Raging Bullshit

Isn't it funny, the way people can just be in the wrong place at the wrong time? Or that they just might have picked the wrong person to piss off on a particular day?

I generally like to shut myself off from the outside world when I'm out and about. I don't like to listen to the sounds of traffic or machinery when I'm enjoying a leisurely stroll. I usually firmly implant my iPod headphones in my ears to counteract any of this extraneous noise. Listening to music on the go also insulates me against "smart" comments from teenagers and people who think they can get my attention so they can ask directions by driving slowly - kerb crawling if you will - alongside me while honking their horns. These I studiously ignore.

Occasionally, certain things will encroach upon my personal space, irritating me. A waft of stinking fag smoke from a passer-by. Idiots walking in a group, several persons abreast, thinking I'll step off the footpath for them (usually reserve my elbow for the nearest one of these). But these are accidental and unintentional.

The deliberate interference with other people in public is something I can't abide. Lecherous old men who think women are fair game and attempt to grab them. This has happened to me once and the perpetrator was on the receiving end of a "Go fuck yourself" from me and a stern warning from a uniformed Garda I knew.

Today was nearly as bad. I was walking close to the Department earlier on. I was somewhat preoccupied with a work related problem and was thinking about how I would approach the person responsible. All guns blazing, or softly-softly? Hmm. I prefer the former myself. But in the interest of future workplace harmony, I have to go with the latter. To make my temperament conducive to a gentler approach, I take out my iPod and begin shuffling it in the hope of finding a nice slow classical piece.

I had to settle on "Dancing with Myself" by Billy Idol, even though that wasn't going to achieve the effect I'd desired. I'd had to put the gadget away somewhat quickly as there were two boys walking towards me and there was something about their whole demeanour I didn't like. The iPod was in my pocket with my right hand closed firmly around it.

As the little fuckers passed, it turns out my instinct was correct, one of them did try to make a grab for it. Unsuccessfully, as my hand was around it, and remember, I was still in an all-guns-blazing frame of mind.

So if anyone was in the vicinity of the Department earlier on today and happened to see two boys running for their lives pursued by a swearing office worker, well now you know the story.

I didn't keep it up for long. I had no intention of catching them. I had better things to be doing you know. But I gave them a good fright and they weren't to be seen again. A couple of minutes later, I couldn't stop a broad grin from spreading across my face as I pictured the scenario. I've laughed about it to everyone I've spoken to since. Laughter truly is the best medicine and I did find that it diffused the tension I had been feeling where music couldn't.

The moral of the story? Leave Govstooge alone in public. This EO bites.

L'enfer...

...c'est les autres. At least, that's what Jean-Paul Sartre once said.

And I'm inclined to agree. Hell truly is other people.

Take one of my colleagues for instance. Let's call this colleague "Calamity" for illustrative purposes. I don't work directly with Calamity as he is in a different office, but I speak regularly with him on the phone. I shouldn't, but I invariably do, ask, "How are you today, Calamity?" Because this invariably leads onto a litany of the latest woes to befall this misfortunate functionary.

So far, I've been told:
"My arse exploded last night."
"My wife's arse exploded last night."
"I was off last week. Spent the whole time in bed with a bucket by my side."
"I was on holidays in Darfur. Stupid time to go, really."
"There was a dead sheep with an upside down crucifix stuck in it nailed to my front gate this morning".
"Hitler's ghost woke me up last night."
"Bertie Ahern is my best friend."
"The hubcap came off my X5. I have an X5 you know. It's shiny."

For several months now, I have been a shoulder to cry on for Calamity. I have been a sounding board for all his problems. I have been Marjorie Proops, Doctor Phil, Joe Duffy, all rolled into one. I have interjected his lament with "ooh you poor thing" on innumerable occasions, so much so that when my nearby colleagues hear this phrase they have to snigger and say to each other "Uh-oh, Govstooge's onto Calamity again."

I bet you are thinking, "Aaw, Govstooge's really nice after all." No? Oh well.

