Via Troubled Mike, I’ve been reading the diary of a Morrisons worker, and decided that it’s high time I blew the whistle on the recruitment industry.
I started, obviously, with the post below.
Blocking sales calls from agencies used to be part of my daily grind. In my former life as an office manager, I was of the opinion that recruitment agencies were the spawn of the devil. I’m partly inclined to think that most of them still are, although the one that I work for is an exception. After all, they have ISO 9001 [thanks to me].
The decision to get ISO 9001 came at a bad time, coinciding as it did with the new Employment Agencies Act, revisions to the Asylum and Immigration Act that require us to check every single candidate’s right to work in the UK, and the accession of all those little eastern european countries to the EU. All at once, clients are having to answer fiddly little questions about whether they do risk assessments, and staff are fighting tooth and nail not to have to do any extra paperwork.
It’s because of the cockle-pickers, you know. The Employment Agencies Act applies to all agencies, whether they recruit for the IT industry, nursing, models and actors, drivers, or people like me who just want to fill in forms. Theoretically, as well as getting proof of ID, agencies are supposed to seek proof of essential qualifications, and obtain references for any candidate likely to be working with vulnerable groups of people. It’s a big burden on the agencies, and I would estimate, from my own experience, that a very, very small number of agencies are actually bothering with all this.
I’ve got an appointment on Monday to register with another agency, and they have asked me to bring a photocopy of my passport. They’re not checking up on any of my qualifications or experience, and have already put me forward to the client without meeting me.
Our legal advisor has told us that there are about 12 people acting as Inspectors for the Department of Whoever it is that checks up on these things. I should think a lot more cockle pickers will have to drown before anyone is prosecuted for not filling in the right forms.
My contract is nearly up, and I have spent the entire day compiling a mailshot of my own CV, to send to 121 companies in the area. I have no idea if this will bring in any jobs, but the consultants seem to think it’s a good scheme, and the company doesn’t mind paying for it. I will miss working here, because by their very nature, all the staff are really, really nice. They are absolutely the very nicest people I have ever worked with.

Scene: The reception desk just inside the door of a recruitment agency in the centre of a southern British city.
Enter, in turns:
A Sikh man wearing a tracksuit and a huge medallion.
A bleached blond boy aggressively giving away advertising calendars.
A South African woman with an eight page CV all in capitals.
An incredibly gorgeous Frenchman with the cutest accent. Ever.
A bearded lady.
A man seeking a job for his wife, who stood meekly behind him.
A woman seeking a job for her daughter, who chewed gum and looked bored, even when addressed directly.
A very polished lady who looked like she worked on a perfume counter, and was most offended at being asked to do a typing test.
A number of shifty, barely-audible characters who stood sideways-on to the desk and refused to meet my eye.
Several Polish girls, two Swedes, and one Dutch person. No Hungarians.
Two people who were looking for other agencies.
None of these people own a copy of Get To The Next Screen. You could.

I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I know it’s taken a long time for me to deck the place out with the red, white & blue bunting, but it was worth it, don’t you think?
While I’m certain that Stuart and krissa probably need a hangover cure more than anything else, I have still done my best to provide star-spangled drinks from across the Atlantic, for all those who requested them.
Of course, Doctor P, awkward to the last, requested nothing of the sort; but that’s okay, because I’ve got a mess of pottage especially for him.
But, thank goodness, some people are true to our theme, so Gordon may have his Southern Comfort, Ade may have his Black’n’Tan, and Vaughan may have his complicated coffee.
Then there are those imaginative sorts who would prefer me to proffer cocktails. Dave was first, with his voodoo daiquiri, but he is joined by Elsie and her dry martini, Pix and her raspberry manhattan, and D, with a potentially explosive little number that’s lighting up the table.
I never quite know where to seat Mr D and his perennial vodka & twist, so today he can stand.
Poor Pete has been a victim of surgery this week, and still has a face like a hamster. Luckily he is as weak as a kitten, and therefore unable to take revenge for anything I might say about him having a face like a hamster. As he says, all he may have is water; but he’s in good company, as Mike‘s on the same thing.
And finally, we are honoured tonight by the presence of Her Royal Highness, Princess Jackie, and I’m delighted to ask her to make a toast to our special guests, Stuart and krissa… If we could just get Adrian to stop sniffing around her skirts for long enough to be able to concentrate.
Cheers, y’all!