Identity Crisis
The computer industry appears to have such an appalling image that many people are ashamed to admit they are part of it. I should know...
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The word 'Advertising' usually evokes a glossy image of a smartly dressed young person tooling along the highway in a BMW convertible with one hand on the wheel and the other clasping the mobile phone which affords them direct contact with the chap fixing the yacht.
Mention the word 'stockbroker' and watch people's eyes light up with images of beautifully cut suits and expensive braces; shattering sums of money shuffling over a screen in green numbers, and those strange gesticulations performed with a passion that commands respect.
But merely whisper the words 'computer industry' and watch a terrifying change take place. The person you have been conversing with smirks and brushes his finger underneath his nose, a kind of non-verbal 'ahem'. S/he is picturing a computer person: unwashed hair, possibly breeding DOS-compatible lice, bloodshot VDU eyes that seem to be made up of four colours -- tint, spot, process and Pantone; a pair of inch thick bi-focal glasses with a bit of tape holding them together; and clothes dating from the seventh century.
With this sort of image to contend with, it's perhaps understandable that I was actually ashamed of working in the computer industry I would dread the inevitable question: "What do you do?".
"I'm in finance."
"Really, what kind?"
"Ah, the ah, money-based kind."
or, worse, meeting the same person twice. "So you work in cheese?"
"Absolutely."
"But last week you said you were in finance."
"I finance cheese."
"What does that involve?"
"Money and cheese."
Finally I cracked one night at a party. "And what do you do Mr Tunbridge?"
"I kill and eat small children."
"oh, so you're a child worker?"
"No, I kill them."
"oh ha ha ha... I say, let go of me!"
After that trial, I decided that I need help. A friend suggested I rediscover my masculinity through a men's support group. Another said I should clear my emotional body which still had a hangover from a previous life. A third asked me to move out of his bathroom.
Eventually I decided to contact 'Career
Crisis', a self-help group for people ashamed of their professions. I
was surprised to see a number of well-heeled executive types there. one
dark-haired young fellow took turns brushing this silk suit and
massaging his temple while he spoke at me: "People think it's great to
be in banking, but it's hell."
"It must be difficult," I said.
"Bankers have such a bad image. People say we only care about our work, not about other people."
"I'm sure. Actually I work in..." Suddenly there was a ringing noise from his pocket, and he walked away shouting something into his mobile phone.
After swapping shame stories and comparing egos, we all gathered in a circle. our counsellor, Mr Speng, stood in the middle of the ring wearing a bright yellow T-shirt that said in capitals, "I'M A COUNSELLOR!" He grinned and spread his arms wide.
"Today, we're going to concentrate on exposure. You will expose yourselves." This involved taking turns in standing up in front of the group and being ridiculed for whatever your profession was. I was blasted by a torrent of abuse: "Egg-head. Four-eyes. Nerd" -- every insult associated with computers and a few more. After the workshop had finished, I approached the banker as he was leaving.
"How long have you been doing this?"
He jingled his car keys which bore the spiky Mercedes emblem. "About two years."
"Two years? Have you improved?"
"Not a bit. I love abusing others."
He left me coughing in a cloud of diesel fumes. It seemed I would to work out my problem on my own. I decided that, inside, I basically liked myself, therefore I should work from the outside in. So I became a shopping fiend, purchasing expensive suits, silk ties and even having a haircut.
Then a friend of mine gave me some invaluable advice. "Wear your underpants inside your trousers." After I had this down, there was no stopping me. About six months ago, I was sitting an innocuous little cafe wearing Gaultier when the lady at the next table lent towards me:
"Hi. Could you help me?"
"of course, anything, ha ha."
"You'll have to come to my place."
"Ya ha, no problem, ha ha."
"You see, there's a disk stuck in the slot and now it won't boot."
I live alone and work with cheese. Let me
be. 