Anyway, Calamity, if you happen to be reading this in between your bouts of vomiting and missing hubcaps, please take note that I am no longer a free counselling service. Find a properly qualified therapist and pay them whatever they ask, you earn more than me anyway, you tight fucking bastard.

And next time a piece of information goes astray between my department and yours, complain to me directly. Don't ring up my managers denouncing me and making out I don't know what I'm doing, even though it was the first time something went wrong.

Because, if I knew where you lived, I'd be round there to give you something new to complain about.

Hell is Govstooge with a pointy stick.

April is the Cruellest Month

After a day of planning my aforementioned bollockings (I was afforded this luxury on account of the offending staff members' being out on leave today), I have emerged unscathed from the workplace April Fools' pranks.

I wasn't taken in by the promise of free scones in the canteen. And the zombie attack was fooling no-one. I've said before, zombie attacks only work in places where you can tell the living and the dead apart.

Anyway, I took some time out to get away from it all. I took a leisurely stroll around the unremarkable environs of the Department for some fresh air and exercise (remember folks - only YOU can prevent the spread of CIVIL SERVANT ARSE (Gluteus bureaucraticus giganticus).

It was a nice day where I was. A cafe with outdoor seating was doing a roaring trade. I've never been there. And it's just as well I didn't want to go today, because there was a bum on every seat. I'm not sure why. It wasn't that warm to sit outside. It was ok to walk around without a coat on, but not to sit in one spot, outdoors, with a nasty breeze blowing up the leg of your jeans. And, in addition, while sitting outside, you can get a nice lungful of the carbon monoxide belched out by passing traffic and the idling Landrover abandoned at the blind corner by the yummy mummy with the gigantic sunglasses who just popped in to get a brioche (I thought most of these were extinct now, but no, some of them are still clinging on). So I gave that one a miss, regardless of how tempting the scones and cakes looked and smelt as I passed.

I wasn't alone in my activity. There were several joggers about. Joggers! Gurrgh! I don't have a a problem with jogging as a form of exercise. I DO have a problem with the fact that they have a rotten habit of jogging right up behind me to overtake as I walk, no matter how wide the pavement is. Hey, assholes, I'm walkin' here! I'm sticking my leg out the next time they do that!

Maybe I should have stayed in at my break and gone along with the pranks. It might have been safer.

The Hate Issue...

As is my wont on this suppurating-pustule-on-a-greeting-card-company-marketing-executive's-arse of a day, I dedicate this post to the things I truly hate. Allow me to vent my spleen in the most bilious manner.

In no particular order, I bring you...

1. Hallmark holidays. I have been, for the greater part of my life, a singleton, and proud of it. I refuse to engage in any activity in pubs or restaurants on this date. I could have conformed and accepted the invitation to go out from an ex-boyfriend who has been getting back in touch, but instead I slagged him for being corny and made arrangements for next week instead. And to bring flowers if he wanted. Flowers that aren't marked up by 100% for the day that's in it. There's a recession on don't ya know. Oh, and Halloween is shite as well. They'll be exchanging cards for that next.

2. Our Government. They're completely shit. I don't blame Brian Cowen. I blame Bertie for dumping him in the shite. 1% income levy, stupid pension levy, soon I'll be paying the Department for the privilege of working there. And this is just the beginning. The Government have plans to cut spending right up to 2013.

As hundreds of people are made redundant every week, I am grateful for merely having a job, and acknowledge that we should make sacrifices (like the 3.5% pay increase on September 1st under the National Pay Agreement which has now been axed). What's pissing off many of us lower and middle-income public servants, however, is how we are being villified by the media, (did you know that as a post-1995 recruit, I was paying my own pension all along?) and also the fucking disgusting incompetence of senior bank executives, who have gotten away with murder!

No-one's going to have much sympathy for us paper-pushers if we go on strike, but why take it lying down? Steeeee-RIKE!

3. The bloke with a chocolate addiction who sits at the opposite end of the section to me. His man-boobs have increased from a B-cup to a C-cup since last summer, and worst of all, I can hear every bite. Even at that distance. Bleurgh. You disgusting noisy-eating bastard.

