Rubbery with Violence

"Fuck your Honda Civic, I've a horse outside", bawled Govstooge in a perfect Mid-West accent at the office Christmas party Karaoke. There was no backing track. I didn't need it - after seven pints I could make my own kind of music. I also belted out "People are strange" by the Doors at an earlier point in the night - the joke was lost on the motley crew of oddballs, none of whom dared approach the mike.

There was a disco also. Jesus Christ, the sight of middle-aged civil servants bopping away to Katy Perry is a sad one indeed. Nosher, the fat EO, sated from his repast (which included mopping up the remnants of his neighbours' dishes) wobbled over to the bar which I was valiantly propping up during a slow set to find a dance partner. His hand extended towards mine. Eugh. People have camera phones. The moment could be recorded for posterity, posted up on the Departmental Intranet for people to chuckle at when bored. "No thanks, Nosher", I said firmly. "Ah, come on, it's that song by Elton Jim!", he protested. I rounded on him. "Look Nosher, the last man I danced with lost his left bollock due to an ill-timed move on my part." Nosher thought for a second, - possibly contemplating the armour of his pendulous abdomen viz-a-viz his testicles regardless of any crap dancing on my part - and turned away sadly.

I've nothing against fat blokes, I've even gone out with one, it's just that it was a Friday night, and Nosher was wearing the same shirt that night that he had been wearing since Monday, and I could still see remains of strawberry jam from Tuesday morning's scone on it.

All in all, it was a memorable night, not least with the snow gently falling around us as we went from place to place, and not a drop of vomit in sight!

Christmas chez Govstooge was a different matter. Following a hearty dinner, Brussels sprouts included, there was a pitched battle between Govstooge père and Govstooge mère over which DVD boxset to watch. Would it be Only Fools and Horses Complete Box Set (Govstooge père, from Govstooge) or A Night with Daniel O'Donnell, a gift from Govstooge frère to Govstooge mère. Govstooge women being made of stern stuff, Daniel O'Donnell won the toss and it was imperative that I leave the house immediately before my slightly deaf mum got her hands on the volume control button, but not before shooting evil glances at my brother.

Kilshite main street was deserted, and white. Even the dogshit was white. Not a sound other than the gurgling of the river under the bridge. Placid, until a boy racer tore up the street, "Fuck your Honda Civic..." blaring from his windows.

Ironic. He was driving one, the dimwit.

Where everybody knows your name... almost

I’m not going to write about the Budget 2011 and its raping of my already gang-raped pay cheque. I have more pressing things on my mind right now.

It’s that time of year again, the annual office Christmas “do”. As I’m in a whole new Department, I’m filled with trepidation at the thought of what kind of festivities my new colleagues indulge in.
I’ve already established a list of people beside whom it is safe to sit at the dinner. Basically, it’s anyone who is not:

- The Trappist EO. I am a convivial sort, and sitting next to a silent colleague would be awkward, but he is the best of the lot of them, if I want him to make noise I could stick him with my fork.

- The Bionic Woman. The colleague who has so much cosmetic dentistry and Botox and IUD devices inside her that she is surrounded by a strange magnetic field, has paper clips stuck to her back and can change ringtones on people’s phones merely by coughing.

- Morticia. Just...go away. I don’t care about the turkey and ham you ate at a table a Bishop sat at once.

- Nosher, the corpulent EO. I can see him now. “Govstooge, look at the lovely outfit Mary is wearing!” I look. “Oh yeah, nice top,” I agree. I look back at my plate. WHERE HAVE MY FUCKING CHIPS GONE?!!!? Nosher is grinning and rubbing his ample belly.

- My arch-nemesis. Yes, I have one. Even here. Nothing’s ever happened between us. It’s a hatred akin to that of Maggie Simpson and Gerald, the monobrowed baby who seem to simply glare at each other, just as this colleague does to me. (And I reciprocate, because underneath all this erudition and consummate professionalism, I am profoundly childish.)

That leaves me with: The HEO, his boss, their boss and some other uber senior manager.

Does that mean I’ll be kissing serious arse at the table?

The pub, karaoke and other crap will be another matter entirely. It’ll probably involve dancing.

I hate dancing.

'Allo, 'Allo

Bonjour, mes petits chouxfleurs!

As we all know by now, there will be une autre grève - another strike - next Thursday.

