Plus ça change, plus c'est la même chose

Allow me to use hyperbole in the most appropriate sense. I'm back... by popular demand. 

There's been a considerable gap since my last post and some gentle readers have made their feelings known to me on this. 

"Is Govstooge an A/Sec now?" 

"Has Govstooge defected to the private sector?" 

"Is Govstooge in prison having finally followed through on that threat to stab a HEO through the jugular with a letter opener?" 

The answer to these is no, no and ummm...

...no.

I've spent the last few years in a sort of cat like state, clawing desperately at the door of my Department wanting to go out, only to find that when I'm outside, I want to get back in. Plus I've been sleeping a lot and shitting in a box. 

An incomplete Ph.D thesis on "Motivating the unmotivated: Six Case Studies on the use of Medieval Torture Equipment on Recalcitrant Clerical Officers" sits on my desk. I have been unable to source funding for this from my Training Unit so I won't be hiring a Tudor bonnet any time soon. Philistines! 

I've moved Departments yet again. Pedantry got too much for me, an English Language Purist such as myself could not cope with the increasing deluge of badly spelt correspondence liberally sprinkled with poo emojis (or maybe it was actual poo. I don't know. I didn't smell it. I was too scared. I saw enough of that in the Department toilets).

I've contested countless promotion competitions, to the point that, when I hop off the Luas at Jervis and cross over to the Public Appointments Service, I get the greeting, "Ah, it's yerself. What is it this week? HEO, AP or Witchfinder General?" from the services officers.

And yes, I have been successful and am no longer an embattled EO. I can still be seen on Middle Abbey Street but in the Academy these days bopping to the likes of Electric Six et al. 

 The intervening years since my last posting have been interesting. But! Fear not! I have many EO - level rantings and ravings to belch forth before I move onto aspects of my current situation. 

Remember, it is the civil service. And regardless of what has happened, rancour, ennui and frustration are the order of the day. 

Once again, it begins. 

The Executive Factor

Here's a shocker for you. I'm actually very good at my job. My managers, even the Hexecutive, know this and don't feel the need to micromanage me. I'm given a project to work on, plus a deadline by which to finish it, and they know they'll get it back in time. I'm seconded to internal project teams, training courses etc because I'll do well and it will benefit my work unit. 

My staff appraisals are all up to date. I'm listed on the Departmental organisational structure as a "specialist". I fucking rule.

But I'm also human. I get headaches, go to the toilet, need stimulants and sleep as much as any other person. Occasionally even my excellence slips. To err is human, right? (No? Ah, fuck off.)

Of course it is. Methuselah, an EO I work with, knows this. He fucks up on an almost daily basis. Close to retirement, his function is primarily to warm a seat in the canteen. Usually to a temperature high enough to roast a turkey, given the amount of time he spends in there. Occasionally his "skillset" will be called into usage, and in order to elicit any discernible output from this effort,  there is much effort on the HEOs' and APs' parts. It is like trying to reawaken the memories of an Alzheimer's patient. Typical conversations would go like this: 

"You remember Matilda-Hortense, don't you? You worked with her in the Land Registry. She was the HEO in charge of date stamps there in 1972. She was also known as 'Ulster' because her hands were permanently red from the ink." 

Methuselah does not like me. His lifer, tea slurping, newspaper in toilet, modus operandi is a sharp contrast to my efficiency, willingness to learn and my notions of modern public service delivery. OK, we are the same grade in the hierarchical food chain. We are both EOs. He earns more than I do thanks to five hundred years of service. (Did you know Sir Thomas More is the patron saint of civil servants as well as politicians? I think Methuselah sent the Canonisation form to the Curia back in the day).  

I'm still on the incremental ladder. (He, judging by how he smells on occasion, is also on the Excremental ladder). Methuselah likes to give a running commentary on his activities as he works through them "Putting the letter in the envelope, licking the envelope (this I do not look up at), putting it in the out tray" "going to the toilet, straining my sphincter, wiping my bottom" sort of thing. 

