52 Stories from 52 Photos: ‘#30’
When I was a younger man seeking direction in life, I cut my teeth for 6 months working on the streets. Not on the corners selling drugs, nor on the beat trying to stop them — but somewhere in between. They told us we were selling self-satisfaction to people; alleviating their consciences one day at a time. They called it Direct Marketing but the public called us a nuisance. We were door-to-door salesmen; our saving grace being that we were employed by charities, pushing donation subscriptions. On average we’d reach 100 people a day which meant over the course of my time pounding pavements with this unlikely crew I met in the region of 15,000 members of the general public on their doorsteps. This is what I learned.
As guns for hire, we didn’t belong to any one charity. We’d work for a month or so on one before being hired by another contract. The unique selling point for these major organisations was the fact that they only paid for the results. There was no basic salary, we were all on 100% commission which meant we were only paid for success. This meant some of those guys would be outside in the cold and dark for 8 hours straight and return home exhausted in the full knowledge that they had made precisely no money that day. We’d meet in an empty, furniture-less office at nine in the morning where we’d spend the first few hours practicing technique, rehearsing the key facts and preparing for the field. They had us in full suits and ties in an effort to add weight to the work we were doing. We’d be handed photocopied maps and pile in cars and buses to wherever your team was stationed that week. I saw more of the country in one month than I’ve seen in the rest of my life combined — more than I’d have liked.
From about midday until around 8:30 in the evenings we’d don the tabards sporting the colour of the charity that month, covering our tirelessly earned suits with damp, stinking fabric. We started on an animal rescue charity, pitching in the rural countryside. The houses were more like manors and it took much longer to get from door to door. A few hours into my first day, a grand, ornate wooden door opened to reveal a tall man in his fifties wearing mustard corduroy trousers and a gingham shirt. We started our spiel while he silently reached behind the door out of sight, returned with a long hunting rifle.
“I will never, ever give to you lot. Get off my property,” he bellowed. We turned and walked very quickly down the pebbledash driveway, breaking into a jog towards the gate. Once at a safe distance we stopped to catch our breath. I turned and speechlessly looked at my partner. He elbowed me and said with a laugh “L’enfer, ç’est les avis des autres…on y va!”
Sometimes we’d turn up in a neighbourhood and barely be able to walk for wind, scarcely open our mouths without them being filled with rain. Foolishly I assumed at the start that there could be such inclement weather that we would not be able to work. I was wrong. While in any other job done outside it would be too dangerous or too difficult to operate; we were still there, doors opening to us with hair plastered to our heads, water careering off the bridges of our noses. I was ill a lot at the beginning. But I later realised that the wetter you were, the more likely people were to invite you in and hear you out. By the end I was so absorbed by the challenge that I’d pray for it to pour. One of the things I learned fastest was the simple fact that the less a household had, the more willing they were to give. We’d have far better luck in the estates and towerblocks than we ever did out in the country — especially with the animal charities. Hermits would sign a monthly direct debit without saying a word to us and I realised there are many who simply hate people but love animals.
The humanitarian jobs were the worse. Over time I’d become fascinated with the society at home — each house a portal into a new story, a new world. I’d regained a lot of faith in humanity where I’d expected to continue losing it. But when we came to ask for aid when there’d been disasters abroad, the really ugly side came out. I rarely met anyone whose views could be described as hateful, violent or evil; but I realised the country’s increasing resurgence of jingoism didn’t come from thugs or soldiers; but from mothers and grandmothers who offered tea and biscuits. Why should they help overseas when there were people at home who needed aid, they’d ask. We’ve got to look after our own. These were the people who kept me awake at night, when I’d finally get home to bed.
I was twenty-one when I left and I’d helped to hire and train three guys even younger than me. There were many highs and lows, often within the space of one day and it was all so immersive that I didn’t see much of friends and family at all through that time. I’d routinely make £150 a day but I lost a huge amount of weight that I couldn’t afford to lose from literally running from house to house. At the peak of it all, I went to Liverpool and received an award for leadership in front of 10,000 people but I’d worked so late the night before that I’d had to sleep on the cold, sweaty leather sofa in my bosses office to be ready in time to leave the next day. I look back on it like the generation above me do National Service, with a weird sense of misplaced pride. It’s made me feel profoundly lucky to work anywhere else.
