PHOTOgrAPHS: ALAMY, ISTOCkPHOTO.COM, JuPITErIMAgES/COMSTOCk IMAgES/ALAMY
DANNY WALLACE
is A mAN But he’s still learning
some of life’s hardest lessons
maybe my
careers
adviser was
right after all
t’s nice when you meet
someone who’s happy in their
job. Perhaps not the job they
thought they’d have when
they were a kid, but the job they have
now, in the real, adult, nine-to-five world.
Because when I was at school not one of
us seemed to have any idea of what we’d
like to do when we were grown up.
Not that we weren’t given direction.
But, to be honest, we’d started to lose
confidence in the guidance of our careers
adviser on the day he announced that he’d
be leaving our school because, after eight
years in the job, he’d decided that careers
advice wasn’t the career for him.
Nevertheless, we were thrilled when
he told us not to worry.
“We have a new piece of software in
the department,” he said. “It is able to
accurately predict – based on your skills,
abilities, likes and dislikes – the job to
which you are ideally suited.”
We literally could not believe it.
I peered, in awe, at a bruised and
scratched beige computer. It looked
rubbish. But apparently, within its blinking
green monitor, it had all the answers we
I
needed. The answers to make us men.
“There is no need for guesswork any
more,” our teacher said, pointing his
finger in the air, which made him look quite
important. “By simply taking 10 minutes
to answer the questions in front of you the
computer will accurately compute the way
your life should go.”
Suddenly, we believed. We knew this
day had been coming. As sure as we knew
that by 2007 we’d all be riding jet packs
and have holographic pets, we knew that
this computer could be trusted. I mean, it
had a disk drive and everything.
Excited and nervous, we entered our
answers as best we could – yes, I am a
team player, yes, I do work well on my own
– and the results were in. The computer
had decided. We were told our jobs.
16 / www.ShortList.com
It was that moment I was thinking of as
I walked to my local pub this week. How I’d
never taken the computer’s advice seriously.
How I’d baulked at its suggestion. How
maybe, if I’d just taken a leap of faith, if I’d just
believed a little more forcefully in the advice
of a computer built in Belgium in the late
Eighties that contained all the technological
power of a satsuma, who knows where I could
be. Because when you’re a man who’s just hit
30, you think about these things. About how
life could have gone. What you could have
done. Where you might be now.
And it was the flier that did it.
If I’d believed in the advice of a Belgian
computer who knows where I could be?
As I got near the pub I saw it flapping on
the ground. And on it were four simple words:
‘I love my job!’ And underneath those four,
simple words, a number. A phone number.
I was intrigued. What could this be?
Clearly, someone out there had taken the
advice of The Supercomputer. Not for them
the world of having a trade to fall back on.
They’d skipped all that. They were in love with
their job and they wanted to tell the world.
Through a flier! Left on the ground near a skip
in north London!
“I’m going to call the number,” I told my
mate, Colin, in the pub.
“Don’t call the number,” said Colin.
“Didn’t you have The Supercomputer
at school?” I said. “This person has found
the answer! They’ve found what they were
meant to do.”
No one admitted
to putting the ‘Kick me’
sign on his back
“We had The Computer,” he said.
“If I’d taken its advice, I’d be a midwife.
Don’t call it. It’s probably illegal.”
“How can it be illegal?” I said,
outraged. “It’s been done with
such love!”
Colin looked at it.
“It’s been done with a Biro.”
“I’m calling it.”
I dialled the number. It rang four
times. I imagined the conversation
I would have with whoever answered.
One of hope, optimism and faith in
which we would discuss childhood
dreams, following your heart and
finding the calling in life that would
make you happy.
It went to answerphone.
I left a message.
“It’s probably a prostitute,” said
Colin, and I made an annoyed face.
Later, as I left the pub, I considered
calling the number again, and thought
once more about The Supercomputer
and the way we find our way in life.
Maybe The Supercomputer had
been right. Maybe I should have been
a quarry manager.
And then, out of the corner of my
eye, I spotted another ‘I love my job!’
flier. It was on the inside of a phone
box, next to another one with a picture
of a saucy nun on it, who was
apparently new in town.
I decided I should probably take the
number out of my phone.
Danny Wallace is the author of Join Me
and Yes Man
sometimes the
best revenge
is… confusion
As it is seemingly illegal
to talk to a stranger
on a train, it can
sometimes be
confusing when
someone stands
on your foot and
then fails to say sorry.
Which is why I have
decided to carry an
airhorn with me at
all times, and when
someone stands on my
foot I will set it off in
their face and then go
back to reading my paper.
I imagine this will make
people want to avoid
standing on my feet, but if
I’ve paid good money for
the airhorn I’ll want to use
it, so I’ll wear massive clown
shoes while travelling. I’ll
also wear a red nose and
a wig. Essentially, I really
want to get into clowning.
text a question
Because I raise so many important
issues in this column, I thought
it only pertinent to follow up on
some of them, as knowledge is
power. Recently, I stopped a heated
debate by knowing that a
peanut is neither a
pea, nor a nut,
but a legume.
I did so thanks
to AQA 63336,
a number you
can text with
any query you have.
Following my career dilemma
(see left) I texted it another
question: “What are the qualities
of a good quarry manager?”
Its response was quick: “Good
communication and organisational
skills, and safety-conscious
behaviour.” Maybe The
Supercomputer had been right.
Maybe that could be me. But then
I scrolled down. “They must also
really like quarries.” No.
The pea didn’t realise
he had a nut allergy
until it was too late
“Who are
you calling
a clown? Oh”
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