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Welcome to my world as an 'information distribution facilitator'
Apr 8, 2008
AFTER long consideration, I decided not to go for the post of Impact Foundation Curriculum Facilitator, as advertised by Durham County Council.
The advert said I would have been required to "deliver aspects of the Foundation Curriculum, including Citizenship and ASDAN-based qualifications" and since I thought ASDAN was a big lion from Narnia, perhaps I am not the right man for the job.
A reader got in touch to say he had heard of a council advertising for a "young people's sexual health and teenage pregnancy coordinator". He hoped their role did not actually entail the co-ordination of teenage pregnancies, although you never know.
Another wrote to tell me she had spotted a vacancy at Morrisons for a "frozen assistant". Add your own punchline.
Suitably inspired, I had a bit of a hunt around for other unlikely job titles.
The University of Southampton employs a "chief imaginist for interactive strategies". Among her current projects is "improving access to information for building new knowledge".
IBM has a Metaverse Evangelist among its staff whose job is even more bizarre than his title. He spends a large part of his life as a four-foot alien drifting around a virtual world. And this is not an April Fools joke. He promotes the idea of an online 3D virtual reality universe, where we will all, he reckons, spend most of our lives in the future.
Back in the ‘real' world, one company recently posted a vacancy for an "innovations manager", describing the role as someone who manages a "pipeline of ideas".
Councils seem particularly guilty when it comes to creating wordy job titles, but this PC plague has now spread far and wide
Quite mundane professions can be made to sound rather grand with the help of a good dictionary and an active imagination.
Here are a few of my favourites:
"Education centre nourishment production assistant" (school cook);
"Head of verbal communications" (receptionist);
"Foot health gain facilitator" (chiropodist);
"Flueologist" (chimney sweep);
"Freelance thrill performer" (circus act);
"Dairy distribution realiser" (milkman);
"Inter-home barrier installation specialist" (fence fitter);
"Space consultant" (estate agent);
"Petroleum transfer engineer" (petrol pump attendant);
"Vision clearance engineer" (window cleaner);
"Media distribution officer" (paperboy);
"Distressed Rivers Programme Manager" (not quite sure to be honest).
Some of those less glamorous jobs presumably come with a fancy title in a misjudged attempt at enticing reluctant jobseekers to apply.
But there are some jobs that don't need much jazzing up. "Wine taster" for example. Now there's a job I'm sure most of us would excel at.
Even better still, you could spend your time at work testing out comfy furniture - Lay-z-Boy employs a number of people who spend their days checking out its reclining chairs. And in Oklahoma City, USA, a man makes a living as a professional "finder". Yes, he is paid to find things. So far he has found a client's lost brother and, bizarrely, two fleas dressed as a bride and groom.
But none of these jobs can compare with the greatest profession of all. It combines wine tasting, furniture testing and finding things all in one, and it was my career of choice as a five-year-old.
When asked what I wanted to do when I grew up, I was very sure of the answer. There was only one thing I wanted to do with my future. I didn't have any interest in becoming a footballer, astronaut or train driver. Oh no. I had far loftier ambitions. "I'm going to be a tramp," I proudly declared to my bemused parents.
Of course, had I fulfilled that early ambition, these days you'd have to call me a "park bench abode facilitator".
First published in the Mercury, April 2, 2008