Last week, I had to send some "Grammatical and Typographical Offences" statistics to another department (not the Director of Public Prosecutions, although I think it should be) for review. Unwittingly, I sent these figures off to my contact AP without making sure that the figures were collated under the proper headings. So, the figures for "Apostrophe Abuse" were presented under the heading of "Overuse of Comic Sans" and vice-versa. The AP rang my work number to alert me to this, but I had already gone home for the evening. 

Methuselah, however, was still in situ.  He reached for the phone. With glee, he listened, in spite of the tufts of hair growing from his ears, to the errant statistics. He took a message for me. Except he didn't leave it for me. He left it on the Hexecutive's desk, for her to find the following morning. Which she did, and passed it to me. I read the note, which was on vellum and had an illuminated capital letter at the beginning, and sighed loudly. "I explained to the AP before that some of those figures are subject to revision." And I proceeded to dial the AP's number, silently rehearsing my patronising tone. 

It was the AP who was patronising though. He calmly pointed out the transposed columns, and I had to apologise profusely, promise to commit hari-kari if it happened again and amend the errors immediately. Thankfully, Methuselah wasn't within earshot. He was in the toilet,  and would be some time, as usual. The Union magazine had just been circulated and there was a crossword to be done. The Hexecutive looked up and asked me if everything was OK. I waved the sheet of vellum about. "There was no way I could have discerned what the issue was from this. I mean, most of it's in bloody cuneiform!" The Hexecutive raised her eyes to heaven in sympathy, and Methuselah walked back into the room, with an expression of both post-defecatory satisfaction and smugness on seeing the vellum on my desk. 

He then proceeded to fuck up the front page of a brief, with an incorrect date, prompting several "have civil servants built time machines now?" comments from correspondents. This time, the Hexecutive wasn't nodding. Methuselah's Complan ration for that day was withdrawn, and he had to work late to put things right and double check everything else he had done. 

He was still there when I bounded out the door. Schadenfreude works both ways.  

Welcome to the Jungle

It is a little known fact that government offices provide optimum conditions for the cultivation of plant life.

Many of my colleagues have spider plants, aloe vera plants, birds' nest ferns (asplenium nidus - aren't binomials fun?) on their desks. I myself am the proud owner of a phalaeanopsis orchid. All of these horticultural delights are thriving, in a manner that would put the botanical gardens in Glasnevin to shame. (The other major landmark in Glasnevin, the cemetery, is also being put to shame by our far superior collection of walking corpses and our superlative stench of overwhelming decomposition.)

What is it, you ask, that creates such a hospitable environment? The answer is simple. Copious amounts of hot air, belching forth from the CPUs of ageing Dell PCs, helps  to emulate greenhouse conditions, as does that which emanates from the civil servants themselves. Indeed, the department's Boardroom is a lush garden of tropical plants, complete with vines which the senior managers amuse each other with by swinging off and doing Tarzan impressions. A troupe of orang-utans have set up home in a corner of the boardroom, and have been made honorary civil servants due to their being from Born-EO.

Another contributing factor to the environment, is the abundance of departmental directives, office circulars, information leaflets and forms which, when mulched, provide the closest approximation of manure to be found in a bureaucracy (outside of the toilets of course).

Once my Venus fly trap/ triffid hybrid experiment is complete, I will canvass our senior management team to make it an Auxiliary EO. If it is good enough for the orang-utans in the boardroom, it is good enough for my plant. I can see it becoming very useful when conducting PMDS performance appraisals with errant clerical officers.

Return of the Cack

You'd think a sabbatical of two years would have tempered Govstooge's rancour, wouldn't you?

Nah.

It's good to be back, but fuck all has changed, really.

Let the bitching recommence!

Game of Drones

Winter is coming.

The autumnal chill is already in the air.

The term-timers are gradually trickling back to the office with boxes of chocolates, biscuits and mind-numbing tales of their family holiday along with albums/ mobile phones filled with equally tedious photos of beaches, swimming pools and yet more beaches.

Winter is coming.

And with it the annual skirmish of Window Wars, the pitched battles of civil servants forced to hare open plan areas. The APs in their private offices are oblivious to the politicking on the main floor. One of them even has the gall to complain about the hum of the air conditioning unit outside their window. (What air is this thing conditioning? It’s not the mere plebs’ accommodation, that’s for sure. Maybe it’s helping to cool the servers in the Comms room. Or more likely, the secret bar in the Principal Officer’s room.)

