I Am Not Liz Jones: A Cautionary Tale of Identity Theft.


This is me.

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This is Liz.

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We’re fairly different, of course. But we will forever be connected by Facebook. This certainly has nothing to do with Liz, though.

For you see, today marks the end of the Liz Jones fan page. There were many key moments in my Facebook journey with our Liz. When I first created the page many moons ago I used it as an opportunity to skim some fame from the oft-mocked columnist and eternal neurotic by satirising her ‘ludicrous’ columns. The biography gives an easy indication of the tone:

Liz Jones is the QUEEN of appalling journalism. Her recent articles include her facelift and her breast reduction. Other successful articles include her weekly columns, Jones Moans, which is a series of things this middle-aged snob hates and her biographical pieces about her complicated love life, bankruptcy and feelings of loneliness.

This attempt at quick, gratifying and easy fame became derailed when I started reading the columnists properly, for you see, like a literary form of Stockholm Syndrome I realised I was totally on Liz’s team. Suddenly, I did an about turn, trolling was out and praising was in. No more would I say it was fair game for India Knight to infer that Liz Jones sexually abused her cats and was overall a rancid c*** .

Realising that I no longer disliked the lost and lonely Liz – especially after I read about her sperm-stealing madness I did an about turn and decided that ‘Jizz Jones’ should rise like a phoenix and become a certified Facebook Star.

To further the brand I wrote a lengthy two part review of her memoir, Girl Least Likely To, which without doubt gave me the worst reviews of my whole e-writing career so far:

Liz Jones reviews

Naturally I couldn’t work out whether these comments were basic trolling from anti-LJ fans or extremely accurate comments about the caliber of my writing, so I went 80% with the former, even though I begrudgingly spent 40 minutes correcting the plethora of technical mistakes whilst openly lamenting the absence of an editor.

Anyway, what was weird about the page beforehand was that everyone assumed I was Liz Jones, probably because they didn’t read the biography tab and couldn’t believe anybody would be sad enough to ape Liz Jones (they were wrong). But here I was inadvertently committing identity theft, something she openly criticised in an article:

Likewise when someone posed as me on Twitter {note: not me} and tried to extract mobile phone numbers out of friends and relatives.

It was all becoming a little meta, really. Saying that Liz was being trolled as I was stealing her identity and using her name for promoting my (critically-panned) article. Also, it wasn’t even working for me.

I knew I needed to say goodbye to the Liz Jones page when I started to receive a flurry of messages from people asking if I (as Liz) would attend local animal events to further promote the plight of animal cruelty worldwide. My liberal guilt was strong when I saw people pouring their hearts out to Liz (not me) with long, lengthy life stories very much akin to Liz’s confessional narratives, only for me (as Liz) to reply ‘What a lovely message. Good work. Love, Liz’

Something had to give.

I explained to people that I wasn’t Liz Jones, but naturally nobody paid attention so my final major act of subterfuge was to use Liz Jones’ name to further my personal beliefs. I took aim at Lena Dunham for the hell of it and posted the comment ‘Boy, is this chick annoying. She needs to go away.’ I count it as a tremendous honour that I received feedback from one of Australia’s top editors* and that fans of Liz Jones on the page – who didn’t question the use of ‘boy’ and ‘chick’ in the comment promised to steer clear of her hipster nonsense.

Crappy Liz

Realising I had achieved everything possible and that this mad saga needed to end (especially when the private messages hit 100) I decided to retire the name I took in vain. My apologies to Liz for joining a list of great pretenders to the Liz Jones legacy and, if it helps, Liz, I really don’t believe you masturbate your cats.

*Well, Buzzfeed Australia.

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Celebrating World Book Day… with Tammy Wynette: Tragic Country Queen


I can’t remember how I discovered Tammy Wynette but I imagine it was something that Dolly Parton said about her that alerted me to the D-I-V-O-R-C-E torchsinger. When I discovered she was married five times, my interest significantly piqued. When I found this review,well my interest reached unprecedented heights. Look at at least one of the pictures chosen alone, as well as some of the comments defending her to the detriment of the journalist, shown below:

DM you should be ashamed to give this ‘journalist’ column space. I assume she is a trained psychologist judging by her many comments to the subject. One of the worst written articles I’ve read on here. I’m not a Tammy Wynette fan but what a disrespectful piece of writing by someone who can’t defend themself!

