Young, Gifted And Skint

Coventry, 1983. Cold, miserable, nothing doing for a young fella like me. I caught the bus into the City Centre. I walked home. Money didn't grow on trees. Or bus tickets.

I went to the Job Centre to search the boards. One in five adult men in Coventry were out of work. The unemployment rate there stood at 20%, double the national average.

I've read that youngsters have it tough today. I believe it. But you should have seen 1983.

I'm not disputing today's young folk face a hard road. Finding work, buying a house, earning a decent living, the data backs them up. Buying a home now takes decades of saving. Entry-level wages haven't kept pace with house prices or rent. Young people are putting their lives on hold just to get by.

I sympathise. But let's get real. In 1983 I'd left school with average qualifications and no job. No prospects. No way to chase any aspiration I might have had. Three kids in my school year went to university. Three. The posh kids. A handful got apprenticeships. The rest of us got nothing, because the Motor City had just shed 55,000 jobs. A few more posh kids got jobs through their dads' businesses. The rest of us searched. Somewhere.

Buying a house? Not a chance. Saving for one? Not a chance either, most of us couldn't get work at all.

That day at the Job Centre, I fit the description perfectly: young, not remotely gifted, and skint.

I searched the boards like a prospector panning for gold. Nothing. I spoke to a woman in one of the booths. She sent me back to the boards. Still nothing. I wasn't qualified to clean, or to drive a bus. I left with a heavy sigh.

Across the road stood an old building. A sign read Army Careers. I crossed the road and went in. Eighteen years old, out of choices. I'm a proud veteran today. Back then, I had none.

A burly recruiting sergeant met me.

"Thinking of joining us, lad?"

I wasn't. But I didn't want to be rude. "Er, yeah, I reckon so."

"Good! What do you fancy doing?"

"Er, helicopter pilot?"

He smiled the way a parent smiles at a daft child. "We can talk about that. Anything else?"

I had no clue. I thought for a moment and struck gold.

"Er, a tank driver?"

Another smile. "We can talk about that too. Now, how old are you?"

I told him. He started filling in forms. I'd have to sit exams called the "Battery of Five" — I thought I'd left exams behind at school.

I passed the exams. I passed the medical. Then came two days at Sutton Coldfield for selection. They screamed at us, shouted at us, ran us round the gym and the barracks, showed us videos. At the end I got a green slip and some travel money. "You're in the army now," they said.

Off I went to a place called Deepcut, in a place called Surrey.

Passing basic training remains the proudest day of my life from those years. Back home, things got worse. More jobs gone. More unemployment. More poverty. My life became an adventure instead. Boot polish, heavy kit, target practice, and swearing like a trooper.

I do feel for young folk today. It shouldn't be this hard. I know some of you reading this will say: you old fart, you've no idea how hard it really is now. Fair enough. I hope it gets better. I mean that.

These days I hire people. I look for young folk who need a break. I hope none of them ever has to walk home from an interview because they can't afford the bus fare both ways.