For much of the time I was living in France, back in the ’80’s and early ’90’s, I was self-employed. Until I moved to Nice, where I met and befriended a bloke who worked for the French Yellow Pages. He was in management and found my outspoken, bold and quirky attitude intriguing, thinking that they could use loud, cocky people like me.
This was then the company which employed by far the largest sales force in France, with over 2,500 sales executives. They were therefore extremely efficient, had systems and procedures, methods and training all worked down to a perfect science, and it was overall a great experience for me, while it lasted.
In reality, for much of the time I was working with them, sales reps were not employed per se, but were also engaged as self-employed freelancers, instilling in us a rather cavalier and cowboy attitude to our job. A sale was a sale was a sale and we literally stopped at nothing to make one, and I mean nothing! It was also a constant competition between us who would pull off the craziest stunt of all, which we all bragged about, until the next lunatic came up with something wilder and more entertaining, an environment in which, I must admit, I seem to thrive and also excel.
So it all started in one of their major recruitment drives in Nice, followed by training in Paris, to where I had to travel on my own expense on three different occasions. Just for comparison’s sake, this is the exact same distance between Malta and Rome. It was therefore like being told by your boss that Monday to Thursday you are to report to the office in say Msida, then every Friday you must make your way for training to the head office in Rome.
But you simply have to adapt to every situation. I remember that just before I got this job I had applied for a sales manager’s job in a large fruit processing company, which was based in a tiny village between Aix-en-Provence and Avignon. This was over 250 kilometers away and close to a three hour drive, depending on traffic. So I am selected for an interview and gladly drive the considerable distance. I get there and I am given an in-depth presentation on the company, its history, what they do, their mission and vision, a detailed look at all their products, as well as a grand tour of their massive plant, only to be told that next time I attend we will speak about the job.
So I return home exhausted and await for their instructions. The week after I am asked over for the second interview. We talk about the position and what is expected out of me, about markets and targets and responsibilities. I thought that I hadn’t done too badly and at the end of the three and a half hour interview with three stark men and an even sterner woman, I await in anticipation for an indication of whether I got the job or not. However I was simply informed that I would hear from them within ten days.
Exactly ten days later, I receive a letter from them asking me to attend a third interview, this time with their corporate psychologist, for character profiling, and naturally I thought what on earth…??? So off I go again and met this weirder than weird tiny, rat-looking guy, who visibly did his very best to scrutinise my every move, my body language, the way I stood and walked, what I had dressed and very importantly, my handwriting. He asked all these very obvious key questions about my personality, noting everything down on a little notebook with barely audible ‘mmmh’s’ at each of my replies. I just fixated on one thing and programmed my mind to think that I didn’t give a rat’s ass about this job and that this guy was a massive idiot and that I couldn’t give a flying toss on what his final analysis would be.
I am sent back home to wait for my life’s biggest moment. Mr. Ratsass’ analysis of my character. I had to sign a form of disclaimer for this to be done, and could even have opted not to do it, however the fineprint had also indicated in so many words that although I had every right in doing so, the Company equally had the right of disqualifying anyone who did! Now how obvious was that statement! Employment regulations then also stated, that companies conducting such character profiling, had to send a full and detailed report to the applicant on the psychologist’s findings.
So when mine arrived I was rather intrigued to see to what extent I had truly lost it. When I read it I remember laughing my head off, as my self-induced conditioning had worked wonders. It basically said that I was a super-confident, bold and relaxed individual, who might however show traits of indifference. It also said that if channeled properly, my traits could lead to great success, but if allowed to run wild and unchecked, they could result in mayhem and uncontrolled confusion. I found this most amusing… perhaps Ratty wasn’t so batty after all!
I get chosen for a fourth interview, yes fourth! And let us not forget that every time this involved a six hour return journey and an average of three hours meeting each time. We chat and we chat, then we chat a bit more. I met the HR Manager, the Administration Manager, the Production Manager, the Sales Director, the Managing Director, the Director of Rapidly Dwindling Patience, the Manager of Becoming So Edgy That I’m About To Explode and most of their three thousand employees. I distinctly remember taking slow deep breaths and trying to emulate the cool and composed state I had achieved with Mousy. All until my then four or five simultaneous interviewers stood up, approached me with stretched arms awaiting a courteous handshake, and one of them said “We are very pleased to inform you that you have now been shortlisted to our final six candidates selection. So you will now be able to commence the final recruitment process and attend the main interviewS with us.”
I just totally and utterly lost it. It really wasn’t a pretty sight and not one which I am particularly proud of. I was flashing bright colours of red and purple like a crazed disco ball. I spitted and spluttered and stammered and stuttered, making very little sense, until I finally managed to get out a few straight words which included “you are fucking crazy”, “just go to hell”, “stuff your disgusting fruit products up your ass”, “I don’t ever want to work with you morons” and similar niceties, as usually expected during job interviews.
Needless to say I just left them there in a tremendous state of shock, jaws bouncing off the floor, turned around, and rushed out through the door shaking, and drove home swearing and screaming like a raving lunatic, on my own in the car all the way home.
Believe it or not they actually took the trouble of writing to me! This is how seriously they took their whole palaver – to unbelievable levels. They went as far as informing me that they had dropped my application. which was not exactly a surprise now was it! But they also explained that they were totally amiss as to how this happened and how their shrink had not been able to sense it and warn them about it. I bet a million francs that Ratsass must have got the sack, all because of me.
But back to the Yellow Pages!
Having received my running-in, so to speak, in being compelled to journey ridiculous distances for work, although Paris was infinitely more distant, this was at least after I got the job. This time at least I was successfully recruited in Nice, where I lived, which was very convenient. My mate told me that they loved eccentric characters and showoffs, as these invariably proved to be the best in sales. So I took it to an entirely different level and walked in along with a few dozen other applicants into their presentation hall, wearing a smart but daring yellow suit, topped with a cowboy hat.
I admit that I looked like a frigging maniac but I got the job, which is what counts!
After a short presentation by the Regional Sales Director, each of the six sales managers chose the reps who caught their fancy to be part of their own team. The amusing thing is that three of them wouldn’t touch me, considering me totally bananas, while the other three literally fought over me, making me feel rather special…
The following week they held a special dinner along with all the new recruits, and as is the story of my life, I was sort of expected to yet again impress in some way or another, especially after my John Wayne debut. So I remember that back then virtually nobody knew anything about Malta, and I was constantly bombarded by an annoying barrage of senseless questions, even during the meal, to the tune of whether there were cars and telephones and electricity in Malta, and other similar hogwash.
So as I had started eating my salad starter, the person sitting in front of me suddenly yelled at me “Oh Yuck careful, there’s a large maggot in your lettuce!” Sure enough, a rather well endowed maggot was slowly sliding along my plate. Fuelled by the many glasses of wine I had already drunk, and naturally by my prankster character, I looked up and made sure I caught everyone’s attention by shouting “Oh look a maggot, Yummy!” and proceeded to stab it with my fork, toss it into my mouth, totally dissimulate my disgust, especially with the many eyes of my amazed audience fixed upon me and solemnly announced “Hmmm maggots, our favourite food in Malta!”.
I only told them a couple of days later, after having heard them all repeat for hundreds of times their incredulous phrase “Mon dieu, c’est incroyable, ils mangent des asticots à Malte!”.