Good God, what is this article???? Is neither reports, informs or reveals anything apart from the total shambolic writing abilities of this “journo”… Please D.M save us from this waffling and pay real writers…. leave this woman to write for the Star or Take a Break.

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Tammy with husband #3, George Jones looking a little long in the tooth.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

So, even though I do feel really bad that I failed to get my curated ‘trash fiction’ list ready for World Book Day (March 5th), I can at least offer you a selection of literary quotes from McDonough about the life and times of Tammy Wynette.

So, Tammy, a glamour gal and collector of many husbands over the year. A Christian and a mother (questionable, according to the events depicted) as well as the originator of the song, Stand by Your Man. With so many images available, as well as photoshoots promoting her music, it wouldn’t be hard for the author to find a good cover photo to generate suitable interest for potential readers. For example, one of her glamour shots.

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And if not a glamour shot, why not one of the eye-watering/immensely lit shots of her looking like an extra out of Dynasty?

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So what picture did the author choose?

TW Cover

This one.

Anyway, let’s begin.

First things first, Jimmy McDonough loved this dead woman.

We know this from his letters. Note the way he skillfully reminds Tammy of the events of her life, helpfully elaborating on the order of her husbands, business managers etc for the benefit of the reader.

What’s particularly special about his writing is his conversational tone, as well as his basic understanding of human psychology. Plus he was a fan, helping Tammy (who, of course was dead) to understand the world post-1998, as well as the rise in Tammy drag queens.

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The kidnapping

The world since 98The reveal

The book though, if we discussing it critically hit its stride about 540 pages into it 573  length, specifically with the details regarding Tammy’s death. So let’s start with how Tammy was found, and how people reacted (I’ve highlighed how the author, ever present reacted)

McDonough’s coverage of the aftermath is particularly strong here. The National Enquirer would be most impressed.

Funeral plansTheft

Sometimes people say the husband made a scene at the funeral.

The hubby at the funeralReaction to hubby at the funeralThings didn’t improve either at Tammy Towers.

Aftermath

A whole new can of worms

Thank you, McDonough for bringing a rather distasteful tale of death and family avarice to our attention in such an authoritative, literary way. This World Book Day has been an unmitigated success. Let’s end on his final words of wisdom.

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My family & I


It’s been a great year for my daughter, sons and I. We have made leaps and bounds in our relationships, even though there were some testing moments along. I shared some of the high and low points with the readership of the Daily Mail, complete with the well wishes and critiques I received from their readership.

On bedtime & Big Brother:

Jade & I

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On Lindsay Lohan and Taylor Swift:

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Screen Shot 2014-11-12 at 12.50.08On appropriate dressing and fashion:

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On managing weight:

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On role models:

Screen Shot 2014-11-12 at 13.03.33 Screen Shot 2014-11-12 at 13.03.28On literature and film (in particular, 50 Shades of Grey):

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Screen Shot 2014-11-12 at 13.00.35Screen Shot 2014-11-12 at 12.51.58 Screen Shot 2014-11-12 at 13.00.48  Screen Shot 2014-11-12 at 13.01.13Screen Shot 2014-11-12 at 13.01.54And True Blood:

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And Twilight:

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On Katie Price:

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On leisure activities and vices:

Screen Shot 2014-11-12 at 12.58.16Screen Shot 2014-11-12 at 12.58.50 On pregnancy:

Screen Shot 2014-11-12 at 12.59.34Screen Shot 2014-11-12 at 12.59.43 Screen Shot 2014-11-12 at 12.57.49Screen Shot 2014-11-12 at 12.57.41Screen Shot 2014-11-12 at 12.57.45On smoking, again:

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Screen Shot 2014-11-12 at 12.54.08 On Liz Jones:

Screen Shot 2014-11-12 at 12.53.26 Screen Shot 2014-11-12 at 12.53.19  On spending quality time with the kids: Screen Shot 2014-11-12 at 15.21.04

Screen Shot 2014-11-12 at 12.51.08On having a close relationship:

Screen Shot 2014-11-12 at 15.18.58Screen Shot 2014-11-12 at 12.52.40And on having children with different partners, like Natasha Hamilton:

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A week in sales…


My career so far in life as been more cameo appearances in odd jobs with weird people. In Australia I was having limited success measuring my degree with illuminating job prospects. And desperate times can indeed lead to desperate measures – as I realised when I got lured into my first major sales job based purely on commission: my first full time job in Australia. Whilst it wasn’t quite the right job, I had a month to fundraise for Bali and was even ready to try a bit of door to door sales.