4. The wet patch in my back garden. It makes noise when I walk on it.

5. The voice of a worker in a neighbouring section that can be heard over a considerable distance. I'm sure she is a very nice person, but her voice could cut sheet metal!

6. The fact that the neighbour who backs onto me STILL hasn't taken down his outdoor Christmas decorations. I can see Santa on his roof as I type. Lazy twat.

Ummm.... that's about it. Must be losing my touch.

Dee dee dee dee ... it's the twilight zone ...

I watched the Bertie documentary on RTE 1 last night - typical RTE sycophancy, "carefully-chosen" 70s and 80s soundtrack, irritating closeups of Haughey's rancid face all tied together by commentary from various people short enough to be taken out of context (the comments, that is. I am not making reference to the stature of any individual). There was an interesting bit about Bertie's campaign in the 1977 General Election.

Strange, then how my dream last night was all about the rise of Hitler.

Tesco Value Santa

On a late-night booze-fuelled web surfing mission, I have just stumbled on this.

A burglary suspect was arrested in the Tesco Express store in the Pemberton area of Wigan, Greater Manchester. Stuck. Up a chimney. In the nudie.

Jaysus. Since when did Tesco have chimneys? And the bit about "clothes came off as a result of his struggle" is, I'm sorry, bollocks.

I'd say he was a perv who simply wanted to frolic in the altogether past the frozen fish, cavort clothesless in the cheese aisle and wind up with a nice new pair of Y Fronts from Florence and Fred.

(I'll refrain from making awful "sack" jokes just this once.)

If anyone from Wigan is reading this (in particular, members of the extended Govstooge family who live in that very area), I'd check my purchases for foreign objects - specifically short curly hairs - before eating.

Ballyfuck Rally

Tonight I want to expound on a subject which is close to my heart. The Hate Node of my heart, as it happens.

There are a considerable number of boy racers living in Ballyfuck. The sort of lads who get their kicks from getting two euro worth of petrol and cruising up and down the street in their noisy buckets of shit for the evening in the hope that people will look at them. And when they get fed up of that, they go home to their rooms in Mammy's house where they commit unspeakable acts while watching reruns of Pimp My Ride.

One wanker on my street has some sort of indescribable piece of shit which makes a sneezing noise as he changes gear. I have never looked to see what kind of car it is. Because that's what he wants.

The other day was when I was walking home after having got the paper from the shop and there was a lad parked outside, waiting for his passenger to come out of the shop. As I passed, he revved his engine a couple of times.

Hey, a girl! Vroom Vroom! Look at me!

(I might add at this point that I bear no resemblance to the sort of girls who grace the cover of Max Power and other such periodicals aimed at boy racers. For one, I am comprised of 0% silicone.)

I looked up at a nearby roof and admired the new PVC guttering. But not before I had a chance to have a quick shifty glance out of the corner of my eye to see what kind of car it was.

A 1997 Fiat Punto.

I sniggered all the way home.

Poor wee lad. Let him have his fun.

Edit: I actually enjoy Pimp My Ride. In fact I think they should do a similar idea for wedding day makeovers.

Pimp My Bride.

***runs away before the rotten tomatoes hit ***

Overheard...

Another EO talking to one of their clerical officers... might I add that this clerical officer is a known berk...

EO: Any plans for the weekend?
CO: No, no. But I might take most of next week off if that's OK with you.
EO: No problem. Which days do you want off? Give me your leave application form and I'll enter them on the leave system for you.
CO: Well, I don't know yet. I might take the days off, and I might not. I'm not sure what I'm going to be doing.
EO: Are you going to come in on Monday?
CO: I think so. But I'll ring you if I'm not coming in. And I'll ring on Tuesday if I'm not coming in that day either (and so on...)
EO: I'm not going to be in on Monday or Tuesday myself.
CO: Oh.
EO: But you can ring the HEO.
CO: Actually, I think I will book the whole week off now.
EO: Ok then...