And, given the five mile tailbacks many of us had to endure when we fucked off to Newry yesterday, I thought maybe next time, let's go all out. Let's make a proper trip of it.

Why not France, I thought. Home of Champagne, Malbec, and ooh, it's Beaujolais Nouveau time round about now too! Think of all the Brie and runny Camembert we can pick up for our festive entertaining!

It's time for the ultimate public sector Booze Cruise!

Attention, Cherbourg, les fonctionnaires viennent.

PS: Private Sector: No torpedoes now. Season of Goodwill and all that.

Christmas with the Stooges

Oh jaysus. It's over for another year. I'm in Kilshite with the rest of the assembled family.

Mind you, it's one of the nicest Christmases I've had for quite some time.

I remained relatively sober throughout the day.
I didn't insult anyone.
I didn't spill cranberry sauce down my new top.
I only belched (not farted - because I am a lady and we do not make bottom noises) in front of guests.

Best of all...!!!!

In my parents' back garden there's a stray cat eating the turkey leftovers... and he looks exactly like HITLER!

This has been a source of great amusement to me because I can no longer go out through the back door without shouting "Arbeit Macht Frei" or "Sieg Heil".

Now they've locked the door and hidden the key on me. Gits.

I'd post a photo of him but the bugger keeps running off to annex some other neighbour's garden. In the meantime, here's something himmler ... er... similar.

A Christmas Form ...part the second

(Part 1)

Govscrooge awoke again, this time with a desperate urge to wee. Damn that Leffe! Having endured a trepidatious waddle to the toilet, she washed her hands (remember kids!) and decided that the table was not a good place to sleep after all. She turned to go upstairs. At that precise moment, the clock in the hall struck three. "Bollocks", thought our protagonist, "I'm going to have some fucking head on me tomorrow."

"And right you are", quoth an iridescent globule which materialised suddenly at the foot of the stairs.

"What the fuck!" screamed Govscrooge. As a fairly heavy drinker, she had seen some weird things in her time, but never what looked like a talking hyperbolic paraboloid. "Oh wait, are you one of those things Morley said he was sending?"

"That's right", said the thingy, which morphed into a vaguely humanoid figure. "Now, if you'd like to sign this docket as proof of delivery, we can get started." The figure proffered in its hand something that looked vaguely like a form. Govscrooge retched at the sight of it. But signed it anyway and handed it back. Immediately, the ghost took Govscrooge's hand and every atom of the surrounding environment vanished as if a thick fog had suddenly seeped around them.

When the fog cleared, Govscrooge recognised their new, grim surroundings instantly. "Holy shit, it's the sales office of Disgrace Brothers! I had my first job there! There's the office manager now. What a bitch." A small, pinched looking woman came into view. She was brandishing a large pile of order forms. "Govscrooge", she said, "The customers have changed their orders. As there's no-one else here and we have to make deliveries before close of business because it's Christmas Eve, you'll have to amend them all." The younger Govscrooge looked up and said "But I've already made plans for tonight. I wanted to go on the piss with my mates!" "Do I look like I care?" said the manager. "You want this job, don't you? We pay you 100 quid a week, so start earning it." She left the forms on Govscrooge's desk and walked back to her own office, where the accounts manager was waiting, with a barely concealed bottle of wine under his jacket. Govscrooge sighed and took the first order form off the pile.

"Jesus, what a fucking shithole. I hated that job.", said the present-day Govscrooge. "I wouldn't put up with that shite now. I've a good mind to find out where that bitch lives and petrol bomb her house". The ghost merely smirked. Some synapses in Govscrooge's inebriated brain began to work again: "Oh right, I get it, you're trying to teach me something. Well I think I get the message, so if you don't mind, I'd like to go home now." "Yeah, all right. You're a bit too sweary for me", said the ghost. "I've been dead for two hundred years you know. That was when ladies were ladies." A mist descended once again, and Govscrooge found herself back in her own home. "Ok, maybe I'll be nicer to Bob from now on", she muttered to herself as she ascended the stairs. Without a further thought, or changing into pyjamas, she collapsed into bed and promptly fell into a deep alcoholic sleep.

The clock struck four, and, with an almighty clatter, the bedroom windows flew open. Govscrooge woke with a start, "Not again". A second figure appeared, at first translucent, but then filling out into a comforting opacity. "Hieeee! I am the ghost of Christmas Present" announced the apparition, which now resembled a Yummy Mummy dressed in a Juicy Couture pink velour leisure suit and Ugg boots, laden down with a bulging Prada handbag and lots of bags from BT.