The interview was in an office with a guy who supposedly paid his own tuition for university  on the back of the sales, he was smug because he was obviously a huge success and had been for years. I think after that I shouldn’t have taken this job. So having completed the intensely tedious two day training  I got out into the field with the ‘sales guns’. Sales people are obviously major tools, this you can gleam from the bat. On that first day I was being driven around to a hole of a suburb with a self-professed bogan. The lines this dude was using were innovative of an Australia most people would be pretty desperate to state didn’t exist. For example, his favourite place in Victoria was Mildura which was because it was a relaxing, rural enclave which was “always filled with white people,” which naturally he liked because  “he only liked white people.” And he continued, he was intensely resentful towards Indian people because they got the best pitches, to the public he would literally insult the person’s house and the person within – whilst they were walking towards the door and within earshot. He enjoyed referring to people as dumb fucks who he actively tried to screw into rigid electricity contracts. Instantly I realised this was a job that had no emphasis on job satisfaction and all about the money, therefore I got quite a bit of satisfaction when the guy could only master one sale on that day.

Perhaps though the most worrying thing he said though was that “you can’t have a conscious to be successful in this job,” really, I should have walked then. What he meant by this was that the language used to get the sale meant you were commanding the people to change electricity companies without even offering them that question. As my bogan nemesis implied, you were relying on the stupidity of people to getting those sales. How sad there was a serious supply of stupid people who bought into buying electricity with these guns.

So I went around by myself on the second day and managed to get a sale, this was very disappointing in retrospect because it made me stay in this job longer than I should have (i.e more than one day), from then on I strolled around equipped in my ‘electricity’ uniform, compendium in hand and a growing tendency to self-destruct on a random person’s doorstep. Obviously I completely understood that people didn’t want to talk to me.. but at the time I was stumbling in random suburbs of Melbourne receiving multiple texts from my managers trying to get the recruits to compete like dogs. Frequently the text would say somebody had got a sale, so the following people who haven’t got a sale were getting left behind. After all, we weren’t getting paid so we really were wasting our time. These texts were making me feral, I didn’t believe myself to be psychologically competitive in nature, it was just the way that we were sales figures first, people second. If this texting were the personality of a man it would be brittle, insipid, self-involved and seriously shallow, like my manager to a tee in fact. This job seriously blew. And it blew a little further when the manager was trying to use the white is alright policy to sell more electricity. This was a truly poisonous environment.

I had tried to resign after the first day I didn’t get a sale. To my horror I was sold into coming back to work, I was furious at myself for promising to come back to a job that was making me want to swallow acid. Now I can laugh but then, walking around in my shell coat like I was contaminated, I seriously thought I would have a psychotic episode in the suburbs. Like I was an extra on some suburban sob story like Revolutionary Road or Desperate Housewives.

Jobs admittedly have never been my strong point… but this was ultimately woeful. The final pushing point was the day I had decided to resign. We were stuck in traffic as a team, I was curiously silent when everyone was mirthfully discussing visiting prostitutes, taking drugs etc. Suppressing the urge to vomit, we then drove past a group of Japanese tourists and my least favourite bogan happily attempted to deadpan: why can’t we nuke them. The bile was threatening to spill all over the manager’s company car. Thank God we were literally touching base. The thought of spending another ten minutes with these individuals was making me seriously consider whether to hitchhike on the motorway instead.

I left the next morning. Although I was stuck talking to the people who clearly didn’t want to pay me. This had been going on for weeks, with false promises of payment until, finally, I saw some much needed $ in my account. And so ended my week in sales. Most people end up doing a sales role which turns out exactly as mine did… but it felt like a cathartic experience to tell you how lame my personal experience truly was. Fingers crossed the next job I end up doing in Oz will involve me on television, earning thousands of $$$ or steeped in job satisfaction. Whatever happens, you guys will be the first to hear all about it, now let us talk about Australian holidays…

Melbourne: the journey.


Mel-bourne / It’s my city / And I love it / I love it / I was born and raised here / I’ve got it made here / And if I had my way I’m gonna stay here / For life / For Li-fffffe / For Life.

The theme tune above is to promote the news for channel 7 and is a perfect demonstation of how bad adverts really are in Australia. Isn’t it abysmal? Well, Melbourne has definitely been my city for four months, and greater Victoria my state for extended journeys. I have deliberately managed to keep people in the dark about my time here, admittedly it’s because I’ve barely had any internet time and the time I’ve had has been used up desperately trying to message people to keep abreast with their lives.