Patience of a saint, that EO. I'm glad I'm not in that situation as I would be out of a job by now. At this stage I would probably be jumping up and down whacking the CO over the head with the leave form shouting "JUST TAKE THE FUCKING DAYS YOU STUPID TWAT AND GIVE THE REST OF US A FUCKING BREAK FROM YOUR BLOODY TWATTITUDE!" A week without that kind of person in the place would be like a holiday for the others.

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Now playing: Utah Saints - Something Good
via FoxyTunes

The Decline of English

New statistics from the Department of Education show conclusively that skangers are getting thicker. A spokesperson yesterday said that "95% of all knackery scobey chavs can't spell their favourite words, let alone their own names".

An exclusive picture follows.
(Warning, may cause distress to sweary civil servants.)

Jesus.

Queuing for a Loving

I fucking hate queuing for anything. I can just about tolerate the queue in the canteen at work (yes, for we executives must mingle with the hoi polloi of the COs and senior managers). Queues make me tap my feet, roll my eyes and murmur expletives. My genteel and polite upbringing dictates, however, that I accept my place in the queue and await my turn.

I was in an airport check-in queue earlier. These generally move quickly unless they are Ryanair queues where some passengers are overweight (baggage, that is - how long before they start weighing US as well as our luggage). This queue moved nice and quickly and I didn't adopt any Tourette's symptoms while waiting.

Then...

SLUUUUUUUUUUURP!

Dear Christ, what the fuck was that?

And again:

SHLOOOOOOOK!

Jesus! It's the Day of the Triffids! They're coming to get me!

SMAAAAAAACK!

Fuck!

I rotated my head gingerly (No, I'm not ginger. I was merely suggesting an exercise of caution in my movements). I expected to see part of the Scottish bog that tried to eat my foot earlier in the week waiting in line behind me to great me with a cheery "Hello again" as I turned around. Or maybe a giant alien plant with a pair of legs protruding from its mouth-like aperture.

No such luck.

Behind me was one of those fucking smug couples who can't stop kissing or feeling each other up in public. The noises I had been hearing were the result of their hoovering each other's faces with their mouths. Even the stupid fucking twat at work who can't eat with his mouth closed makes less noise.

Now there is nothing more natural than the expression of love between two people. Except, when you turn around, and they see that you've noticed them, they get worse. Plus, being bereft of male company with whose help I could retaliate with counter strikes of slurping, I had no option than to dig out my iPod and turn Cannibal Corpse up really, really loud (Song of choice? I Will Kill You, of course).

There should be a law against it. Or at least, some new travel protocol. I am going to write to Michael O'Leary to see if he would consider introducing another silly additional charge on this type of behaviour in airport queues. Well, he has the Priority Boarding Queue, what about the "Love-struck soppy couple" queue? Other airlines will then follow suit and the whole unpleasant business would be over and done with.

The Mile High club is another matter entirely, which I haven't given a great deal of thought to because I prefer to wee in the airport before boarding instead of wrestling with toilet roll, underwear and flimsy doors in an airborne loo. Let them have their fun. They might even get wedged in there together and give the rest of us some inflight entertainment.

Feckin' rain...

The rain today got me thinking. Of emigration to warmer climes, yes, but also the different types of people you see out on the streets in different types of weather. I go walking in all sorts of conditions, owning rain gear (NOT yellow!) means I never miss out. A woman for all seasons, if you will.

For instance on a warm sunny day you will see mums and kids out walking, joggers, runners, rollerbladers cyclists and people with their dogs. And you think to yourself only nutjobs and people who have to spend seven or eight hours in a stuffy office would not be out in it.

Then on a wet shitty day, just like today, a casual stroll around the area where I work reveals another subclass. Trolls under bridges. Yes, beneath an underpass there was a group of hooded chav teenagers in their shiny tracksuits, huddled together and smoking a special type of herbal cigarette and roaring and shouting gibberish. There was also a lot of poo. In the absence of dogs, I can only imagine where that came from. I have never seen these troglodytes on a fine day.

Nobody else around, just me and these fucking chavs.

Thankfully they were too stoned and their nylon attire wasn't really meant for downpours of this magnitude, so they didn't chase me.