"Oh Jesus. I think I liked the first one better", moaned Govscrooge. "Don't be silly", said the ghost, and grabbed Govscrooge's hand with her own, French manicured one. "Come on, the Land Rover is outside." "So much for the bloody recession", growled Govscrooge. The ghostly Land Rover took them through the deserted streets of Ballyfuck, then into the next town. It stopped outside a small house. "Come on, let's have a look!" enthused the ghost. They peered through a window into a cosy family scene. Bob Scratchit was there, surrounded by his grown up children, and their own young families. They were unwrapping their presents.

"Gawd, look at that wallpaper" said the Ghost. "I mean, loike, you can get the look of handpainted damask at knockdown prices in Dundrum. " Govscrooge glared at the ghost and resumed looking at the Scratchits. Bob's wife handed him a parcel. "Bob, it's not much, but I think you'll like it". Bob unwrapped his gift. It was a knobbly, uneven, handknitted scarf. He grinned up at his wife. "It's lovely. Thank you so much." "Oh my Gawd, have they no taste? Alexander McQueen..." the Ghost was silenced by Govscrooge's hand clamping firmly across her mouth. Bob gave his wife her present. It was his civil servant diary, wrapped in ribbons. "Sorry love, department wouldn't sanction overtime this year. And I couldn't get out of the office to do any proper Christmas shopping because I forgot to apply for the leave on time. But look, it's got a nice leathery cover and everything." Mrs Scratchit hugged her husband and said "Never mind. At least it's something I'll use. Here's to a better year. I hope your application for a transfer at work is successful. You might get a more accomodating manager. I wish that Govscrooge woman was here right now, I've a good mind to give her a knuckle sandwich."

Govscrooge turned away from the window, retching once again. Mrs Scratchit was a big woman, with hands like shovels. "Get us out of here before she sees me", Govscrooge whispered hoarsely to the Ghost. "OK, but the Land Rover's just been repossessed. We'll have to walk", replied the Ghost. They walked the miles back to Ballyfuck in silence. Well, near silence. The clicking of the Ghost's Manolos on the road almost drove Govscrooge into a frenzy. "If she wasn't already dead..." she thought.

Back home, Govscrooge attempted to sleep, but knowing that there was another fucking ghost on the way didn't help. And the room was spinning. That wasn't good. Neither was the third ghost. It was just standing there looking down at her. Silently, it extended a skeletal hand from underneath its black cloak. Govscrooge knew better than to refuse. "Bloody hell, you stink", was all she said.

The scene instantly changed to the interior of the Department. A small group of HEOs that Govscrooge knew were having tea together. "So, Bob Scratchit got promoted to EO at long last" said one of the HEOs. "Yes, good for him. He's a good worker. He hasn't had an easy time of it in his last section" said another, "I hear he's to replace Govscrooge. Well, he knows the work inside out." Govscrooge looked at the ghost. "What do they mean, replace? Did I get a transfer or something? I hope I don't get stuck in HR. Everyone expects you to know everything in there." The ghost shook its head.

The scene changed once again. They were standing alongside a long queue of people. The queue was extending out of the door of a large, grey building and went all the way round the corner. They walked to the door and entered the building. No-one complained. They were invisible, you see. A large counter with perspex windows dominated the room. There were also several metal chairs, all of which were occupied, and all of which were bolted to the floor. A man with a can of cheap cider sticking out of his back pocket was banging on one of the perspex windows. A tirade of filthy abuse issued from him. "Where's me bleedin' dole, you fuckin' miserable oul' BITCH?" he screamed at the petrified woman behind the counter. Govscrooge squinted. That woman looked vaguely familiar. A bit older, yes, but not much. "Oh fuck, that's me! What the hell am I doing in the bloody dole office?" she screamed, grabbing the ghost's robes. "What the hell am I doing in an understaffed dole office in the middle of the RECESSION?" Govscrooge fell to the floor, retching yet again. When she looked up, she was back in her own home. "Oh, Christ", she moaned, and slumped, unconscious onto the floor.