However, to start the story I’ll tell everyone briefly my first impressions of the city:

Stepping off around midday on the 4th of December to a blustery city grid, I realised Melbourne was a city that was clean, tidy and easy to navigate. It was also sprawling and revolved around those all important suburbs. So many parts of Melbourne are the perfect example of stiffling domesticity, and so many reflect the fact that Melbourne is the city rated on different indexes as the city people actively love living in. So I knew this was my opportunity to enter a cool area with a mix of colourful travelers and endearing Aussies. Hitting the Nomads hostel in Melbourne was easy, it was what to do after that. Within my two week stay at the hostel I continued to talk to anyone and everyone desperately trying to work out who I could myself having work lunches in the future with, and who I would fain interest in, only to forget them immediately.

As for the city of Melbourne, it is divided into the CBD and a variety of unique suburbs: the north of Melbourne is cheaper and more urbanised with Brunswick being the cooler kid’s home; the west is (from my limited knowledge) a combination of bogan hot spots and, towards the south, affluent yachting clubs; the east is the artists’ home as well as the hipsters’; and the south is about the money, the beach and the status. One of these areas was going to be my home – I just had to decide on one first. So it was on my first day I walked around with two German girls, who I never saw again, btw, in Fitzroy’s Brunswick Street. This street was my ideal place to see because it was the Brick Lane of Melbourne, a mix of cheap mixed with expensive, trashy blending firmly with trashy, crackheads strolling with wealthy fashionistas. Walking down that very long street, I felt there was so much here for me to grab, stuff to buy, vol-a-vons to sample, people to meet, places to drink, arty shops with rare teas and snazzy silver leaf notebooks.  I felt like I was within my Melbourne postcode already.

Living the Fitzroy dream

But settling in Melbourne was a big challenge for me really. That first week I kept looking at any houses that hadn’t been snapped on Gumtree. I was also hemorrhaging countless hours scouring the internet for any jobs. I needed a deflection. So I continued my obsession with being a tourist. And luckily, Melbourne is the most stimulating city for arts and culture – seemingly –  in the whole of Australia. I managed very early on to tick off the parks and places made famous in Melbourne. For bars and music I would frequent AC/DC lane (okay I went first) and Chapel Street, home of  the (no doubt) world-famous bazaar. I also visited such gems as:

  • The Immigration Museum.
  • The Botanical Gardens in the city and St. Kilda.
  • The old Melbourne Gaol.
  • The Melbourne Museum (obviously)
  • The Night Markets in St. Kilda and Queen Victoria.
  • The Australian Film Museum and Federation Square.
Just a brief note on the Immigration Museum, which I found essential for those early days in Melbourne. I didn’t flee political tyranny or poverty, but… you get my general message. Particularly worthwhile was a exhibition on the ‘lost children’ from the UK who were subjected to unpreceded physical, mental and sexual abuse because their carers could get away with it. That was a harrowing experience in an otherwise gentle and enriching museum. Highly recommended if anyone looks past this article as my journey into Melbourne, and what Melbourne had to offer

On top of these places I was also grabbing a further bite out of Melbourne by taking on its cafe culture through regular visits to the tearooms, in particular the tea room in the centre of Melbourne – Collins Street, and the renowned Flinders laneways. I was drinking at rooftop bars and making impromptu visits to the cinemas. My leisure time had never felt so hectic.

And of course, I was spending large amounts of time at the beach which housed the ludicrously overpriced Luna Park, the overpriced cake shops of Acland Street, and the abysmal clubs of Fitzroy Street. St. Kilda beach may have been filthy, but it was by the beach, had a variety of crackheads and prostitutes you could happily spend a day merely and fulfilled one of my big Australian dreams: to have a home by the sea.

St Kilda in action

So, what were my thoughts of Australia and its people from those early days? It’s pretty easy off the bat to note that Australia’s weather is one of its strongest assets; why would you spend your evenings drinking tea ravenously whilst pouring over tv listings like you would in England when the weather is so balmy and the places to go are plentiful. The Australians themselves I originally described as ‘opinionated, friendly, brash and raring to talk,’ and this is still true. Australians have few pretensions and enjoy demonstrating this. They think what they say and this was most easily shown by a guy who started a conversation with me asking me where I hailed from, as I had an accent, when I replied ‘just outside London’ he replied quite without any tact or respect: “God, I hate your accent.”

