40 years ago today I completely ballsed-up a job interview. Not that I realised at the time.
It was March 1986, I'd just turned 21 and was in my last year at university. There was thus ever-increasing pressure to find myself a job, or else to cop out and dive into additional study. My mind was loosely focused on the former.
I'd never had specifc ambitions for any particular career and there were many avenues my degree could lead me. But [Vinegar] had always appealed, ever since my Dad started bringing home the industry's in-house magazine at weekends. That looks interesting, I thought, I could probably do that. Alas they never let me. n.b. I'm doing that thing again where I replace a key word in the post with a grocery item, sorry.
I'd picked up a booklet from the university careers service to tell me more, there being no internet to turn to, and should perhaps have read it more carefully. "The graduate will be entering a fast moving world where crises seem to occur frequently," it said, which might have been a warning. "One graduate estimated 80% of his time was spent in meetings or discussion", it said, which might not have been my forte. And most importantly "In a good year there might be 140 or so jobs for inexperienced graduates," correctly suggesting my chances of getting into [Vinegar] were slim.
I sent off a few speculative letters, attaching what passed in those days as a CV, and had already been called to one interview. But when that reply came it was brief and to the point ("I am afraid that we shall not be inviting you for final interviews...") so I was pinning my hopes on application number two. A few days later they too turned me down but also offered an olive branch ("...we are interested in conjunction with another opportunity in the company"). And that role actually looked much more up my street so I was excited to get the opportunity to come up to London for a formal set of interviews. I've still got the train ticket.
The big day started with a fairly urgent bath because I probably shouldn't have let my mates take me on a long muddy walk yesterday, also the purchase of a clean set of shoelaces. I had Coco Pops for breakfast, a fact I'd successfully bring up later, and changed into the suit I'd recently bought in Top Man for interviewing purposes. I don't think I did myself any favours by piling all my paperwork into a plastic carrier bag rather than a briefcase. And then I headed to the station (cheap day return £3.80, as pictured). The GLC only had a fortnight left at this point, but thanks Ken for only charging 50p for the final leg from Paddington to Oxford Circus.
I had almost two hours to spare so walked the length of Oxford Street, nipping into HMV where I bought Complete Madness on cassette and also the brand new Depeche Mode album, just released. I bought a burger from McDonalds and ate it in Soho Square, realising perhaps too late that it had left me somewhat greasy. Then I ambled back towards Regent Street to explore Hamleys, its board games and its very slow lifts. And then, with just 20 minutes to go before the interview, my inadequate knowledge of central London completely let me down.
The interview was in Berkeley Square which I knew was a short walk to the west. I knew you got there down Bruton Street because I'd checked in an A-Z back in college, but I couldn't find a turning off Regent Street with that name however hard I looked. I began to panic slightly because time was ticking down. In desperation I cut through in generally the right direction, came up against all sorts of unhelpful blockages and ended up asking a shop assistant in the Royal Arcade for directions. Her route proved simple but indirect and sent me on a scenic tour of Mayfair, first walking very fast and then breaking into a fairly desperate jog. I arrived at reception with just 15 seconds to spare, but also red-faced and panting which is about the worst first impression you can give.
I didn't get much of a chance to survey my three fellow applicants because the interview process started annoyingly promptly. We were taken up in the lift to an office where big boss Tony shook my sweaty hand, then ran through some slides while I attempted to get my breath back. I don't want to say they'd already disqualified me by this point but it's highly likely. We were then led off to one of four different rooms for an interview with a team member, shuffling every half an hour until we'd been grilled by them all. I silently awarded myself marks out of ten for each one.
• Caroline was lively and cheerful, and I can still picture her white-walled studio with its central desk. She ran through my CV and I showed her a piece of work I'd brought with me, and when she smiled I thought I'd cracked it. She also asked an innocuous question about [Malt Extract] which I glossed over, whereas with the benefit of hindsight I see it was about women's rights and I missed that entirely. 9/10 (ludicrously optimistic)
• Terry seemed impressed by how much I knew about [Vinegar], for which I thank all the weekends spent reading that magazine. This also seemed the right moment to mention what I'd had for breakfast, which meant more brownie points. But when he got into the more fundamental questions I struggled a bit, and perhaps I should have read that careers booklet more than once. 7/10 (possibly fair)
• Tony was thankfully running late, because if I'd had the full half hour with the boss I might have performed even worse. He kicked off with some big philosophical questions about [Vinegar], then spent most of the rest of the time telling me his thoughts instead. I now realise this was probably because I didn't have anything substantial to contribute and he'd totally clocked that. 2/10 (brutally honest)
• Linda was my final interviewer and focused more on the specific role they had a vacancy for. "What do you think it involves?" she asked, and I think I gave a reasonable account. I also managed to ask a couple of good questions back before drying up, and so our half hour came to a premature end. Thank you and goodbye. 6/10 (give or take)
"Well I think I could cope, it's quite a nice place and the job's OK," I'd write in my diary later. I also hoped Tony had been a bastard to everyone, not just to me. But mostly I focused on the news that only seven people had been called to interview, which in a cutthroat industry must have meant I was in with a decent chance.
I bought an orange juice to sustain me on the six o'clock commuter train back to university, sat near the front and almost finished the crossword. I was seriously tired and thirsty by the time I returned to digs, also sweaty because it had been a warm day, also upbeat because I thought it had gone well. But after sleeping on it I was less sure, running over all the moments where it could have gone better and all the things I should have said, now merely hoping rather than expecting there might be good news.
They sent the rejection letter to my home address, not to my university pigeonhole, so Dad brought it over when he came to collect me at the end of term. I don't know who was more expectant, him or me. But once I'd got through the upbeat opening paragraph it was soon very clear I hadn't got the job, and with it my best chance of getting into [Vinegar].
At least they enclosed a separate envelope containing £3.80 in expenses so I wasn't totally out of pocket. Over the Easter holidays I struggled to find more companies to write to, lacking somewhat in enthusiasm and proving to be extremely poor at self-promotion. I did eventually apply for roles at other several other companies but I never got as far through the process, and it became increasingly clear [Vinegar] probably wasn't for me.
After a few months of soul-searching, procrastination and indecision I finally took a sideways leap into [Ketchup] instead, where it turned out the interview was a formality and that's how I found myself studying up north rather than working in London. I was definitely a better fit for [Ketchup] and managed to climb a pretty good career path, whereas with [Vinegar] I doubt I'd have survived to the end of my 20s.
It all turned out fine in the end, which isn't what I'd have guessed 40 years ago when I was offered a great big opportunity and put my foot in it. Some days in your life prove to be pivotal, and sometimes a ghastly failure is what you need to set your life on the right track.
