I found this down the back of the internet; it has not mellowed with age nor have I. It’s bitter and twisted, just like me, but perhaps I’ve got reason. Perhaps not, after all, I have plenty to be thankful for. I have water and a roof over my head.

Nor am I being bombed, having my homeland stolen or fleeing on a small boat. And while I earn less than sixty per cent of the UK, over eighty per cent of the world is poorer than me. I try to think of what I have and be grateful for it rather than those who have more.

Besides, journalism has made me a millionaire in experience, and for that I am truly grateful.

Thankfully, I did survive COVID, but it destroyed my life financially, and while I did eventually get a job again, I was made redundant again. Almost exactly a year ago.

While I was taken on as a consultant for three days a week at City A.M., I’ve still been looking for a full-time post with the same oh-so-predictable results. Made all the worse as now, rather than in my fifties, I’m in my sixties. Believe me, if it were not for the Freedom Pass that it seems virtually every Gen Z resents me for having, I’d have no life.

So take a read and take a glance under the carpet of what it’s like trying to get a job at the moment. And by the way, I’ve now applied for around twice as many jobs. And that’s before AI came along to rain on an already dismal dark parade.

Milliseconds, and believe me, I do mean milliseconds, after it was stupidly—and perhaps I’m crediting the government with way too much in the way of evil genius—deliberately reported that the first furlough scheme was coming to an end, I was made redundant.

Let me start again. I mean, my role was made redundant.

Anyway, whatever way you look at it, it’s always so nice to know you have been appreciated; that all that hard work and loyalty has been recognised and rewarded. However, as that only happens in “Heartbeat” or “Little House on the Prairie”, I should have seen it coming.

Since then, and in return for the king’s ransom so graciously provided by Universal Credit, I have been on an endless conveyor belt of dreadful, pointless courses and back-to-employment schemes. Think of them as get-rich-quick schemes; however, not for the likes of you and me.

The majority have been emotional Ponzi schemes that steal your dreams, repackaging them for the next sucker, nothing but box-ticking exercises.

Just enough ticks to get the tender, yet barely enough to hit service level agreements, roughly enough that the powers that be can be seen to be doing something, and sufficient that the government can say they are doing something. Now, you can’t fool all of the people all of the time.

Even so, some folks never stop trying. Calculated not to get you back into employment but to extract the maximum profit from your failure. Just like the smoke and mirrors employed to create that illusion of customer service rather than provide one. These selfish, cold-hearted initiatives have had at heart their own goal of profits over my very simple goal of employment. Come ON, is a job too much to ask?

Similarly ridiculous is the illusion of any social safety net to cushion your fall. We all walk a tightrope and god forbid you if, through no fault of your own, you slip and fall. For when you hit the metaphorical concrete with a sickening dull thud, the impact will bring your figurative house of cards down around your ears.

Universal Credit may (almost) be enough to keep you (barely) alive but believe me, it’s not enough to live on. Yet I have, and thousands like me, become a cash cow, milked for all they can get, and we are supposed to be grateful for it.

It wasn’t like this to start. I was appreciative of the advice. I believed it would help. Hopeful that with the completion of each workshop and session I advanced closer to the prize. I dreamed of landing on the right square; a “Community Chest” card that says you have landed the position of your dreams. Yet all I ever seem to manage is an unexpected vet’s bill—pay £86.74—or sat on glasses; any idea how to pay for a new pair?

As the clock ticks down I find myself getting more desperate. I grasp each new idea or proposition like a cult member contemplating a cup of Kool-Aid. Ready to consider anything in the hope of salvation. On days like today, I feel like drinking it.

The static and white noise of constant rejection is torture and today is particularly torturous. I’m sick of the lies. I’m sick of all the polite platitudes. I’m sick of the trite tripe peddled out as recruiters sidestep the real issues; even if “The Equality Act 2010” didn’t exist, they wouldn’t have the guts to admit that my age is the issue. So the dark thoughts come in waves.

Much like the email rejections. Ping, one this morning; ping, another this afternoon; ping, yet another lands in my inbox. At times it must sound like I’m running a “Pong” emulator on my Mac. Such is the clatter you’d have thought I’d have got used to rejection.

Yet with each snub, the sting gets sharper, each bite more painful than the last. Every message plunges me deeper into the depths of my depression. Each time I have to swim harder to get back to the surface. Each time it gets harder and harder to paddle back up to the air and sunshine.

I’m scared of dying. Yet I’ve felt suicidal. Wouldn’t you? I’ve applied for jobs where I’m under-qualified. I’ve applied for jobs where I’m over-qualified. I’ve applied for jobs where I must be one of the best qualified.

And that’s the hardest cross to bear. Even where my experience, skills and the job description ARE a perfect match, I still get bullshit replies like this: “ultimately there were a handful of applicants with a little more relevant experience.” For Christ’s sake, what do I need to do to get a job?

Not having work is killing me. And for each day that passes where I don’t work, I die a little. Please, someone, anyone, just give me a break.

I try to lift my spirits with music and as Homer once said to Lisa, “Go ahead and play the blues if it’ll make you happy.” So indulge me for a second; go fire up Spotify, Amazon Music or iTunes and listen to “Know Your Rights” by The Clash or “Heartland” by The The.

Listen, listen to the lyrics. It’s almost forty years since they were released but has anything changed? It might not be as black as Joe or Matt paints it, but today, and for me, it feels like it. So far, I’ve applied for around a thousand jobs.

YES, A THOUSAND. A tiny fraction acknowledges me, an even smaller fraction reply. If they do, it’s so often with the standard infuriating and unhelpful “unfortunately, we will not be moving forward with your application.” Time after time, job after job, application after application you apply. Often for a role that is a carbon copy of your CV, life skills, inside-leg measurement and DNA sequence. Truly, it’s been that close.

Yet it always ends the same way. It is all so depressingly familiar. The computer says NO. At least I hope it’s a computer. I don’t think I could cope with all that rejection from a human. Even so, I am close to breaking point and I genuinely don’t know how much more I can take.

I’ve had a few interviews, but always to no avail. Sadly, I think I’ve painted myself into a corner. Scored a spectacular own goal. Seems I’m far too clever for my own good and now, after successfully manipulating my CV to conceal my age, I get the occasional interview. But never in a month of Sundays will I get a job offer.

Must be the white hair and beard. Perhaps I can get a job as Santa, and while I may be a bitter and twisted old fart who moans all the time, let’s face it, it’s far better than the alternative.