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.)
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.)
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1 comment:
aw. the poor sycophantic CO was trying her best to make you love her.
your man in the pub sounds like a sack though. oul lads. they don't learn.
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