Interview #4 – IISS

Sadly not, otherwise I wouldn’t be spinning yet another yarn.

An initialism to set the heart a flutter with paroxysms of delight. Summing up their name this way is far easier on the nerves than the full-bodied, authoritative version – The International Institute for Strategic Studies; the teeth fair jangle at the weighty significance. But my, this place sounds interesting. Up until their advert I can’t pretend to have heard of them, although that’s more likely down to my own restrictive outlook rather than an indictment on their visibility – I’m sure their work is vital. I’m even surer, dear reader, that unlike me your toilet, bog, lavatory or bathroom, please continue to call it what you will depending on your degree of restless social climbing, is piled high with the meaty output of this most auspicious of institutions. Readily to hand lies one of their research papers or consultancy reports, or whatever it is organisations ripe with cash pay through the nose for the IISS to deliver on their behalf. No doubt it will be an important document, one that paves the way for moves into territories deemed ripe for plundering with the subtle capitalist hand. Companies like this help push the world round, after all.

In spite of myself I very much liked the sound of this place. They publish several different publications, one of which, ‘The Military Balance’, being where an editorship was up for grabs. Somehow they’d placed me under consideration. Surely some mistake? I re-read my email interview invitation over and over again. Yes I’d applied, but when your luck’s down you can hardly believe that a genuinely interesting role might just work out. There was no doubt about it – they wanted to put me to the test. Good grief. This called for proper preparation, as I wanted to avoid what happened to Anthony Bourdain in his indispensable book on a chef’s lot, ‘Kitchen Confidential’ – finally he was granted an interview at a very good restaurant where all was going to plan, until the very final question; thinking he’d been asked, ‘What do you know about me?’, he truthfully answered – ‘Nothing’. Cue blank, disbelieving looks, and a discernible shift in how the interview had so far proceeded. Only after the event did he realise he had misheard, and the question had in fact been – ‘What do you know about meat?’. A different question altogether, and not one a chef can afford to reply to as he did. No, there could be none of that. I had to be ready.

I happen to like research, and analysis. It’s a very rewarding process fleshing out a subject, to hopefully provide a comprehensive review of whatever landscape needs evaluating. It’s interesting learning the techniques and methods to apply in generating statistics and data to then measure and qualify. I’ve done work of this nature on various topics, but ‘The Military Balance’ would be a significant step-up; naturally it’s the leading publication in its field, but then they’d hardly claim anything different. They say – ‘The Military Balance is the International Institute for Strategic Studies’ annual assessment of the military capabilities and defence economics of 170 countries world-wide. It is an essential resource for those involved in security policymaking, analysis and research’. Good heavens above – finally a serious vacancy. My knees knocked. I trembled. But I was very excited, and extremely motivated. The work would be involved, thorough and highly regarded. Most of all I’d enjoy it a great deal. The air smelled of fresh challenges, and loose bowels. When all around you are losing their heads it’s always best to keep yours, not that this outlook helped much during the French Revolution, but that’s exactly what I needed to do – remain calm, focused and measured. Decapitating myself during the interview wouldn’t be a smart career move.

Considerable time was spent familiarising myself with the aims of the IISS, and specifically the content of the Military Balance itself. To help get into character I wore my favourite Nazi jacket throughout my reading. That might be in bad taste, but war generally is. Not being a warmonger or more of a megalomaniac than the next average Hitler I don’t have an appreciation of hostile strategic nuances, but I know that missiles are really expensive and fly fast. More usefully I’m aware of the consequences of Mutually Assured Destruction, which as another initialism couldn’t read more fittingly. Should those buttons be pressed I’ll be spending the final day tucked up in bed, all prepared for the longest lie-in in the history of mankind. Reviewing defensive capabilities is a useful tool though, although it does invite obvious comparisons with Top Trumps made real for the lunatic generation, with more resting on victory than crappy bragging rights with your mates – that’s the state the world finds itself in. I’ve already mentioned Orwell in my ITV write-up but once again the little bugger shows his relevance; the war on terror is a perpetual state without discernible enemy or point where clear victory can be achieved, save for there being an absolute end to violence of any kind anywhere. Until that happens, the war on terror survives ominously and eternally, as likely to prevail as would war on the colour green. This impossible madness is somehow hegemonic.