First world problems. You have a door, AP. And I hate you for it. I want a door. Those of us who worked through most of the summer with a pleasant breeze from our windows lifting the stale coffee aromas, the rancid stink of rotting banana peels in the seldom-emptied waste bins, the all-permeating canteen cabbage and the noxious odours of the even less frequently washed armpits of the stinkier colleagues, are now unwittingly engaged in this battle as the tanned term-timers, still sporting unflattering capri pants and flip flops in the office (giving the rest of us  a vile vista of verrucae and varicose veins) flap around in their unseasonable outfits, demanding the closure of more and more windows until the goosebumps on their bingo-winged arms subside. As I’ve said, I don’t have a door. So when a putative God (or, in this case, a middle-aged woman) closes a window, a door doesn’t open for me.

I could go to the Woodies down the road from the office and buy myself a door, but then I’d need a wall to make it work. And I’m sure Facilities Management / Office of Public “Works” will have something to say about my bringing building materials into the office.

The solution? Fans. With rotating blades. Sharp rotating blades. Hmmm. It’s one way to get a-head.

Next time: A Dance with Wagons

For Whom the Bell Tolls

Downtime's a bitch. After several weeks of frenetic activity in my unit, there is now a brief period of a couple of weeks to get my breath back before I start all over again. The Hexecutive has seen to it that the work allocation per EO in the unit is staggered, so we all get a crazy few weeks and a bit of brief respite. (This is new to me, as the only staggering this EO had ever done prior to this was out of the pub on a Saturday night.)

I don't like when it's my turn for downtime. I find it very difficult to revert to the customary plodding pace of the stereotypical bureaucrat after having rushed around like a maniac for an extended period. It's the equivalent of grinding abruptly to a halt after a run, instead of warming down gradually. (I know. I fucked my knees up once doing this.)

To alleviate the tedium, I invent 'work' for myself. Learning new software programs, that is, or swotting up on legislation, policy documents, cornflakes boxes, anything I find lying around. I'm being good, because I want a good stab at HEO the next time there's a vacancy. (No, I don't want to actually stab a HEO, except, maybe...on occasion... sometimes... the Hexecutive.)

Fairly soon, I'm in my own little world of personal development. My colleagues are rushing around, just like I had been earlier, and, for once, I do not envy them their meetings and conference calls. Until, that is, their phones start ringing. Often I'm alone in the office during my downtime and find myself picking up other people's extensions and taking messages. I can do this remotely from my desk, which is handy, as if I had to sit at Nosher's desk and use his phone, I might have to be cut free from all the sticky jam which covers everything within his arm span before I can get up again. 

So it begins:

"Hi, is Nosher there? He hasn't called Buns-r-Us for his doughnut order this morning, and we've extra staff on to handle the job, I'll have to send them home again if we don't get it."

"... ... ... ..." Silent phone call. I leave a message for the Trappist EO. 

"Hello? Morticia?"
"No, sorry, Morticia retired / died / something or other in 2010."
"Oh. What are you wearing, you little minx?"

"Is my mum there?"
"No. I'm afraid not, she's at a meeting."
"Oh. Ok."
Five minutes later: 
"Is my mum there?"
"No. I'm afraid not, she's at a meeting."
"Oh. Ok."
Five minutes later: 
"Is my mum there?"
"No. I'm afraid not, there has been a terrible accident. The corridor to the Boardroom has become engulfed in flames, and the Fire Brigade are held up in traffic, and there's been a chemical spill in the carpark... and...OH NOOOOOO!  ZOMBIES! Run away! Run awaaaAAAAHHHHH!"
"Oh. Ok."

"Hello, could I speak to Francis, please?"
"No, I'm sorry, he won't be back for an hour. Would you like to leave a message?"
"This is the Larry Bang show on FUFM. He has just won a case of the finest wines available to humanity."
"Aah! I see! I do apologise, actually that's me. Frances. With an E. Yahoo. I won those. Can you ship them to Ballyfuck? Now?"

