Jobsearch #1

In another life I was Magnum PI. Magnum was the chat handle given to me by people I worked with. We all had names; it added a different dimension to the day-to-day stuff. I bare no resemblance to the actor Tom Selleck who played Magnum, but I can see where my co-workers were coming from. Dark hair, slightly older, colourful shirts.

Jobsearch #1 is so named because it’s the first interview I’ve had since the Dole Wallah blog started. Thanks Mr Jobcentre Plus for pushing me over the edge.

An e-mail with the company’s address and a checklist of things I would need was sent. All I had to was turn up at quarter to five and take my clothes off.

Magnum PI was often seen running down a Hawaiian beach in trunks, and I was supposed to do something similar in Shepherds Bush.


Sometime back in April last year I registered on an extras website. There’s a couple of photos, my height, body measurements and age. And for the past year I’ve had no extra work. I applied to be in a binge drinking video for the NHS, but nothing came of that.


In the life before that other life I’d done a little bit of extra work. Reconstructions, when budgets were big. I remember a programme about arms dealing actually using a real 747, and a lot of money going missing in Rwanda. But that’s another story.

At the weekend I prepared like a method actor. The jobs a game show, not Shutter Island or Green Zone; but I take my work seriously. I’m supposed to be Britain’s Hairiest man, that’s the brief. A celebrity will interrogate the clothed me. And I’m supposed to have some witty retort up my sleeve. I’m supposed to let my personality shine through; the Production Company’s words not mine. The real hairy man, will be in the line-up too.

My first thought was Genetics. Mr Hairy UK will have inherited his hirsuteness. So I invent a Great Grandfather. Great Granddad Hairy was the Hairy Man from Afghanistan. A Victorian fairground attraction. His skin was swarthy and some boot polish was applied to enhance the darkness. He occasionally sported a turban and charmed snakes. In the extended biography his name appeared on the poster that inspired John Lennon to write For The Benefit Of Mr Kite. But I ditched that as too obscure a fact for a TV celebrity.

I Googled Britain’s hairiest man, he’s from Gateshead and it takes four towels to dry his body. Sunbathing is an issue too with all that hair. I appropriate these two facts for my method-act.

The Hairy man will be writing a memoir, Hair To Stay. I resort to Google again but get a hirsute ladies porn site. So the name is changed to My Hairy Life.

The Production Company’s e-mail asks me to wear shorts underneath my trousers. But makes no other clothing stipulation. I select a Fleet Foxes tee-shirt. There hairy blokes, so I’m showing solidarity with other hairies.


For a Dole Wallah I have a surprisingly busy day. I post an amplifier to Italy and a Guitar Case to Bath, and I run to the post office to send off a Ted Baker Jacket. After some press-ups and shower I’m off to Shepherds Bush. It’s raining and I arrive dishevelled. A group of 3 men sit in the reception; a young girl is asking them questions about their lives. For a moment I assume they are auditioning for some fitness programme – maybe as the new Mr Motivator. All three are gigantic body builder types. Then I hear the crucial question, so are you hairy.

When I sat down the young girl shot me the briefest of looks, she looked over again a couple of times. I let her lead them into the audition room, wait five minutes, then ask the receptionist what’s happening with my appointment. I know of course and the young girl is despatched to pull me in. The hulks have finished theirs, so I fill in a questionnaire and a release form. One question begs for an interesting answer, which celebrity do you look like. I’m tempted to write Magnum PI, but the bright young things will have no idea who he is, so I leave that section blank.


We’ll be in touch they say, and I leave. I feel an unusual empathy with Woody Allen. The Tom Selleck resemblance recedes; it’s replaced by the forty inch chest guy, who's no muscleman. The lift does not come, so I take the metal stairs. They are exposed to the rain, and I slip and slide my way down five floors. An old Elvis Costello song, Pump It Up plays in my head.