Why be a corporate whore when the perks are so much better elsewhere?

Ugh. Sunday morning. Possibly the most horrible hours of the week.

Unless of course you spend most of your waking hours stuck in an open-plan office pod, in which case the whole of Monday is a major disaster zone, without question.

I've never been able to do the office thing. I have tried, I mean, I'm not dissing it without some prior knowledge of the situation. Admittedly, my knowledge of office-bound wage-slavery isn't based on years of the torture - I managed two days and three hours before I packed up my stuff and ran out of there with a smile on my face and relief in my heart. But that was enough for me to be able to say, without any hesitation whatsoever, that the mere thought of being confined to an office during daylight hours for the rest of forever makes me itch.

The corporate world doesn’t fool me. I can’t toe the sort of line that puts money in the bank and sucks away your freedom, giving it back to you in little taster parcels they call ‘holiday’ as if that’s supposed to keep you afloat and relatively sane from here to retirement. I might never be able to boast at parties about what a big swinging dick I am in the field of corporate banking, or chicken-feed wholesale, or Tupperware parties, or whatever, but at least my mind is free, free from flipping through hoops of advancement, promotion, promises, free from being assaulted with the lies that it means any more than jack-shit at the end of it all. At least I have my integrity. Nobody is going to suck me into the career brainwashing maelstrom. I'd rather sign up with the Hari Krishnas. Or the Moonies. Or even the Scientologists. Yeah, my feelings about it are that intense.

I guess you could argue that I'm still a wage-slave working at the club. But it's different. There are no promises. All I'm expected to do is turn up, serve the punters, smile a bit, refrain from insulting any of the DJs or members of their entourage and then, when all the punters have been booted out and I've handed over the takings on my till to Fat Bastard (more on him some other time), I'm free to go home or, as is more often the case, to party. Nice and simple.

And this kind of job has some attractive perks. I don't mean that I get a pension and a season ticket loan (get real, like that kind of shit makes me salivate). I get a much better deal; I haven't queued or paid entry at a London club for the past two years, I get major discounts on my supplies of good-time candy, and I have a ready stock of Alpha males in lust with the barmaid vibe. Plus, I get to sleep all day if I want to and I never have to button myself into a suit. Not too bad, huh?

I kind of like my life.