Smugshots

Right.

First name

Skoosh. Aw, hang on. Maybe this should be the Sunday name. I think when I emailed that girl at work I signed Jonathan. Sounds a bit smarter. Saves me the whisky quip as well. Loses me the icebreaker though. Let’s go Jonathan.

J-O-N-A-T-H-A-N

Second name

W-A-L-K-E-R

Let’s do a quick security check.

Verification: please solve this puzzle so we know you’re a real person.

Cheeky bastards.

Whoops! That’s not quite right.

Pardon me? That’s not the picture I picked. Hang on, the ones I got were like antelope, this is a horse.

Try again.

Aw it's a bull actually. Right, that’s definitely the right way up; he doesn’t look best pleased to see me.

Let’s start your profile, connect to people you know, and engage with them on topics you care about.

Excellent. Now the real dirty work can begin. I’ve successfully deceived the Cretan bull that guards the gate, and I’m now free to proceed with the act of self-immolation for the purpose of securing one entry token into the masochistic rat race that is the Game of Life. That’s a bit dramatic, isn’t it? Also, I’m pretty sure the first unholy gamble in that game is whether to get a degree or not. Hmm. I’ve already made my bed in that respect – now I need to catch up all those sneaky sods that chucked it and got extra turns.

Most recent job title.

I’m a student.

Nice of them to save me the debate over whether working the bar at a golf club for a few years is of sufficient substance to merit a job title. In fairness, I was until very recently a student. Bit of a crap one too, in respect of the traits and habits we ordinarily deem ‘studenty’ (with the sole exception of laziness – I’m not telling them that). The tragic irony is that I feel more of a student now than I did during the five years that I ostensibly fit the bill. I reckon if I was to start again now, as I am, I would make a much better fist of it than first time round. It doesn’t seem like many people fall into that boat. That said, the ones that harpoon their way into your eyeline are generally the black-and-gold clad, all-singing, all-dancing society presidents. The ones with Sanctuary loyalty cards. The pricks.

And it’s not like one has much of a choice on leaving school. I wasn’t to know I wasn’t ready, and what else would I have done? The blinkers were still on, the bumpers still up. It’s no use trying such retrospective second guessing, because the pervading likelihood is that I’ve only reached this realisation because of the last 5 years. In any case, there’s never any guarantee that the proposed solution wouldn’t have inflicted different pains or woes by way of unintended consequence. But still, it makes you wonder.

Add your email contacts to see who you already know on LinkedIn.

Excellent, I’ll have a strong networking base to build on, consisting of my extended family and, of course, Specsavers and Uber Eats.

Connecting with people lets you see updates and keep in touch.

Who are all these people? Alice Miller – flight attendant at Qantas. Marco Rosca – Research Assistant. Christ, that’s some pair of specs Marco. Hmm. This isn’t what I signed up for. This is like corporate Guess Who. Aw hang on. There’s Alex. And Jack McLeod. I actually know some of these people. I can hear them speak, and think how they move around. People don’t half look different in their mugshots though. Especially these ones that are right put on. Smugshots. Hehe. Right, so do I just add the people I know, however vaguely? Will they be notified of my ‘connection’? I don’t think I know her well enough to connect. But the alternative, I guess, is to be one of these bot-looking folk who have 12 friends/followers/connections (insert here). Fuck this, I’m skipping for now.

Adding a photo helps people recognize you.

I knew this was coming. And frankly I don’t have the appetite for the vanity trawl required to find a half-decent picture. Make no mistake, it is a trawl. There’s more of me when I’m younger - where my face is slightly less rounded, which is nice – but I don’t know how far back I can get away with. Don’t want to catfish anyone who came looking for Jonathan Walker – legal boy wonder. It would be nice to enjoy having my picture taken; if not for the memories and all that lark, it would at least make this crap easier. It’s therefore with great regret that I announce I’d rather hammer nails into my shins than be confronted with my own teetering smile through a lens. Again, much too dramatic – don’t be a dick. Skip it.

Follow the link to get the LinkedIn app.

Right, fuck off.

Follow companies, people, and hashtags to stay updated on the things you care about.

By all means, silly website, update me on the things I care about.

Popular courses for Student at University of Glasgow: Strategic Thinking, The Six Morning Habits of High Performers.

You know, I honestly couldn’t give a fuck about the morning habits of high performers. These people are invariably doss cunts who get up at 5 for granola and to do yoga on a mat facing Canary Wharf. Either they’re miserable in existence or they don’t know that their existence is miserable. Who can tell which is worse? That’s my dose of strategic thinking for the day.

Because you're skilled in Economics: Follow Tony Robbins.