Bob Scratchit awoke on Christmas morning with a splitting headache. It was not helped by his wife poking him in the ribs with her toe. "Get up, you git!", she shouted. "What a sight for your grandchildren to see, you lying there, drooling on my nice new wood floors. Get up and help to set up Tiny Tom's new Nintendo Wii." Bob groaned, roused himself and slowly shuffled into the kitchen for a drink of water. The smell of roasting turkey that filled the house did nothing to help his hangover.

Not long after there was a knock on the door. Wiping the crusty drool from his cheek, he went to answer it. "Oh Holy shite", he screamed as he realised who the caller was. "What are you doing here?" Govscrooge stood in the doorway with a big grin on her face. Her eyes were bloodshot and she was still wearing yesterday's work clothes, including ID badge. In fact, she looked totally bolloxed, but she still managed a cheery "Merry Christmas, Bob." She had two cases of Leffe at her feet. "Here you go, Bob, I thought you might like these. I'm giving up the booze." Bob was still staring at her, open mouthed. Govscrooge continued, "Oh, and there's absolutely no problem with taking today off. I've signed your leave form. And there's a few blank ones there too so you can fill your own dates in. Here, have a look." Bob took the familar form from Govscrooge. December 25th was indeed signed off. "Wait a minute, Govscrooge", Bob said. "Today is my day off anyway. It's everyone's day off. It doesn't have to be signed off. Not by you, not by anyone."

"Oh, bollocks. I was wondering why everywhere was closed. I wanted to get you all something for Christmas. This beer was all I had. I must be really hungover, not to know even what day it was."

"Never mind. Do you want to join us for dinner? There's more than enough", invited Bob.

"No thanks, I've heard how your wife picks her... errr... I think I need to go home and sleep now", said Govscrooge.

Bob watched her go. The next year was going to be better. He wiped the drool from his mouth once more with the form and went inside.

"God bless us every one", he said cheesily to his assembled family.

"Shut up you corny git", said his wife.

The End (At last)
With apologies to Charles Dickens

Have a great Christmas, folks.

Guurgh!

I have few recollections of the recent office Christmas party.

The meal was lovely. I remember that bit. Plus I was seated next to some colleagues I didn't know very well before now and that worked out nicely.

I also remember singing loud rebel songs in a pub with some equally drunk colleagues while people at neighbouring tables looked on, smirking.

I bumped into a former colleague in another pub. The conversation went something like this:
Govstooge: AAAh howya Margaret!
Margaret: Hello Govstooge, how are you?
Govstooge: Uhurrhuurgh! Bleargh! Burble! (And various other unintelligible drunk person sounds).
Margaret: Eh, yeah. Excuse me, I have to go over here now.

The highlight of the night was when my stomach contents erupted all over the fine wood-marquetry of an upmarket pub door. And I got a fair few spatters myself.

Luckily, no-one else remembered.

I hope.

I have to face the rest of them tomorrow.

Lemmings

Why does it now take me HALF a FUCKING hour longer to get home from work because of the FUCKING Christmas shopping traffic????

For FUCK's sake, those FUCKING shops are open 24 hours now... why do these pricks all have to go at the same time??

BASTARDS!

Not only that... but I was stuck behind a couple of enormous Toyota Land Cruisers and Land Rovers ... with fucking "Baby on Board" stickers plastered all over them.

C***s! Garrrgh!

The Build Up

It's the fucking build up that kills me every time. No, not the build up of stomach gas after eating yet another of my own dodgy curries. Nor is it the build up of traffic which seems to worsen at the instant I swipe out at work every day, meaning a good 10 minutes or so are added onto my commute.

I am talking about Christmas. It's really in my face now. It's been gradually gaining momentum since late September but now, it's everywhere. Businesses are bedecked in fantastic arrays of lights. Homes will follow soon. Every time I open a newspaper or my email there's something with a festive theme.

Yes it does gladden the heart. The gloom of shitty weather and evenings dark as the devil's arsehole is somewhat alleviated by the twinkling lights and tinsel and trees in shop windows. And I know that my annual tradition of battering my liver with alcoholic substances will soon begin in earnest.

It's still early enough not to have your ears raped by awful Christmas music everywhere you go (I think, at least. Maybe others have heard some already.)