When my colleagues return, they find their computer monitors festooned with badly scrawled sticky notes and I must spend another hour translating for them as my handwriting's bloody awful. By the time I've finished, it's almost time for my busy period.

But not before a stern talking to by the HEO re an upset eight year old who thinks her mother's been eaten by revenants. Some people have no sense of humour. 

Question...

Is it wrong to like Jedward? 

Answers on an old form please, or the back of a €20 note if form not available. 

EOCD

I get these strange compulsions from time to time. I get the sudden urge to do something completely irrational or stupid. 

As I walk through the open plan office space as I go from the printer to my desk, with a look on my face like I have just sucked a lemon, it might be difficult for the casual observer to imagine that I am merely suppressing the urge to do a silly dance between the rows of desks while shouting 'Wibble' or 'Big Fat Cocks'. 

When I walk by a river, I want to throw things into it. Not useless objects like rocks, twigs or the Trappist EO, but things that enhance life, such as an Mp3 player or  my shiny smartphone (not of the variety prefixed with a lower case 'i') with its Monty Python soundboard.

When I see a BMW X5 parked on a footpath, it's all I can do not to let the air out of its tyres, and lie in wait for its inevitably Ugg-booted occupant to return, so I can kick her up the hole. 

I've been successful so far in the suppression of my urges, but I very nearly put my fucking foot in it yesterday. 

The Hexecutive was speaking to me about boring filing systems (yet again - yawn!) and asked me for my opinion on where a particular type of document should go. I took a deep breath.

'I THINK IT SHOULD GO RIGHT UP YOUR FUCKING ARSE!' ....

...was the response that instantly popped into my head. No, I didn't say it. I took another deep breath and murmured something about filing it under the 'miscellaneous nonsense' section, excused myself to the bathroom and did that whole lemon-sucking facial expression all the way there to prevent myself from laughing out loud like a loon. 

 I'm worried now. I wonder is coffee the reason?

The Department of Pedantry - in glorious fecknicolor

I stumbled on this rather hilarious website recently.

Unusable stock images? It doesn't surprise me in the least bit. I can reveal that a great number of these images were taken at the Department of Pedantry. Here's the story behind some of them.

The moment  when Govstooge realised  it was not going to be a bad day at work after all.

Nosher on laundry day.

The facilities management HEO after an argument with the canteen manager.

A novel way for civil servants to look busy.

The real reason why the photocopier's always fucked.

Arsebiscuits!

The Hexecutive receives her upward feedback in Govstooge's PMDS meeting.

The Secretary General announces more efficient arse-kissing procedures.

The Assistant Principal wanted everyone to know who he was, so he got a sash made up with his grade on it. Unfortunately, in his hurry to put it on, he neglected to read it.

Nosher after a tiring day.

Detachable willy fails to impress cat.

Those new cyanide-impregnated forms were going to be a roaring success.

The Chief Medical Officer awaits her meeting with yet another referred loon.

The ladies bathrooms refurbishment didn't stand a chance against the emissions from Department canteen dinners.

Gay HEO depends rather heavily on his amazing flying EO for everything.

Childhood photo of the last Department employee who tried to re-enact Columbine at the office.

The Outside View - Part the Second

 A visit to the Department of Pedantry by Doctor Constantin Constantinopodopoulous of the Department of Psychiatry and Public Service, University of Chipping Sodbury - Part Two. 

I looked around at the remaining civil servants. One CO was still happily working away with her stapler collating what forms remained. The other CO was entering the details from the forms on a database. 

The three EOs were in various states of wakefulness. One, a morbidly obese  middle-aged man who appeared to be wedged immovably into his chair was dozing peacefully over his daily paper, seemingly oblivious to the earlier commotion. A half-eaten scone  was on the desk beside him. Another middle aged male was dealing with a query from a member of the public, which was causing him difficulty, as several times he had to put the caller on hold and ask the remaining HEO for advice. A certain desperation about him indicated that he wanted to transfer the call to the HEO, but the HEO was not taking the bait, as she was engaged in a serious conversation with the third and final EO. This last EO, the one who had wiped up the blood earlier, was the youngest of the three, and she was also the only one not to smell vaguely of decomposing cabbage and old biscuits. A steaming mug of industrial-strength coffee on her desk wafted pleasing aromas around the room -  aromas far more pleasing than the smell of stale axillary sweat emanating from the corpulent, sleeping colleague.