Ha, I’ve managed to fool them all into thinking I’m skilled in economics; in truth, I remember about 3 graphs, and I’m good at sums. Evidently, the natural resolution of these two facts is that I follow Tony Robbins. Is he the one that can make me sleep? Hmm, no. That was that other guy that looked like Theo Paphitis off Dragons’ Den. Or was that the Atkins man? It seems my powers of recollection fail to extend fully to the proud – and invariably orange – men who bestrode the once-gleaming covers of my dad’s self-help books, emblazoned with lines like ‘Setting goals is the first step in turning the invisible into the visible’. Fuck off Tony, I’m skilled in Economics, and if that’s not invisible, I don’t know what is.

Because you're skilled in Law: Follow Richard Branson

Surely that’s a joke.

Because you live in United States: Follow Simon Sinek

Christ, how've I managed that? I really, really don't live in the United States. That’s an unfortunate nose on Sinek. Sinus Sinek.

Finish.

That’s me then. Another conscript to the LinkedIn barmy army. It’ll need some fleshing out yet, but the groundwork has been laid. I’m one of them now. An adult. I never really intended to land myself into this theatre so soon. External circumstances seemed to have poked and prodded and pushed, like I was in a mental crowd at a gig. Spun around until I reach the stage, but instead of the stage it’s just the next 40 years of my life. And yes, the traineeship’s only supposed to last two years, but who can tell which way the winds will be blowing then? Will I be the same? I could easily have become glossed over like everyone else. That makes it sound like every adult is an alien; if you only had a special pair of sunglasses, you’d see their true distorted selves – little grey husks in suits. They’re still people, of course, but to me they seem robbed of the ability to feel everything around them. I feel very awake, right now. It may well be just a privilege of youth, to comprehend the vastness of it all: all the places to go, people to meet, things to feel. We are such stuff as dreams are made on, and our little life is rounded with a sleep. That last bit is the real kicker. After all, if I had all the time in the world, I wouldn’t need to worry about how I spend it. It seems to me that the more time you have, the less it weighs. I feel it so heavy now. It tightens round my organs, and squeezes the air out of me. But! and it’s a big but, I’m enjoying it. Like I said, it’s a privilege, not a curse. I think that to understand the fleeting madness of life is itself to live. That’s what I’m worried I’ll lose.

People my age don’t really get a chance to get to grips with that fact. We’re mass-produced, and we move the ensuing mechanical efficiency through school, university, work. I think our parents don’t get how that feels, to be squeezed out by the force of social pressure into our own various moulds by the time we’re 20, 21, 22. I’m almost 23, but frankly I’m still a kid. I mean, Christ, Dylan had back pages by the time he was my age; my front page reads like a hermit’s obituary. And you’re rewarded for reaching your mould early. Like those people you see at uni, who took the baptism of hire that I just did, but 4 years earlier. The ones that turn up to careers fairs in bright orange trousers, representing their bright orange firm with a shed-load of bright orange gear. All flogging themselves to secure a career before they’ve even figured out their own hormones (they’ve probably euthanised them, demonstrating divine Wall Street Thanatos). And networking. Always networking. I’ve nothing against meeting new people, but that’s not really what networking is. Networking is the compelled connection of two sanitised avatars for their mutual professional benefit. And in that respect, I want no part in it.

Of course, they do all this to get ahead. But what exactly do you get ahead of? What do you miss? I’ve never been so sure of the veracity of my own experience as I am now. I’m not really sure what I’d trade that in for. And I know that this can’t continue, and that’s fine. But having just broken off from the umbilical cord of childhood, I’d rather not find myself attached to something else, namely the languid, torpid, fat, bloated upper-middle class existence. And I resent the fact that this is my immediate fucking fate, but there doesn’t seem to be much alternative. I’ve no fucking money, and the world isn’t like it was 70 years ago when you could traverse the road and earn your living as you went. No, instead you’re linked in from the age of 20. Connected. Everyone knows what you look like, where you’ve been, the things you ‘care’ about. It’s the same for all of us. Stranded in a vast nebula of Alphas and Betas and Epsilons, all clawing each other’s backs to rise higher. Everything that you are, pinned down on a fucking webpage. Guess Who?: The Lost Generation Edition.

Maybe I’ll never find what I want to do. What I’m supposed to do. I’ve never had any kind of correspondence with the Big Man, but if I saw his number ringing, I’d pick up and that would be the first question I’d ask. Or maybe it wouldn’t. Is not knowing half the fun? I suppose it’s never fun if someone tells you the answers, but it would save a lot of pain. But life is pain! Life is strife and strife is rife. Such is life. Like I said before, I feel privileged to at least understand the question. And my plan is to remember the question, even when I’m balls deep in a 60 hour working week. This has all been very dramatic, I realise, but I just think it’s sad that I have all this in my head, and my LinkedIn profile says fuck all. Not even got a picture. I better get a picture.