Being Ryan Giggs’ lawyer must be about the worst job in the world. After lots of effort to suppress the story that his client, a Welsh footballer, allegedly had an affair with a beauty queen, he then sees it announced all over the internet and newspapers. Being Gigg’s publicity guy must be the second worst job as he had to spin the story that,
actually, we’d all just misunderstood. What Manchester based Ryan had said was “from time to time I do miss Wales”, not “from time to time I do Miss Wales.”
This week I came across various jobs that might join the Giggs camp and qualify to be in the top ten worst professions in the world. I’ve just had five days on the beach in Portugal, raising my head only to buy fresh doughnuts from a cake seller who strolled the beach all day in blistering heat trying to lighten his load as quickly as possible while dripping sweat all over his cookies – and shame on you and your dirty mind if you sniggered at that last scenario! That guy must have one of the worst jobs ever, tho’ I think the gastroenterologist at Faro hospital may have an even worse one as he cleaned up the aftermath of those sweaty, sand covered, doughnuts.
How about the poor bloke I saw on Wednesday who stood on a high box outside toy store Hamleys dressed as a pirate and shouting “Arrrr, Jim Lad” to entice kids in while blowing bubbles? He has a rubbish job and I passed him again four hours later as he still stood now sounding hoarse, sweating like an engine stoker’s bum crease, with washing up liquid dribbling out of his mouth and looking like a skirmish at sea with the British navy might be more enjoyable.
One of the worst jobs in the world might be something we all assume is actually quite easy. I’m thinking here of the job of a psychoanalyst. Imagine how boring it must be having to sit for hours listening to other people talk about their real and imagined problems while constantly wanting to jump in with “sort yourself out you big girl’s blouse. You think YOU’VE got problems, well let me tell you about ME.”
Being a soldier in conflict is a pretty bad job. New figures show American soldiers need therapy afterwards – ten times more than British soldiers - because they’re brought up to expect that analysis can give you anything and everything, except of course a good job. I once went to a psychotherapist who asked me one question and then sat back for an hour leaving big silences that I was supposed to fill. Pardon me, but for £120 an hour I’m expecting her to do the talking, not me. It wasn’t until I told her I wouldn’t be coming back, or indeed paying her bill, that she suddenly found her voice. I think she found the shouting and swearing quite therapeutic.
Having a job as the voice of the speaking clock must be a rubbish way of earning a living. Every time you open your mouth in a supermarket people smile with recognition and ask the time. I just hope and pray the current bloke has a sense of humour and answers with “the time sponsored by Accurist is...”. If you want to know the time, by the way, and also annoy an MP at the same time, ask Chris Huhne the Liberal Democrat who is hogging the political news with claims he made his wife take driving penalty points for him. Huhne’s mum, Ann Murray, was the voice of the speaking clock for years. Pity she didn’t do it live as she wouldn’t have had the spare time to get pregnant.
My daughter had her belly button pierced this week and going with her to offer support I realised that being a tattoo artist is a pretty rubbish job too. Apart from punching holes in people all day like a secretary ploughing through binding, you have to be a walking advert for your profession and show off that it’s not painful by having graffiti on your arms, piercings across your ears, and studs through your nostrils giving you a permanent sniff.
But perhaps the worst job in the world is designing web sites. I’d like to thank John for redesigning mine and listening to my ideas and moans for months. I hope you like it. If you do, it was all my idea. If you don’t, blame John.