In spite of a readily available caffeinated beverage, the EO appeared to be in a state of anxiety caused by the presence of the HEO, who was firing questions at her in staccato bursts: "What is the ETA of this project?" "Do we have quantifiable returns on that circular?" "I need eight copies of your Role Profile Form for a comedy workshop I'm doing after work." "Did you have a nice weekend?" This last question seemed to baffle the EO, and she replied tentatively, "Err. Yes. Did you?" The HEO replied "Oh I did. I went out for dinner to the Hackballscross Hilton and I had a lovely meal of quail's legs washed down with a bottle of obscenely expensive wine. And the famous composer Phillip Window-Glass was at the next table, how lovely... " Rollling her eyes, the EO directed the conversation back onto work related matters, obviously regretting the polite enquiry as to how the HEO's weekend went.When the HEO left the room with a gait that suggested a large pole had been inserted firmly in her rectum, the EO issued forth a sweary tirade on how her job had become harder since the arrival of the HEO, especially as the other two EOs just seemed to be marking time by generally doing "fuck all."

It would seem that the more useless you are in a civil service job, the less tasks are asked of you. If a civil servant is in any way competent at their job, more and more work gets thrown at them. I took my leave from the unit, taking care not to slip on the drool left behind on the floor as various staff went to their tea breaks.

The only solution I can envisage for this Department's problems is the detonation of a large neutron bomb in the offices, wiping it off the face of the earth. Who would miss it? It is truly a silly place.

The Outside View (Part the First)

I'm pleased today to introduce part one of a guest posting following on from a visit by a leading academic in the area of occupational psychopathology  to my work unit. It's about bloody time!

A visit to the Department of Pedantry by Doctor Constantin Constantinopodopoulous of the Department of Psychiatry and Public Service, University of Chipping Sodbury.

At first glimpse, it looks like an ordinary civil service building. Peeling paintwork, suspicious carpet stains, grey men and women staring blankly.

A cursory glance into the office canteen at tea break time confirms this suspicion initially. The tables are occupied by a variety of interesting specimens. In particular:

-          CO staring out the window as three-inch long rope of drool hangs from the corner of her mouth.

-          CO staring at the wall (table not adjacent to window) as five-inch long rope of drool hangs from the corner of his mouth.

-          CO standing at back of canteen staring at nothing in particular, but with a strange look of murderous intent on his countenance.

-          Large group of middle-aged female EOs talking about Eastenders and cackling loudly. People at adjacent tables wearing ear protection.

-          Senior managers pretending to discuss policy documents over coffee – in reality they are trying to finish the Irish Times crossword, which they have photocopied and slipped in with the weighty looking stuff.

-          Private contractor (wearing VISITOR badge) looking around him in bewilderment.

However, behind this dreary and grubby façade, there is a surprising flurry of activity.

A visit to the Apostrophe Enforcement Unit proved that things were not quite as they seemed.

The unit is staffed by two HEOs, three EOs and three COs and is responsible, as the name implies, for the regulation and enforcement of correct apostrophe use. Forms are submitted by members of the public to this unit, when an infraction of the relevant punctuation mark  by a business or advertiser has been identified. Forms are also completed internally by a member of staff who monitors the media, specifically print journalism and the Internet for misuse of punctuation. The forms are collated and processed, and a member of this unit’s staff visits the offending business premises and attempts to “re-educate” them in proper English. A variety of weapons are at the unit’s disposal for this purpose. Pens, multicoloured sticky notes, Departmental letterheads and leaflets entitled: "Common Grammatical Errors and You, You Illiterate Fuck".

More recent additions to the responsibilities of this unit include Text Speak Infractions (outside of mobile phone usage), and this alone has ensured that the volume of work has increased tenfold since the proliferation of mobile telephony in Ireland. The attendant impact on everyday written communication of the 140-character-or-less short messages has been devastating.

