Andy Richardson: Fortune favours the bold despite interview blunder

My plans to become a professional writer were underpinned by a fall-back option. If I couldn’t follow in the footsteps of John Steinbeck, I would instead follow in the footsteps of J Sainsbury. Retail management offered a sensible path for a 17-year-old, soon-to-pass-his-A-levels-with-flying-colours kid who needed to find a way to buy a VW Beetle and pay his mum and dad some keep.

Having dismissed the university option, I’d instead written to about 60 local newspapers and 30 medium-to-large retail businesses so that I could get a foot on the job ladder.

Employment would provide the passport to freedom. Who knew, I might even be able to buy an unremarkable semi-detached if I was really lucky.

And so Project Job Search began. As I struggled to come to terms with the finer points of Keynesian economics and the poetry of Wordsworth while at sixth form, each evening I’d bind a CV that had ideas above its station and visit the post office the following day.

The interviews came thick and fast. I failed to impress the HR department at some supermarket by saying I’d put family before my job and not move to Bolton at the drop of a hat if asked.

Not that there’s anything wrong with Bolton. But I’d be damned if I was going to slice haslet and stack shelves rather than pick my son up from school.

Others were more successful and I found myself with more job opportunities than required. I could dazzle as a trainee manager at Dixon’s, work into my dream job (dream denotes nightmare, rather than good dream) at Sainsbury’s or learn the ropes of regional reporting on the Walsall Chronicle.

And then Rackham’s threw me a curveball. Come and sell Kurt Geiger shoes. Work with fragrant colleagues. Thumb expensive suits and dresses. Flounce around a department store like Mr James in Are You Being Served? (It’s an old cultural reference, but some of you will get it).

The day for my interview arrived. I was primed in my cheap high street suit, a pair of shiny shoes, hair that resembled a lion’s mane and more enthusiasm than a newly-promoted Premier League football club. What could possibly go wrong?

I arrived at the desk and gave them my name. I was there to see two sparkling ladies in the HR team who’d decide whether I had what it took to become the new Benjamin Harvey.

The lady on the desk leafed through her diary. My name didn’t appear. It was fine, I protested, I had a letter showing my name, interview time and the names of the HR team interviewing me. The receptionist inspected the letter. I was clearly who I said I was – though, to be honest, fraudulent job interviewees masquerading as teenagers must be a rare breed – and she’d phone through to her colleagues.

As her call progressed, she muffled a laugh. Replacing the receiver on her phone, she picked the letter up once more.

“Your interview is for Tuesday the 1st. Today is Wednesday the 2nd.”

Oops. Maybe I wouldn’t become Employee of the Month at the West Midlands’-then-most-glamorous department store, after all.

Fortune favours the brave – and the stupid – and the HR department were feeling funky.

How about I go through to their office and they’d interview me anyway. What was the worst that could happen? I’d already arrived a day late and provided my sheer ineptitude when it came to time keeping. It was bound to be a straight no, but thanks for wasting the bus fare on a day trip to Birmingham.

The interview started and I tried to conceal my embarrassment. By the end of it, the HR ladies and I were the best of friends.

“What would you do if we told you you’d got the job?” they asked.

“I’d go straight to the lower ground floor and buy a bottle of champagne,” I answered, even though I was legally too young to drink it.

I landed the job, needless to say. Though it remains one of the most red-faced days of my life.