Not that the IISS are arms-dealers in pinstripe suits you understand, although if they were they did a damn good job of keeping it under their flak-ridden helmets. Their bunker, pardon me office, was a little too close to that of the touchy-feely global conglomerate for my liking – the last thing I’d want would be to run into an ex-colleague, or better still my old boss when on lunch, as my false-modesty would struggle to keep a lid on my vulgar sense of self-satisfaction over my new and infinitely more interesting role. I’d bore them to death with every detail, echoing the death I nearly acquired due to boredom whilst working for them. Call it payback, or the delusions of a man who didn’t get this job so missed out on the chance to gloat. I don’t mind which, as I can barely tell the difference between reality and invention any longer. Anyway, it was an unusually nice day come my interview – in fact it was scorching hot, and travelling about trussed up like a turkey, with shirt tucked in and tie fastened a hair’s breadth away from asphyxiation, combined to the inevitable outcome when it’s baking hot – unwelcome sweat. Yes, it oozed out of me on the sweltering tube as if setting up an odorous restriction zone unsafe for others to enter, but at least it guaranteed me a seat. Rumbling along on what really is a glorified tram found only on the minor lines, finally I was able to get off at the right station – things were going well. Not only was I in the right part of town, I was in the right city. I was impressed, even if nobody else was.

My groaning belly was proving a distraction by now, so I was cheered to find a sandwich place right outside the station. I’m quite fussy in my preferences for one establishment over another, which takes time, commitment and money in arriving at a favourite, but when the fillings are all lined up on display looking for all the world like they’ve originated from the same central kitchen that supplies outlets the world over, you change your tune over snubbing anywhere, for all is uniform. In I went to receive the most enormous sandwich it’s ever been my pleasure to see outside of niche food pornography magazines. Even when cut in half it appeared the size of an as yet undiscovered solar-system, but my enthusiasm for calling the Royal Astronomical Society for a fast-track to a Knighthood was tempered by my selfish hunger, but more my desire to discover whether the human mouth could stretch to accommodate such a thing – this was more pagan ritual than mere eating, or some grotesque initiation ceremony into a netherworld of sandwich aficionados. As soon as it was outside into the relentless heat its filling warmed to a congealing state of awfulness, while my hands dripped with its deposits of grease. After managing half I was a beaten man, but full at last. Still there was time to kill, so I went into a small park area already full with those basking not only in the weather, but in their delight at enjoying a well earned lunch-break from work.

All these bastards already had jobs – the shirts, in this weather, were a dead give-away, as were the shoes kicked off to allow feet clad to a man in regulation black socks some airing – a scene of chronic destitution. For a moment I considered whipping out my unmentionables and joining them in soaking up the skin-shrivelling rays, but wisely decided if any IISS employee happened to be gazing out the window in wonderment of this finest of all days to be alive only to see a cavorting fellow, naked from the waist down unaware of all the revulsion surrounding him, then my chances of being employed would tumble once they realised I was the next interviewee. No, instead I made do with sitting on a bench, populated by only a girl; I give this unremarkable detail to give context to what follows. Naturally I sat right at the other end of the bench as friendliness with strangers is frowned upon in the capital, but soon found I was caught right in the sun’s glare. Squinting soon gets tiring, and there was no way I could risk lying on the grass in case I got too comfortable and fell asleep, so missing my interview. On the other side of the park there was another bench, entirely in the shade – perfect.

However, the sole occupant of that bench was another single girl. A lone man swapping one bench for another to sit alongside a different girl could give off the whiff of pervert, but I was only interested in solace from the sun. Happily once I’d moved, without feeling dozens of pairs of eyes follow me before groups of workers indiscreetly began gossiping about me being the local weirdo, the new girl kept up a conversation on her phone, which obviously I eavesdropped on while casually smoking more and more as the hour dawned ever closer. After stubbing the last one out I made for the office. At first my instincts told me I’d walked into a country-house hotel, so plush and twee were the furnishings. I’m no golfer, but it reminded me of how I imagine Gleneagles might look – familiar, corporate cosseting for the kind of person that rejects modernity of any kind. When interiors look the same wherever they go, from meetings in Monaco to golf in Scotland, they demand a time-warp hotel – there’s nothing wrong with knowing what you like, but I was thrown by an office styled this way. Old-fashioned fixtures and fittings. Deep-pile carpet. It’s quite clear I’m not used to luxury or junkets to tax-havens, otherwise I’d have felt comfortable immediately – instead I was afraid to touch anything. Here was a contender for the centrefold spread in House and Gardens magazine – I hope I remembered to wipe my feet.