Torch Pong Soliloquy

I was in Limerick city centre today. Limerick features regularly in the media for the relatively high level of gangland crime occurring there. What surprises me, though, is the fact that we don't hear more about instances of spontaneous human combustion taking place there.

Or, indeed, in any other area in the country where tracksuits predominate. A leisurely stroll down William Street this afternoon meant I shared the pavement with a variety of tracksuit-clad folk in varying shapes, sizes and ages. All of whom, and I mean, ALL, were smoking fags. Now correct me if I'm wrong, but isn't nylon flammable? I don't smoke, nor do I wear cheap synthetic sportswear so I'm not an authority on this stuff.

I watched them expecting one of them to turn into a human torch at any moment. My hypothesis, unfortunately, went unfounded for today.

But I did experience some form of interaction with them. "Hoy, ya, bitch, what da fuck are ya lookin' at?" - which I took to mean "Excuse me, young lady, but I couldn't help noticing you looking in my direction. May I inquire as to what interested you about my appearance?"

Fascinating subspecies. Now Bill Oddie should be watching them - feck Springwatch - let's call it Scobewatch.

Bastard Birds... again!

Fucking crows have decided to use my washing line of clean blouses for shit-target practice.

BASTARDS!

I'm going to get myself an air rifle and then see how the dirty black fuckers like it.

It might even come in handy for this year's PMDS Interim Reviews, which I haven't been arsed to get around to yet.

Random annoyances

In the last few days, I've come across a few random annoyances (no, not Russia winning the Eurovision, well done to them; I imagine Moscow will really turn on the blingski for next year) and I want to write about them here:

Random annoyance no. 1 :
A CO colleague from a neighbouring section came to visit me the other day in order to ask me something. She pulled up an adjacent (and vacant - thank fuck!) chair and made herself all nice and cosy beside me. The exchange went something like this:

Colleague: So, Govstooge, why is your section carrying out this work when our section is also doing it?
Govstooge: Because there has to be a certain amount of overlap before your lot take it on fully to minimise error. Then we divest ourselves of it and your section takes it over permanently.
Colleague: But Govstooge, that's a lot of duplication for both of our areas. And Govstooge... (ad infinitum).
Govstooge: I'm sorry, I don't make the decisions. (Name of senior manager) does.
Govstooge (thinks): For fuck's sake, if you'd taken the time to look up my job title on the staff list you'd see that I'm just an EO. Yes, I know the 'E' stands for 'Executive' but my executive powers are minimal, if not non-existent. I might make more money than you, but not much more, I can guarantee you that. And stop using my fucking name every two seconds. Jesus, that drives me mental!

Yes, I actually do know my own name. I've had it for over thirty years and can now spell it properly and write most of the letters the correct way around on a form. I don't need someone cosying up to me and reminding me of it. Piss off.

Random annoyance no 2:
Having a pint down my (new) local in the afternoon with my dad, who is visiting me, at the weekend. The local is very old-fashioned and is therefore a very nice place to enjoy a few quiet pints. I like it, and I can walk down there and stagger home. There is an old geezer welded to the bar, whom my dad recognises from previous visits to the pub when I have not been with him.

Old Geezer: Oh, hello it's yourself! You're the fella whose daughter bought a house down the street! (points to me) Is that the daughter?
Dad: Yes.
Me (thinks): I fucking hope this doesn't turn out to be some sort of prelude to an arranged marriage. Better suck down this pint bottle of Bulmers fast.
Old Geezer: What number did she buy?
Me (rather aggressively): SHE bought Number 10! (Not my real house number - I didn't want uninvited guests turning up on my doorstep at closing time.)
At which point the old geezer realises that SHE is present in the room and begins addressing me directly, good Jaysus. Normal conversation (including a discussion about pieces of the True Cross - which may well turn out to be the leg of an old table - in existence in Ireland) ensues. A good day was had by all in the end, but, for feck's sake, please do not repeatedly refer to me in the third person when I'm in the room, or I'll feckin' stab you. And I've lived in Limerick.

What's wrong with me at all? I can't take too much of a proper noun, and I can't abide the misuse of pronouns. Is there a middle ground?