When I first entered, a HEO was busy training two of the COs in correct form-stapling operations. One CO had correctly collated several dozen forms and was progressing well. The other CO had managed, in the short observation period:

1:         To staple his thumb and forefinger together

2:         To staple a (bloodied) form to his sleeve

3:         To staple himself to the HEO.

When this last incident occurred, the local first aid representative had to intervene, and both officers were taken to A&E to be separated. 
  
One of the EOs came forward and wiped up the blood from the desk, so I could sit and observe the remaining staff. "We're used to blood aroud here", she said apologetically.

I made myself comfortable. It was going to be a long day...

In Part 2: More bodily fluids,  forms, red tape (nothing to do with blood this time) and commonly available stimulants.

ButtCacks.... er.... Cutbacks

Much has been happening in the Department of late. The recruitment freeze and general cutbacks are making their presence felt. Staff morale is lower than normal; some COs are now so inert they can't even muster the energy to log onto Facebook during work hours. They sit, dribbling on their forms, marking time until their tea break.

Staff who have retired/ transferred/ died/ sublimated have not been replaced, and consequently there are a lot of empty desks in the open plan areas. The Personnel unit have attempted to alleviate these lacunae by placing mannequins dressed as civil servants in strategic locations around the building (i.e.  the ones clad only in suspenders, PVC knickers and lacy bras have been assigned to all senior managers' offices as "personal assistants").  

One retiring EO  has written the Department into his will and intends to come back  here after death as a stuffed civil servant. It is argued that there will be no discernible impact on his work output. 

More cutbacks have been announced. Some of them are devastating. The CO attached to the senior managers' washroom has opted for worksharing, and in the absence of a work partner, senior managers must now either wipe their own arses in the afternoon, or hold it until they get home. 

Members of the public have been advised to fill out forms using pencil. This way, once the form has been processed by the Department, the details can be erased and the form can be re-used, therefore cutting down significantly on reprinting costs. A dedicated CO has been fully trained in Eraser Operation for this purpose. A FAS intern has been assigned to lick the forms that have been stained by tea or coffee. He is frequently off sick. 

In my own immediate vicinity, Nosher has been put on verbal warning to lose weight, as the Facilities Management Unit can no longer afford to replace his chair every time it collapses under his 20 stone plus frame. The Trappist EO, sickened at the impact on his take home pay of the slashes to the overtime budget, has taken on a second job as a bingo caller. 

The worst is yet to come! 

Where the South Wind Blows...

Averse as I am to any manifestation of bodily functions in the workplace, I like most people, do occasionally have to do “things” in the Department’s toilets.

Last night’s triple strength chilli wasn’t going to be digested without putting up a fight. All day I had stomach rumblings and borborygmi of Fukushima proportions. Mostly tremors - an actual volcanic eruption wouldn’t occur until later, when I was in the smallest room in my own Ballyfuck home and accompanied by some apt reading material and cool, moist, Aloe Vera impregnated toilet paper.

The working day was spoilt by the constant pressure of digestive gases on the nether regions of my anatomy and, due to my impeccable manners and genteel disposition, the expulsion of said gases in the working environment is an absolute no-no. Also the office chair upholstery is of a type that may harbour said gases for an indeterminate period of time, occasionally releasing bursts of stale flatulence every time one sits down. Like one of those ridiculously overpriced motion sensor air fresheners. Only with stink. Or, like Reggie Perrin’s boss CJ’s chairs. Only with smell and not sound. Which is worse. It’s not as funny.

The downside of my politesse is that I periodically had to waddle to the bathrooms when the pressure became too great. Also there was a risk of loss of sphincter control in the event of my dropping – for example - a form on the floor and then bending to pick it up. The shame! I never drop forms.

The toilets were a minefield of potential embarrassment also. The dread of bumping into a HEO or a CO was palpable. Smells were OK here, they would merely mingle with the more noxious and long lasting smells emitted by the effluvium of thirty or forty civil servant arses post lunch break. The bathrooms were empty when I entered, however I heard the outer door opening and someone entering once I had locked my stall. I used the flush mechanism to disguise any nasty noises for the other occupant’s benefit.