What's pissing me off about Christmas right now is how some folk at work are already planning what they're going to buy for their beloved offspring. Loudly. And even more loudly when they elaborate on how much they are going to spend (more than I earn in a week, some of them). And - now this is what's really grinding my gears - louder still when I am within earshot. Not to mention dangling little presents for their darlings that they happened on while they were in town at lunchtime in my face:

Colleague: Look what I bought for little Petey!
Govstooge: Yeah. Great.
Colleague: You haven't looked properly. Look again! Isn't it lovely!
Govstooge: Err... what exactly is it?

You see, I am not a parent. There are no little Govstooges running around my pristine house. My DVD collection is bereft of Dora and Barney. I have never seen or heard High School Musical. My car has no child seat, meaning more room for those important beer runs.

My colleagues are aware of this and some of them cannot understand why, at my age, I have not produced progeny. Why, when they were this age, they were already picking out communion outfits! What is wrong with Govstooge? Let's awaken that latent maternal instinct by bragging loudly about our kids when she is around, so that she'll suddenly turn broody and then we'll have something in common with her! And we can compare how much we're going to spend on them at their birthdays and Christmas!

Fuck off.

Kids are great. They're cute, funny, silly and you can fuck with their heads by telling them you're Kylie Minogue on your days off.

That doesn't mean I want to have any right now though.

I'm having way too much fun being feckless and not much more than an overgrown kid myself.

But if I see those Santa websites open on any screen in our section again, I'm temporarily revoking internet privileges. At least until December.

Bah humbug!

Can anyone tell me...

Why is Christmas lasting FOUR FUCKING MONTHS - and counting - these days? On my travels in recent days I noticed several houses and business premises still had lights and Santas and other stuff still stuck to them. OK, they weren't lighting, but are people so fucking lazy nowadays that they leave everything up year round so they just have to plug them in when the festive season begins again in August? The probability of deaths by electrocution from appliances battered by the summer deluges is astronomical.

Then again, do I really care?

Mmm... crispy...

Other Departments

I walked past another Department today. I had to smile at the effort put into their exterior Christmas decorations. In fact, I wish I'd taken a picture on my mobile phone and uploaded it here.
It was a many-hued, glittering festive delight.

It was the entire contents of someone's stomach, plastered (no - hurled!), Pollock-fashion, across their plate glass double front doors.

It summed up the true spirit of the Irish Christmas.

More Christmas Rant

Jesus, I'm fucking haemhorraging money this month. And I'm not talking about the heinous Christmas shopping mentioned in my previous post. No, I'm talking about all the other shite that's going on at work. People leaving and having babies, buying new cars, losing a stone off their arses, all these things have to be marked with a scrawl on a card and a ten euro note extracted from everyone. Fair dues, these are big life events (But where was my fucking card when I bought my house... huh? HUH?) and should be acknowledged in some fashion.

The big thing for me this month is having to cough up a load of extra cash towards the Christmas do (which I am organising, by the way) because I'm a fucking supervisor. This exalted status - despite the fact that there are clerical officers who make more money than I do - means I must pay more so that the clerical officers can have a cheap night out, at the expense of me and my fellow managers of various grades. This is a token of our appreciation for the hard work the clerical officers have done during the past year. Which is, also, fair enough. They do a good job. My main whinge here is that some of the other managers earn twice what I earn, and they have to pay the same. My tentative suggestion at the meeting that our contribution be made proportional to our earnings was met with stony silence. Quelle surprise.

Oh God, roll on March 1st and my 2.5% pay increase. I don't think my current pay packet can stand up to all this abuse. I might have to risk the whole lot on a horse. Tips, anyone?

Oooh Sheeet!

Just realised... it's fuckin' December! And not a scrap of Christmas shopping done!! Many of my friends and family are already done with theirs, and I have yet to start!

Every year I do this, despite the subtle reminders all around me for the past two months. A hardware shop close to where I live has had their front festooned in Christmas tat since October 9th!

To compound matters, I utterly detest town centres in the approach to Christmas, all that queueing and elbowing and trying to find the last parking space in the multi storey - when I only went in there in the first place because the sign outside said "Spaces" and when I am in, there are several fucking jeeps taking up three spaces each. Grrr! It makes me wonder why I left the house without some Semtex and an Uzi. It was much simpler when the fat bloke in the red suit did all the hard work.

So now, I have to order everything online, and pray that it arrives on time. Alternatively I can browse the shopping centre and retail park adjacent to the Department while on my lunch break, when they aren't too mobbed with people doing a fairly convincing impression of the zombies in Dawn of the Dead.

Bah humbug!!