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It was 1995… I was 23 and had not long moved to England from New Zealand with my partner who was pregnant with our first daughter.. We had decided to live in Brighton on the south coast as it had a good music scene and was close to London. We had been there about two months, I had yet to suss out a musical direction and was running out of money… so it was time to look for a J-O-B! Now — up until this point in my life, I’d never actually had a 9 to 5 job (I’d always played music), so I thought … ”What’s the least thing like work that is actually a 9 to 5 job?’ I decided that ‘Telesales’ sounded good… Sit on a phone all day talking to people! So I found a telesales job in the local paper, went for the interview, charmed (or confused) them with my ‘antipodean’ accent and basically lied to them that I’d done heaps of telesales in NZ… AND GOT THE JOB! 8:50 am… First day of ‘work’, I find myself in the lift going up to the top floor of a six story building in central Brighton with a wiry, charismatic, young skinhead from Shoreham By Sea, named Neil… We start talking and Neil, noticing my accent asks – ‘Are you an Aussie?’ ‘Na, I’m a Kiwi’ ‘Oh, right. Do you smoke?’ ‘Smoke WHAT?’ ‘WEED’ ‘Yeah” ‘Oh Cool. We all smoke here’ Now what I assumed by what he said, as we slowly went up in the lift, was that everyone occasionally got together on Brighton Beach after work for a relaxing joint — watch the sunset, or something like that. So we get to the top of the building, the lift door opens and I walk out into the hallway. Yep. That unmistakable smell… WEED! ‘What the fuck?!’ I thought. I slowly walked along toward the office door from which I could here muffled talking and laughing — and from the toilets just up ahead on the right I heard what sounded like the sound of someone dry retching… The toilet door opens and Dave (the manager who interviewed me) emerges looking pale and clutching a syringe! At this point, I started freaking out thinking that this was some sort of weird joke or set up… “Alright Victor, Good to see you made it, this way mate” he said. He opened the door and walked into the office… I take a seat as instructed beside fast talking Cockney called ‘Steve’ who says. “Here ya go mate” and hands me a joint (I’m still thinking ‘WTF??!’) but keep my poker face, take the joint, have a puff and pick up the phone… And what were we selling?? PLASTIC BAGS! That’s right folks; Plastic Bags…. carrier bags to supermarkets and shops, black rubbish bags to restaurants, denture bags to dentists, plastic car seat covers to mechanics etc etc. There was a book shelf which was stacked with yellow pages from every region of the U.k…. you would choose a sector and an area (carrier bags to chemists in Sheffield; body bags to vets in Manchester for instance — and away you go!) A conversation with a vet went something like this… me: ‘Hi I’m calling from a company manufacturing polythene products… Just clearing some body bags out cheap — wondered if you’re interested?’ vet: ‘What sizes do they come in?’ me: ‘small dog or cat, medium dog and large dog.’ vet: ‘How strong are the large ones?’ me: ‘VERY strong… you could put a horse’s head in it.’ vet: OK… How much for 1500 large ones?’ me: ‘A hundred and twenty six pounds.’ vet: ‘great. I’ll take 3000.’ ‘THREE THOUSAND?!’ I thought. ‘How many animals is this guy killing?!’ So yeah… My job was to sell plastic bags on the phone and get stoned all day! And it was the ‘getting stoned all day’ part that caused a bit of friction at home… You see, after three or so days of turning up home in the evening stoned off my gourd — my heavily pregnant partner didn’t actually believe I was going to work, or even had a job! ‘Don’t lie to me Victor — where have you been??’ ‘Honestly, I’ve been at work… And we just get stoned all day — The boss lets us… he actually jacks up smack in the toilet!’ ‘That is the biggest load of shit I’ve ever heard…. Where do you go all day??!’ ‘I’ve told you, I go to work. The office is in West Street. I get stoned and sell plastic bags on the phone — THAT is my job… Now the only way I can prove it to you is if you actually come down to the office and see for yourself, or wait til you see my payslip’ ‘I’m not coming down to the ‘OFFICE’ Victor cos there is no OFFICE!… NOW TELL ME THE TRUTH!!!’ (and so on and so forth for the next week)… Then I got my money and payslip — my partner was AMAZED that everything I’d told her was true! I stayed in that job for a few months then my first daughter was born, we decided we needed more money so I left for a higher paying position as a travel agent. Steve — The Cockney, told me that the office had been shut down a couple of months after I left due to the fact that the business owner had turned up unannounced from London (he would usually ring the day before a visit) and walked in just after closing… Not only did the whole place stink of weed when he walked in, but he was also met with the sight of Dave the junky manager shagging one of the female staff members on the floor…