Only, once the flush finished, my bum suddenly produced a “FLAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPP” worthy of Wynton Marsalis on speed, with a Vuvuzela up his backside. “Fuck” I thought. What now? Would I exit quickly and run the risk of the other person emerging from their stall as I washed my hands. I could see the headlines in the staff newsletter: “TOILET TERROR AS EO FARTS”. Or, worse, wait until the other person had finished their business, (Hopefully) washed their hands and exited. The danger there was that they could bump into a pal outside the entrance door and smirk knowingly as I came out. I decided to opt for the former course of action. I unlocked the door and made my way briskly to the sinks.

As I dried my hands, I heard a sound from the other person’s cubicle. “Phoooot” it went. And then: “plop plop plop plop plop”. I sighed with relief, for all I'd done was make a noise, and here was another toilet user unashamedly dropping the kids off at the pool. 

I bounded happily out the door. I bumped into another colleague right outside, and watched as the other occupant, a stuck-up AP emerged a few minutes later. I didn't smirk. I am the soul of discretion. Anyone's arse can let them down. 

Civil servants' claims expose deadly danger of papercuts - Irish, Business - Independent.ie

Poignant article by Nick Webb in the latest Super Soaraway Sunday Sindo:

Civil servants' claims expose deadly danger of papercuts - Irish, Business - Independent.ie

Quote:
"Papercuts of unprecedented agony are thought to have brought entire government departments to a standstill on occasion."

That's what I've been saying for years. FORMS CAN KILL. I am aware of a HEO keeling over from the shock of having to process a form himself because of staff shortages. Forms have been known to come back from the front lines splattered in blood, poo, and many other disease-bearing bodily fluids. And we have to handle them. A papercut from one of those filthy bastards could lay a CO low for six weeks!

"6 per cent of all claims against the State for employer liability, public liability and property damage come from our 36,000 civil servants. Gardai made 5 per cent of the claims, with prison officers accounting for 4 per cent in 2010. Civil servants were only marginally less likely to claim against the State than prisoners."

Is "Prisoners" the new shorthand for Prison officers? I thought they were two entirely different entities.

If so, I want to change my job title to "Executioner". It has a much nicer ring to it, don't you think?

Hmm. And I think we may have found the source of the unexpected increase in population calculated in this year's preliminary Census results.

"But there are 4.8 million people in the country, as opposed to just 360,000 civil servants."

Aha! So it's not births... it's civil servants multiplying tenfold since the earlier paragraph was written! So much for the Croke Park agreement! I didn't know we could reproduce so quickly; I wasn't aware of my capacity for mitosis, might come in handy all right for that meeting I couldn't be arsed attending...

Thank you Sindo. I've discovered a whole new side of myself. Ten of them, in fact. Bwahahahahah!

Wee Shall Overcome!

A rather disturbing thing has been happening to me at work.

I'm a fan of drinking lots of water during the day as it's supposedly good for me. The Department supplies us with all the nice cool Filtered Assistant Principals' Piss .... uhem!.....drinking water we need.

Physiology being what it is, however, the liquid ingested must emerge somewhere, and I find myself needing to visit the workplace bogs four or five times a day. This is a problem, in a way other than the obvious smells I must endure (ref: Govstooge.blogspot.com, passim).

My wee cycle seems to be synchrous with that of a CO from a neighbouring section. About three times a day, every day, this CO and I cross paths in the toilets. It's gotten to the point where we are nodding awkwardly at each other when she enters while I am washing my hands or vice versa.

I swear, it's like this, from Scrubs, only in a women's toilet. And we are both Doctor Cox.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=t4iRJfOf1xA

I suppose we are lucky that it hasn't come down to this:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pnIk0npINiE

Billy, don’t be an EO

Not that the civil service is hiring at the moment or anything, but seriously, who would want this job?

Being securely ensconced in paid employment at the moment is providing little consolation to me right now.

