool (or puddle, by now) is on sick leave and can't be interviewed until next week, so it looks like we won't know if we've got jobs until the week after next. I'm trying to resist the urge to solve this problem with alcohol.

Last week was interesting. The interview panel (my boss, the boss of the team we're merging with, who I know and work with often, and a female Director from another service who was there to add experience and gender balance to the panel) asked me the first two questions. The questions, looking back, were in the same order as on the person spec for our jobs.

Alas, this means that, for me, the first two questions were on my weakest areas. I knew this, and I rather suspect they knew this. Towards the end of the second question, I could hear myself gabbling on, and my heart was racing faster. As they asked the third question, I felt myself going light-headed, I was seeing spots in front of my eyes, and at this point it became clear that frantically telling myself "it's just nerves and they'll soon get onto the questions you can do better on" was not going to work. I said I was feeling very light-headed and could we take a few minutes? They agreed and my boss offered to accompany me outside for some fresh air. We walked out, I remember him offering me his arm, me saying "No, I'm okay", and the next time I knew I was coming round on the green carpet outside the office to the female Director asking "Does anyone know the recovery position?"

After a slight amount of debate, I persuaded them that I should go and sit on the sofas nearby, which I did. My boss made reassuring sounds and asked if I wanted to go back. At first I said yes, but then realised I was being stupid; I really didn't feel too great. He trotted off to retrieve my line manager, who appeared to escort me to Occupational Health.

Occy Health took my blood pressure, pronounced it excellent, and asked if I'd eaten. Answer: yes. (I don't function without breakfast.) They decided it was hyperventilation and advised me to drink water. A colleague of mine appeared and offered to take me over the road to Cafe Neros. I arranged with the interview panel to come back that afternoon once the other candidates had been interviewed.

A mocha and an oat and raisin cookie later, and I was back in the office with my manager sitting with me. I agreed that I'd like some company, so we sat and chatted until it was time for me to go back in. I sat outside whilst they kept me waiting for 15 minutes (this may have been unavoidable, but wasn't helpful!), then went back in.

As I'd thought, the remaining questions were better suited to me. i gave it my best shot, and walked out feeling much better.

I've done all I can. Now, we await the results.

Thought For The Past Three Months

Says it all, really.

Still Not Feeling Very Festive

Not much to see here. I think the only thing I'll say is that whilst I really, really want to keep my job, the main thing I remember from when I was successful the last two times was a sensation of relief, followed by deflation.

It's a bit like what they say about getting a tax refund: any joy is short-lived when you remember that it was your damn money in the first place.

Onward and Ever ***ing Well Upward

Well, I'm sorry. I'd meant to do some writing about diving, maybe a bit more about Malta. But I'm stuck in a position where I'm applying for my own job for the third time in 21 months. I've caught the office cold, and I can't take sick leave as it would immediately count against me in the selection process - your sickness record is part of the scoring system.

In a twist I actually find amusing, I'm in charge of designing the system for analysing the responses people have to the Council's budget proposals. (Many of them are not terribly happy.) So I am helping my employer to consult on the very same proposals that may put me out of a job in a few months' time.

Just before Christmas.

If I do end up on the scrapheap, I fear my leaving speech may be based on that of Glenn Cullen:

Glenn Cullen Resigns

Catch you on the flipside.

Personal Development

There's not really a whole lot I can say right now. No exciting rides, no new dives. (I bought some new bike panniers from Edinburgh Bike Coop and saw 'Chronicle', which was fun.)

At some point I'm going to have a meeting with my manager at which I think we're going to talk about "personal development". I rather wish they would call it "professional development" instead.

Because, let's be honest, I really doubt my employer is interested in my development as a person. If so, they'd be enrolling me in meditation classes, encouraging me to stop work often so I could do the exercises that might cure the back pain I've had for years, and enabling me to finish work at 5pm every night so I could have an actual personal life, and not be so knackered I drag myself to the gym, drag myself home, fall asleep before I can do anything in the house, and spend my weekends trying to frantically catch up on all the things I haven't done during the week. Lather, rinse, repeat.

No, the best thing my employer can do for my personal development is do something about my workload, and then get out of the way. I'm going to have that conversation with my manager, maybe not phrased in that way, and then we'll see where things go.

Onward.

The Urge to Eat Boatloads Of Sugar

It's funny how the mind works. Anyone who knows me knows that things at work ain't so great. Although all hope is far from lost, it's a stressful environment for everyone.

Funnily enough, since this started, I've been plagued with the urge to eat sweet things. No surprise, since the "eat sugar = happy" response is wired into the brain, but it's almost like I'm hallucinating a sweet taste in my mouth, and sweet foods seem to be tasting sweeter. Chocolate for me at the moment is a slightly indecent experience. (You maybe didn't need to know that.)

To any Reading Group members who may be reading this: Yes, I'll replace the mini Snickers in the bag before the next meeting. Satisfied?

"I don't get people..."

As my hero Charlie Brooker once said*.


Today I had one of those days. Mainly because it started with a union meeting. No disrespect to the union bods involved, but the subject matter was so depressing I came out of it and had to eat two fun-sized choccy bars just to achieve a state of mind where I didn't want to shriek and jump through the window.


I then tried to do work whilst my Estimable Colleague No. 1 was out of the office. Estimable Colleague No. 1 was having a busy day, so I answered his phone three times. Unfortunately, I had the same conversation with each of the people involved:


Me: "Hello, [Estimable Colleague No. 1]'s phone."

Speaker: "Is he there?"

Me [thinks in head, "Does he have a secretary? No. Do I sound like his secretary? No."]: "No, I'm afraid not."


By the third time, I was seriously close to replying, "No, if he was here he'd be answering his own bloody phone, wouldn't he?"


Next time I should just let his answerphone get it.


Oh well. I went for a walk at lunchtime and ate some free ice-cream (well, free frozen yoghurt) from the Ben and Jerry's stall at the Odeon Cinema. Free ice cream cures all.







Thank God for weekends.



*The quote in full:

"I don't get people. What's their appeal, precisely? They waddle around with their haircuts on, cluttering the pavement like gormless, farting skittles."