I can tell you what it said. I’ll give you the short version rather than the Peter Jackson version. Don’t misunderstand, there were no hobbits or dragons or songs about gold in my three sixty feedback. Definitely nothing about gold. There was the slight inference that my career was heading inexorably towards Mount Doom though and a number of comments suggested that I might as well have been invisible for the past three years. And all without the benefit of a magic ring. What was the point of that ring, anyway? All it did was make you invisible and, over prolonged exposure, go a bit mad. So, in that respect, I guess, pretty similar to my job. But that’s not worth ripping up Middle Earth for, surely? There was that stuff about it ruling over all the other rings, one ring to rule them all and in the darkness bind them. All that. I think it gave the wearer the power over the will of men. It wouldn’t have to work too hard on mine: I’m losing more of it everyday.
I digress. This is what it said. I’m paraphrasing but you’ll get the general idea. My peers all said I was anonymous and lack presence. They all said, on such a consistent basis that I have to be suspicious that they didn’t agree it beforehand, that I had reached the limit of my potential. Hit my own personal ceiling. What the hell is a ‘personal ceiling’? That’s actually what one of them put in the open ended comments. Standing on the top rung of my own career ladder and, should I try to climb higher it’d inevitably end with me on the floor in a heap. That was another one. They had definitely been comparing notes. I think my favourite, if I can put it like that, was: “he reminds me of Ringo Starr: he’s the least talented amongst us and the best he can hope for if he steps away from the protection we give him as a group is to read stories for kids about steam trains.” Well, I’ve got news for you, Thomas The Tank Engine’s worth a billion pounds a year. And he was the best drummer in the Beatles. So, I take your Ringo slur and I wear it with pride.
Those fuckers were never going to write anything nice to be honest. Straight self-interest. There’s a finite number of jobs above us and we’re all in for them so why put anything down in writing that might inadvertently give a rival a leg up? Even if it just boosts their confidence a fraction, enough to tip them over the edge in a tense interview or some made up presentation task. Tell us about a time you disagreed with someone and how did you change their mind? All that. What’s your biggest weakness? Drink and the musical theatre of Barbra Streisand. Ha, and indeed, ha. Is there anyone who doesn’t say… ‘well, I guess my biggest weakness is that I’m a perfectionist’ or ‘well, I do find I’m so committed to my work that I sometimes work too hard’ to that question? I made the mistake of answering it honestly once. I thought they’d acknowledge my self-awareness. Turns out they weren’t looking for someone who got bored easily and had a tendency to procrastinate for hours wondering whether he’d made a catastrophic series of decisions from his A levels onwards. Live and learn.
I was disappointed in the responses from the people in the grade above. Disappointed that there weren’t any. I guess, on some level, I was aware that I wasn’t a huge blip on their radar but I thought I might have registered a little. Or at all. There are billions of pounds and dollars and yen being spent on developing stealth technology around the world to fit out planes that are invisible to enemy defence systems. Billions. And here I am with, seemingly, in built stealth DNA. I should be able to make a fortune letting them replicate my genome to smear across wings and fuselage and, why stop there, tanks and aircraft carriers and bombers. Instant invisibility. Utterly undetectable to anything or anyone with decision making power.
I had consoled myself that the fact that my immediate peers hated me and my seniors were completely oblivious was because I was a man of the people. The real people. Good, honest (and, talking of being honest, not well paid) workers. They would recognise my common touch and my empathy with their concerns. Sure, they never invited me for after work drinks but I guess that was because they didn’t want me to feel awkward. I understood. Or I thought I’d understood: turns out they took the anonymous opportunity afforded by the online ‘personal development’ survey to give me a right kicking as well. It is not true to say that I relentlessly talk about young bands and the latest gig I’ve been to as a way to try and appear like I’ve still ‘got it’. I genuinely like Stormzy and that whole grime thing. Not knowing the song titles doesn’t mean anything. It’s about how it makes you feel, isn’t it? Middle management can feel urban rage and alienation as much as anyone else. I put their comments down to some kind of reverse snobbery. And that stuff about me lying about having a tattoo really hurt. It’s not like I’m going to get that out in the office to prove it, is it?
Bloody HR. I knew I shouldn’t have agreed to it. Three hundred and sixty degrees of feedback and no degree of restraint or discretion. At least they’re making everyone do it. I will have my revenge.