I recently left my day job.

Two years earlier, the entire leadership of our department moved to another organisation and left a massive gulf. As a result, my direct managers were crumbling; I was being paid less than my colleagues (who I trained), yet being told to pull my weight equally by the very manager who promised me higher pay.

Then, after being told for 18 months that they’d offer us permanent positions, I was more than ready to walk.

But that’s life. And that was nothing compared to the shit work situations I had been in up to that point. So it got me thinking—what was so bad about them and what lessons had I learned from them?

Never work for siblings

My first job was as a designer in Brisbane, working for brothers—two very, very rich men who owned a big manufacturing company. They enjoyed a ‘healthy rivalry’, which meant bickering with and contradicting one another in front of staff. They surrounded themselves with people who, apart from being good at telling them what they wanted to hear, were complete and utter imbeciles.

One brother was predictable and one wasn’t, but when the shit hit the fan they both had the temperaments of bulls with hot pokers up their arses. Seemingly, they enjoyed reducing managers, grown men and sometimes women, to tears. Those managers would storm back to their offices and take it out on the 500-odd staff below them.

Lesson 1

When the brass shits—everyone wipes.

Daily, we feared the call-up to the owners’ office. “CHUCK… KOLYVASSS, [call extension] ONE-TWOOO-ONE!” would boom across the campus like a scene out of Orwell’s, ‘Nineteen Eighty-Four’. Heads would poke out of offices and up from cubicles. The workshops below would momentarily fall silent.

‘The walk’ was a death march short of a crucifix and a crown of thorns. Your work mates would give you a sympathetic smile as if to say, “I’ll buy you a beer after.” “Nice knowing you mate!” “I’ll write your family, let them know you died a hero…”

The best part was that the heavy atmosphere fostered subversion. Gifting a bottle of Jim Beam to the right people would get you a load of the company’s finest wares.

It was a shit job, but it prepared me for almost everything that was to come.

Lesson 2

Adverse conditions breed solidarity.

Didn’t I say “Never work for siblings?”

My next job was as a web designer. I’ve only recently seen the parallel, but there I was—working for siblings again. Brothers again. Well-off men who enjoyed yelling at one another in front of staff.

There were only two or three other staff in the open plan office and as shit flared up we’d silently chat to one another on MSN, wondering WTF was going on.

They both had short fuses and as discussions became heated, you could see one gradually turn red just before he’d erupt in a tirade of sweary words. Desks were pounded. Keyboards flung across the room. One stormed out as I answered a phone call, “Oh, I’m terribly sorry—he has just gone into a meeting.”

I once fell asleep at my desk and I somehow, accidentally, took their retail website offline for 30 minutes. One brother cracked it in a big way and wanted to know who did it. The other was gay, in the closet, and with Dutch courage one night had told me he wanted to fuck me. He wasn’t my type, but I never said no and I never said yes. Anyway, he ran the website, he could see the logs. And he covered for me.

Lesson 3

If you have nice legs—flaunt them.

I’ve been everywhere, man

I worked for a luxury car company in The Netherlands. I realised how sheltered we are in Australia as I witnessed a Dutch colleague effortlessly speak three languages in one conversation. She extracted technical information from a demanding English driver who had broken down in the French countryside late one night. She whipped a French tow truck driver who was reluctant to get out of bed to recover the vehicle. And politely argued with car’s German owner who wouldn’t give over important details.

It was a thing of beauty… as much as the company’s subsidised staff cafeteria was, on level 1. I put on 10kg in 2 years.

Lesson 4

You ain’t shit unless you can speak three languages.

Interestingly, when I applied for the job, the Dutch HR person said to me—dead pan, “Oh, you are Australian? I’m sorry—we can only take native English speakers, voor dish poshition.”

Worst ever job

I moved to London, as you did in the early naughties. I should’ve been suspicious when the recruitment agent said, “no need for an interview!” But I was too dumb, more so, the exchange rate was $2.80-to-the-pound, I was broke and I was desperate for work. On day one, a colleague, in the most authentic Cockney, said, “Welcome to Romford—the arsehole of the arsehole of London, you arsehole.” (We are still friends).

My job was to field enquiries from, predominantly, old ladies calling up after their husbands passed away, expecting to collect their nest eggs. Unfortunately, the £5000 bond they bought in the 1970s wasn’t now £25,000 like they’d been ‘assured’—it was more like £2,500 after all the fees had been deducted.

There were tears… often mine, if silent ones. Old ladies would ask me what they were going to live on. Taking offence at my Aussie accent, one guy told me to transfer him, “back through to England where they know how to manage money.” After two weeks of paid training, I lasted one week of live calls.

Lesson 5

STFU: there is always someone worse off than you.