(Answers on a postcard to SHE who Must be Obeyed c/o The Pub, Main Street, Ballyfuck.)

The Real Uncivil Servant

An historic day in the Dail today.

If I wore a hat, I would take it off to this man:




After An Taoiseach's use of "Unparliamentary Language" in today's Leader's Questions, I have to reconsider my self-awarded title of Uncivil Servant.

What's next, Brian? Coming into work in a Burberry tracksuit reeking of Lynx and carrying a plastic Londis bag full of flagons of Linden Village? Is this incident about to set a new, even lower standard for our elected representatives? And what of the rest of the cabinet? Will Mary Harney release all the farts she has been holding in and completely obliterate all life in the Dail chamber, and possibly the chamber itself? And will the Opposition join in? Will Enda Kenny come in wearing shit-splattered wellies?

Or maybe it's just that this expletive-ridden blog has found its way into the corridors of power.

Hmm. I like the second one, but the probability of its being true is negligible, I'm afraid.

Shite.

FK U

Some HEO in another section emailed me today. Not unusual you say. No, it wasn't. Except it was in FUCKING TEXT SPEAK!

If I knew where their section was, I would have gone down there and shoved a mobile phone up their arse.

I am mourning the impending death of the English language. I think I'll read Melvyn Bragg's The Adventure of English again for solace. Followed by the Canterbury Tales. And some Stephen King for dessert.

And I will reply tomorrow:

My esteemed colleague,

Thank you for your electronic epistle. Unfortunately I was unable to ascertain exactly what it was you were trying to say. I think you may have a keyboard malfunction which is omitting vowels and reducing your message to a foul "vernacular" - if we may call it that - beloved of spotty types in Burberry baseball hats.

Please find yourself another keyboard immediately and write it all out again. Fucker.

With warmest regards,

Govstooge.

Rotten

Today I completed, for the last time, a role profile form with the section nutjob. I thought, ten minutes for the meeting, in and out, get the stupid fucking form out of the way once and for all. Then I can hand them over to their new manager, and they may now fuck off. No such luck.

Having completed the form, I then went through the feedback bit at the bottom. "Does the job holder wish to give feedback?" it said. My hopes of ticking "No" and getting the fuck out of there evaporated as the smell of the nutjob's BO and the tension in the room escalated.

All of a sudden I was subjected to a litany of grievances about how the place was managed. Most of them, admittedly, directed at more senior management rather than at me.

Most prominent in the criticism was: "I hate the HEO." When asked why, no answer was forthcoming.

Well, I'm sorry, there is absolutely fuck all I can do about that. What am I supposed to do, use Rorschach tests and word association and various other psychometric tests to determine exactly what the problem is?

I could have said: "Well, look at it this way, I REALLY hate you, and I can give you several reasons right NOW."

But instead, I signed the form. Let someone else worry about it. I don't get paid enough for that kind of shit.

For the record - the reasons I hate this person are:
- They smell
- Desk like a fucking tip head
- Irritating voice
- Irritating mannerisms
- Chews loudly
- Has to be asked seventeen times to perform a simple task
- Resistant to any kind of management driven initiatives to improve workloads and working conditions.

There are many more, but I'm going to the pub now, so fuck it!

GovStooge's Disciplinary Record...

... nearly received a black mark today. Yes, really! This bastion of fine upstanding civil servant-ness almost got called in on the carpet! What did I do?

Did I...

1. Set fire to a clerical officer?
2. Set fire to a HEO?
3. Throw my PC out the window?
4. Eat all the croissants in the canteen, leaving none for anyone else?
5. Kick someone up the arse?
6. Consume alcohol on the premises while shouting loudly and then vomiting on a senior manager?
   
7. Fill a load of forms up with random nonsense like "Fleeble" and "Skronk" and then make clerical officers process them?
8. Steal Personnel records for blackmail purposes?
   
9. Replace my picture on my ID badge with one of Angelina Jolie?
   
10. Strangle someone with the retractable cord that connects my ID badge to my belt loop?
11. None of the above?

The answer, is, of course, None of the Above (well, apart from 11).