For those people who say Australian people are loaded guns, it’s these comments that show they could indeed be close to the mark.

Having said that, Australians frequently use expressions like ‘no dramas’ to fully convey to people that they want to appear light and easy. Overall, when you meet the right bunch of Australians you are on easy street. And when you find the right suburb and the right groove in Australia, again you’re on easy street.

This is what I learnt in the first two weeks. And it was time to put it into practise. I got my place on the beach, wasn’t quite bankrupt and was ready to hit the ground running.

How to survive unemployment.


  Although it potentially doesn’t sound intelligent to say it, I actually rather enjoyed unemployment. Whilst many of my unemployed friends (all graduates) would complain violently about their sorry state of affairs, I found the three-months I wasn’t working gastronomically enriching and delightfully lacking in pressure. Having said that, I am a homebody and wasn’t frantically fretting about bills and rent. So if you’re unemployed, here are my tips to surviving unemployment for the bleaker days when you might not be working.

Do a daily Sudoku.

Try a difficult/expert sudoku because it is as mentally challenging as any job. One Sudoku, for example took it over ninety minutes to complete. I set myself a target not to leave my garden on a summer evening until I completed the ‘expert’ Sudoku. This meant it was in pitch blackness that I finally decoded the 81 squares…

Watch Hoarders and Intervention.

On the channel Bio, there are some really worthwhile public figures who have managed some great accomplishments fitted into a tightly woven programme. Then there are some really bottom-of-the-barrel programmes about average Joes who lead less-than-amazing lives, which I am a really big fan of. The first, Intervention, is really stomach-churning stuff, a programme my parents steadfastly refuse to humour. The premise is as it sounds: a televised intervention. You are led on a story about people with alcohol or substance abuse, and occasionally the overeaters of America. You thereafter become immersed in their stories. Where did their lives go wrong? How did they end up slugging a bottle of vodka by lunchtime? The intervention is therefore a great surprise to them, as they are led into the room where a trained interventionist gets family and friends to force them into a ninety day treatment programme (the addict does not know about the intervention, nor the ‘gift’ of treatment).

It counted to me as a form of light psychology- will they survive the intervention? And will the family hold their bottom lines- to reject further support if they relapse? I actually stopped watching however after one individual improved after the ninety day treatment (for obvious reasons of not having the substances on him) but then went on to fully relapse, and then subsequently commit suicide. The shock of this shattered me emotionally. Luckily, most of the stories resolve around successes. The programme was gripping, very powerful television, something I needed in those quiet days.

Hoarders was much lighter and much more cathartic to watch. If you know that you’re a messy person, you are safe in the knowledge that you are no messier a person than ANYONE featured on Hoarders. The crystallisation of the so-bad-it’s-good television format, this programme has a dramatic theme tune, and featured continual updates of Hoarding confrontations, one-to-ones with official hoarding specialists, and a whole lotta junk!

My two favourite individual clips actually worked to highlight the severity of hoarding. The first was of a mother in a backwater farmhouse in Oklahoma. She had several animals, some of which had chewed the back wall of her house! After this clear wake-up call, she still continued to neglect her house and build her possessions. The cracking point in this particular case was when the neglected daughter arrived to assist in sorting through her mother’s hoarding, only to feel further neglected when the mother got emotional over a sodden toy: a (drowned) bear. In a brilliant confrontation, the daughter wisely pointed out that the mother seemed to care more about the bear than her. Once the penny finally dropped, (it was hidden under about 400 pizza boxes) it was a brilliant television programme – we knew the mum had finally seen the light.

In a second brilliant moment from another episode (I’ll leave the adult diaper episode for a later date,) an emotionally-fragile photographer/mom – who knew her property was being monitored by social services closely – simply lost control of the situation. The scenario: her 14 year-old daughter was about to be looked after by her father across the country, this visit from the hoarding team was a make or break moment for the family unit. It therefore seems ridiculous that the mother proceeded to argue with her daughter because she discarded used underwear, which was previously discovered in the animal toilet of their disused garage. The location of this underwear was in the 1-800-GOT-JUNK truck, and the mother was NOT happy, as demonstrated by her breakdown on camera, in front of ten members of the team where she kept whining – in between crying – that her underwear was in the truck, fuelling her feelings of betrayal.

Daytime television, I realised after this moment could not be bettered. I also realised that the mere connotation of hoarding scared the be-Jesus out of me. I became an obsessive with cleaning, (well, I definitely improved anyway) which leads me to my next tip to surviving unemployment….

