It won’t surprise you to hear I’ve been invited to the royal wedding on Saturday. Slightly annoyed by the timing, but Haz’s promised me there’ll be a big screen showing the Cup Final. I’m not a fan of either of the two teams involved but she seems like a nice girl so I’ll probably go.
I won’t be wearing a Wolf mask, in case you’re hoping for a glimpse on TV.
“That wouldn’t be appropriate” apparently. Squares.
Luckily, I’ve got plenty of three piece suits knocking around.
In preparation for the big day, I was thinking about the royal family and the adoration in which the nation holds them. You know what… they’re a lot like recruiters.
Don’t believe me? Keep reading…
Recruiters love the hunt. They live for it. They’ll ask what you do at parties, bah mitzvahs and christenings just in the hope you might be a candidate or… the most treasured of all finds… a client.
Imagine meeting a mildly connected relative, only to find out they hire staff in your market. Jackpot!
Of course the flip side of this is, they’ll hunt in your sanctuary on the regs.
Headhunting the things you hold dearest.
And it won’t even go up on the wall.
It’ll be just another number before it’s on to the next one.
Recruitment offices are strange places. You might work for a Grad production line-type business where people tolerate abuse for a year before seeing the light. If you don’t, it’s likely you have a mix of ages.
And there’s typically one person, who’s too old.
Now, before you think I’m playing the age card, I don’t mean physically old. I mean mentally. They’re shot. Done. They’ve had their chips.
Their evaporating sanity’s only made worse by the injection of youth every six months. It’s not their wobbly legs, greying, diminishing hairline or flimsy back that outs them. It’s their steadfast continuation of fascist ideals.
They’ll say something at a company gathering that makes people go silent. No, you can’t call the corner shop that. And no, that’s not the way to describe the local Chinese Takeaway.
It’s 2018, grow up.
Look, I’m not making this stuff up, click here.
Recruiters bloody love a bit of fancy dress.
Sales day? Fancy dress.
Dress down Friday? Fancy dress.
Internal Awards night? Fancy dress.
Pranking the new starter? Fancy dress (for them, no one else).
Fancy dress is always fun. But it’s better when someone takes it too far.
And it’s even better than that, if the perpetrator is the youngest, squeakiest one of the group who you expect to be sunshine and lollipops.
Range Rovers are a British institution. Having one means you’re kind of a big deal. Especially if you go white with some decent rims and ‘privacy glass’.
Turn up at a client in a Range and people know you’re good. You don’t pay extra for a walnut dash if money’s tight.
But the beauty of a Range is, you can wear a suit or go casj in a sweet hoodie and still look like a sickhead.
Wanna know what the Queen listens to when she’s cruisin’? Rage Against the Machine. Yeah I was surprised too.
What’s better than a boozed up flutter when you’re supposed to be at work?
Sure there are deals to be closed. Any other day of the week, your boss would be breathing down your neck to get them closed, but today’s different. You’re at the races!
You bask in the musk of the sweat from the great unwashed. The impromptu Guinness showers as the favourite romps home. Your one hammered colleague who falls over and can’t get up. Breaking even by the penultimate race and risking it all for one big win.
Yep, there’s nothing like the races. Also, if you’re the Queen, you can quietly threaten horses with a trip to the Glue Factory if they take the piss.
The murky waters of office romances are risky rivers to row. But before you weigh up whether it’s a good idea, stop. You have no control. The only thing hotter than getting risqué round the photocopier is the secrecy it’s bound with.
Resistance to an office romance is futile.
So is trying to keep it a secret.
Chances are, whether you have or not, people will think you have. And there’s only one thing that spreads quicker than office gossip… An exposé from a Paparazzo.
“Why do we still need a royal family?” A question asked only slightly less than, “Why do we still need recruiters?”
Apart from the injection of cash to the economy, in either case, let’s look at a more serious fact.
The royal family enforce protection of swans. But… if a recruiter has a good year, they’ll substitute turkey for a swan at christmas dinner. So, if you get rid of one, you need to get rid of both.
Lest there be a vicious cull of a much loved bird in the English countryside (swans not the Queen).
Or worse, so many swans you can’t open a sarnie anywhere in public without your arm being broken by a white bird with an anger problem. If there’s one thing you don’t want too many of, it’s swans. They’re utter bastards.
Just imagine if you will, the misdemeanours and shenanigans in your office going public.
Not only would it derail the business, it’d make everyone who worked there unemployable. Reputations in tatters, and a black eye for the establishment.
And it’s for that reason entirely, the things that happen inside the inner circle never get airtime.
Recruitment or royalty, the truth never outs. There’s plenty of hearsay. But as proved in the early 00’s, people hate hearsay.
Who doesn’t love an office dog? And Corgis are the perfect size for a foot rest and docile enough to put up with it. Their fur also makes the perfect shawl for those bitey winter months, after they’ve bitten the dust.
Along with an insatiable appetite for the finer things in life, both the royal family and recruiters bloody love office dogs. Sadly, the Queen rattled through her last remaining Corgi recently.
Luckily, she knows her way around a dog’s privates and bred a Dachshund/Corgi mix for an even more timid animal that wouldn’t answer back.
If there’s one thing the royal family hates more than being papped, it’s not being papped.
The famous quote from Oscar Wilde springs to mind. And the similarities between the royal family and recruiters in this sense are unreal. The only thing that beats a toilet selfie is lining everyone up in black tie for a Christmas party group shot.
Shall we do a silly one?
So, assuming Haz or Megs doesn’t read this and I’m given the cold shoulder for Saturday (which ironically’s on the menu) I’ll give you a wave when the cameras pan round the congregation.
Don’t let anyone ever tell you you’re irrelevant.
You’re at least as relevant as the Royal Family.
You’re welcome recruiters.
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