As much as I'd like to do all of items 1 to 10 above, the reality of the situation is far less entertaining.

I received a call regarding some advertising I'd placed on the Department's intranet. What was I advertising? Oh, nothing like a job lot of drugs or dodgy vibrators or Uncle Eddie's Toxic Blindness Moonshine or anything like that. Just an item for sale on behalf of some friends. It's a pretty common thing on the Department's intranet. So I thought, when the corporate bloke on the other end mentioned the ad, that - yes! The ad has worked! No such fecking luck. "You'll have to take that down" the caller said. "It's a breach of IT policy. The web address on it might cause a drop in productivity if people go looking it up on the internet. Don't worry, it won't go on your disciplinary record or anything."

Disciplinary record? Moi? IT policy, fair enough, you can't argue with that. I only wish that it were being applied fairly across the board. There are several very similar ads, complete with web addresses up there since last week.

And since when has PRODUCTIVITY had anything to do with being a civil servant? PRODUCTIVITY? FUCK OFF!

This lad's mammy must be very proud of him. The Departmental HatchetMan.

Award! Award!

Jesus, the nerve of some people. I was told recently, rather aggressively, I thought, by a certain member of my clerical staff that they should have been nominated for a workplace award. I nearly spat up my coffee all over them in derision. FUCK RIGHT OFF, pal. I hate you. Any time I want work out of you, I have to stand over you to make sure it's done. I have to ask you for everything fifteen times. I am far too patient. And you want an award. How's about I award you with a firm kick up your hole.

If there's anything this person should be given an award for, it would be for the unfettered mediocrity they display in their working day. Consistent mediocrity, no less.

OK, maybe we could make one up for this person. The Golden Clerical Officer. It'll be like the civil service Oscars. On a big plywood stage in front of the Department. With cheesy tinfoil-covered outlines of clerical officers doing what they do every day, processing forms, typing letters, drinking tea etc.

This CO would win in all the categories listed below:
Most spiders in desk
Largest collection of vintage forms
Ponciest voice
Best ability to make co-workers vomit/ scowl/ run away

Yeah, I can see it becoming an annual event. Let's hope there isn't one for EOs.

I would win for:
Most coffee drunk during work hours
Biggest caffeine-induced tirade against nothing in particular
Loudest yawn/ sigh
Most swearwords in one sentence

And the prizes? Just some cheap shitty statues made out of recycled forms.


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Now playing: The Polyphonic Spree - Light And Day
via FoxyTunes

A new rule

I think we should have a new rule at work. NO EATING. Why?

Because I happen to have the desk that's closest to the section's resident filth monger, who I shall call "Untidy Guy". His desk is like a fucking bomb hit it. Old forms, dead Post-it notes, snot rags (at least, I hope it's snot - well, he doesn't have internet access), orange juice cartons, sweet wrappers, stale biscuits and - quite possibly - the last resting place of Shergar.

It reminds me of series 3 of that rather excellent comedy "Teachers" on Channel 4, where Bob has been living in his office and there are mouldy sandwiches in his files.

His work space should be encased in a plastic bubble with BIOHAZARD signs on it.

Eating is fine if people clean up their mess afterwards, which, in fairness, the rest of us do. It's also fine if you have decent table (desk?) manners and can chew your food without making sounds like a rabid dog chewing on a postman.

Must run this new rule past the HEO, but my preferred way of dealing with it would be to knock his teeth out with a crowbar and then weld his mouth shut.

Had a laugh though, recently. I watched the drama unfold as a piece of chocolate found its way onto his trousers, melted and then took an onward journey to his seat. There was much panicking, for, as we all know, melted chocolate looks like poo...

...which you might also find if you looked hard enough behind all the other stuff on his desk. Seriously.

Some day, in the dim future, when all the oil has run out and the civil service has been outsourced to Mogadishu, I reckon he will be sitting back and laughing, because he will have the market cornered on old Post-it notes (having seen a way to fuel cars with them) and will own a mansion where he will employ hundreds of out-of-work EOs to do his bidding.