Complete an audit of your house…and sell the contents on Amazon Marketplace.

Self-worth when not working can be hard to come by. When you discover you are watching a re-run of E! News followed by a re-run of the Kardashians, you know you need better distractions! After watching Hoarders, I tried to become as minimalist as possible, i.e. selling my life on Amazon Marketplace. Surprisingly, I was selling my items like no-one’s business. A book on crystals? SOLD. A shockingly boring film about the tragic life of Blues singer and drugs-fiend, Billie Holiday – played by current crack-whore, Diana Ross (for a massively inflated price)? SOLD. Any textbook I acquired from my university education? SOLD. The feeling of selling was like a true addiction, in fact, for a while it superseded my addiction to my emails (see my previous entry on my email addiction), and there was nothing like feeling as if I were an online Del Boy. Unlike Ebay, the whole re-listing/buy it now saga didn’t exist. You merely listed, hoped your item was the cheapest, and thereafter hope your item \ctually sold. Last week someone was mad enough to buy the truly abysmal Dances With Wolves film, directed by, and starring Kevin Costner. A true snoozefest if ever there were a film. The other day I even sold Bambi. Of course, I felt wildly guilty, Bambi had already lost his Mum and there I was selling his legacy down the river.

Amazon is the perfect way to gain easy cash whilst minimalising your life. Amazingly, I haven’t received a cent from Amazon from this excessive promotion, therefore you should take my words at face value.

Surveys: the key to feeling valued.

Please believe me, friends, when I tell you this doing surveys, for me is in many ways a double-edged sword. When I was in high school and compulsively checking my emails, (I’d imagine by now you’ve got the message) many of the few I received were pop quizzes from people within my year group, which my friends and I quickly denounced as particularly sad. This was for a largely obvious reason- we could just have asked these questions at school four hours ago. Why were we going home to answer banal questions through a screen?

I also remember when I was at university and had access to unlimited television after several months of desperately streaming through my laptop. One of the first programmes I grew an unmitigated addiction to was Wife Swap USA. The programme went out of its way to find the weird in Wisconsin, the odd in Ohio and the kooky in Kankas. One particular family were obsessed with COO-PONS. Yes, I mean coupons, but the way they said it was so, well, weird and bemusing. The family were seen as a joke because they didn’t count work as a priority; instead the Father worked part-time whilst the children and mother spent many an hour cut, cut, cutting the coupons from the many magazines they received. Admittedly, when the swap occurred, the ‘coupon’ wife managed to save the family a sensational $70 on an $80 food shop (no typos there), however the question was inevitably begged. Why didn’t they just work and collect coupons on the side?

I’ve veering off topic here, so, I graduated shortly after becoming glued to Wife Swap, and thereafter felt the bubble burst. This was when I realised that literature wasn’t necessarily the most sought-after degree out there. My sister suggested when I got my first role, as an unpaid intern, that I do surveys on the side. I originally thought nobody could have that much free time. Oh how times changed!

In many ways, whilst unemployed, I accredited survey companies for providing a great deal of happiness and motivation for people like me whose challenges of the day included whether I should have cornflakes or weetabix on a Wednesday morning. For example, the message from one company, upon completing an individual surveys states: Thanks for doing this survey- we really appreciate it. Fancy doing another? Well, my answer within a beat was ‘absolutely,’ of course I would! My relationship to surveys has become rather abstract, in fact I feel like surveys are like an old friend. And whilst I used to think doing surveys were sad, I can clarify by stating that doing paid surveys is actually quite liberating, there’s nothing like a major company willing to pay for your humble opinion. Well, in my eyes, anyway.

Even now, whilst I’m working, the moment a survey pops in my inbox I don’t need to think twice to sign straight on. The addiction to the survey, to stating your opinion is something I actively wouldn’t want to break from. My attitude to surveys is that they won’t leave me, so I’ll never leave them. So get started on the surveys, what are you waiting for?

And finally: take frequent walks.

There are days when you’re not working where you feel the idea of leaving your house to be without any real purpose. I’m sure you must have been there even when you’re working. So I say to those unemployed, take a walk to your local woods. Don’t just visit the job centre to collect your dollar.

And with those tips, I wish you well should you ever enter unemployment. With these tips you can’t fail to enjoy at least a day of sitting on your Jack Jones working out your next big step. And if you’re at that particular stage just mentioned, good luck to you in your future career!