At the reception desk I tripped over the pronunciation of who I was here to see. Although I knew I was to meet 3 people, foolishly I’d picked the least straightforward name to say, just to try and appear debonair and well within my comfort zone. Unfortunately it backfired, which a correction by one of the receptionists confirmed. Damn it. With a pitying grin she waved me off to the waiting area, where I got to thinking – how tiresome for these women to endlessly repeat, ‘Good morning/afternoon, The International Institute for Strategic Studies, how can I help you?’, as often as the phone rings, only for my sympathy to wane once I compared their job to the clear agony of telephonists at American law-firms, which in a chronic display of machismo use dozens of partners’ surnames to come up with a less snappy firm name it’s not possible to imagine, or more of a tongue-twister to say out loud regularly. Saying convoluted company names over and over again is akin to torture I pondered, while sinking deeper into an extravagant sofa. This waiting room, while a prefect representation of a serious institution, felt a little intimidating; leaded windows, seemingly unopened for decades; angle-poise lamps for added ‘country-squire’ factor; leather-topped tables and furnishings from a bygone age; an entire clothes-rail for hanging up your resurgent Barbour jackets; and not a single other person in it. I nearly emptied the water-cooler in trying in vain to lubricate my dry mouth. Tiring of sitting I wandered around, picking up one of their brochures to anxiously pretend to read. A workman came in to repair a bulb I hadn’t noticed wasn’t working – I was glad of any distraction so watched him throughout, hoping we wouldn’t tumble from his stepladder. He didn’t. The light turned on. A job well done.

At one point I openly spoke out loud to myself, something along the lines of, ‘Just relax. Do your best. You may even enjoy yourself’. Luckily the nearby receptionists didn’t think I’d flipped my lid as no men in white coats arrived – instead, finally, the lady with the unpronounceable surname did – wisely I opted to use her Christian name. Idle talk of who knows what as we took the lift upstairs. I can only describe the atmosphere up there as one of serene order – no panic raced through the corridors, painted in that tasteful neutral colour that doesn’t distract from the necessity of work. Everyone and everything was in its right place – total calm contrasting with my inner turmoil. To the meeting room, to meet the other 2 chaps who formed the interview panel, for that’s surely what 3 people add up to; either that or a firing-squad. I’ve never had 3 pairs of eyes focused on me in an interview before, or been placed in a room so small that there was barely time for polite introductions before we were almost sitting on top of each other. Regulation water on the desk. Notepads. I’ve never quite figured out what to write on them while being interviewed, so with my pen settled for some sleight of hand magic. They didn’t seem too impressed, but that’s their lookout. Perhaps not mentioning these skills on my CV caught them off guard.

From the off I’d pinned one of the gentlemen as not being on my side; most unfortunate as he’d be my direct boss should I have got the job. There was a certain frostiness I couldn’t penetrate. If I remember rightly he’d spent some time in the forces, but was still relatively young. Certain Oxbridge education. Very serious, precise, prim and proper. I had a fight on my hands. The other gentleman was much older and led much of the interview as he was the senior of the lot, although I kept up my usual trick of addressing answers equally amongst them. No matter how I chose to involve the potential future boss, he seemed miles away throughout. At one point he gave an almost imperceptible nod of his head in the direction of the other gentleman as I became ever more intend on winning his affection by answering to him more than the others, dismissively making it clear I should aim my answer elsewhere. This must be how a stand-up comedian feels while he dies on his arse in front of an audience bemused at his material – infuriatingly I just could not crack this man. Clearly I need a potential future boss to show an interest, but a lot of his mannerisms I put down to his background, and position in the company. He’s not easily impressed and unafraid of showing it, as by whatever means he’s well used to always getting what he wants. Fact of the matter is he wasn’t impressed in the slightest with me, and saw no value in listening to what I had to say, let alone consider establishing a working relationship by ultimately offering me the job.

The Military Balance is his baby. He’s in charge, so what he says goes. Perhaps we’d have clashed had I got the job, but I’d like to think not, but he made assumptions and stuck by them. Typical Thatcherite – The Iron Lady’s ‘The lady’s not for turning’ remark ran through him like a laxative, and never did he deviate. I quite liked the stubborn bastard. After the interview I was emailed an editing test to complete, but short of returning manna from heaven I knew the game was up. In a way though I didn’t lose this opportunity myself, as my performance was decent. My face didn’t fit, and there’s nothing you can do about it. Maybe that’s prejudice, or just tough. Regardless, my strike-rate was now 0 job offers from 5 interviews – the next was to be an unmitigated disaster.