The disquiet coincided with the advent of a new boss, to whom I will attach the title of “Hexecutive” a rather apt contraction of “Higher Executive Officer”. The Hexecutive arrived in the Department of Pedantry, fresh from a rather important assignment in another Department, to find herself, in conjunction with our existing HEO, sharing control of our not-so-important unit, which has yet again been restructured.

I, as the least grey of the incumbent EOs, have been targeted by the Hexecutive to be her personal guide through the workings of the unit, given my aptitude for remembering where things are, how things work and general all-round efficiency not yet stifled by twenty years’ stagnation at the top of a pay scale. Not yet.

The Hexecutive has entered the unit with all guns blazing, criticising our work processes – many of which were inherited from other units during the restructuring – and making sweeping changes. As the first to agree that a new outlook is often beneficial, I usually welcome changes, however when changes are made to my work process without my knowledge, it’s not long before steam starts coming out of my ears.

Hexecutive: Govstooge, why have you filed these GQUIFHQF-7700 forms under “Existential Anguish”?
Govstooge: That’s where they’ve always been filed. Look, it says so in Page 988 of the Unit Manual.
Hexecutive: No, they should now be filed under “General Ennui and Despair.”
Govstooge: Oh. Fair enough, but I wasn’t told. Should the PQIOQPROQKOJF-7797727 forms also be filed under “General Ennui and Despair?”
Hexecutive: No, I’ve made a new category for those, they’re now under “Despondency”.
Govstooge: Super (!) And does "Despondency" now replace the categories of "Torpor" and "Languor"?
Hexecutive: Don't be silly, why would they?
Govstooge: Fuck knows. I don't know what the hell is going on around here anymore. Call me when you've sorted it out.

The other EOs look at each other over their copies of The Irish Times, Take a Cake and Incontinent Functionary Weekly and thank God or whatever fusty grey deity they pray to that they have, so far, escaped the Hexecutive. Their turn will come, oh yes. Because one day, this turbo-charged HEO is going to have them in her sights, and, thinking, "What exactly do they do?"

There has to be a more efficient way of completing the Pimplex crossword, after all.

Bin Dun (For)

Yesterday's capture of Al-Quaeda leader, Osama Bin Laden made me think. Not about what a great, albeit symbolic victory for the US and some small consolation to the families of the victims of the September 11th attacks. Or about the Navy Seals' persistence and courage in the pursuit of their mission.

Nope. I'm bloody fascinated with those little cameras they had on their helmets to relay images via satellite back to Obama and Hillary et al in Washington. Where can I get one of those? I can see infinite uses for it in a civilian (that is to say, a civil servant) context.

1. Imagine, if you will, an EO giving a performance review to a CO. The CO's performance has been piss-poor and as a result the review is not a good one. As the EO looks downwards to sign off the form, the CO makes the most horrible faces and sticks out their tongue at the top of the EO's head. One of those army camera thingies would capture this, and enable the EO to subject the CO to further criticism along with a spot of waterboarding, if the EO is feeling generous. In the case of a hostile CO, camera WITH helmet would be advisable.

2. Surreptitiously attach one to Nosher's clothing. In order that the eternal tea break debate "Can he stand up to wee with that big belly hanging down over his willy, or does he sit down in a trap like a girl?" can finally be resolved.

3. Leave one in the toilets. Not for pervy reasons, just to finally catch the dirty bastard who's been crapping in the sink. Also for use in the Ladies', in order to determine who's been sticking used sanitary towels to the wall. They don't deserve jobs!

4. Attach one to the table that the Trappist EO normally sits at in the canteen. Just what is that mystery meat in his sandwiches? I've a bet on that it's squirrel. Or possibly badger roadkill. A more conservative conjecture is that it's grey ham from just before closing time at the supermarket.

I could then have my very own YouTube channel, featuring all this and more!

USA forever! (As in Unfriendly Spying Apparatus)

oooOOOOoooo YEAAAAAAAAAAAH

A thoughtful person sent this link to my work email recently. Harmless fun. I sniggered. Then I forgot about it.

A random HEO paid me a visit to ask me something, which involved my showing him where something was on the network, which I duly did.

Not realising, of course, that, as he looked over my shoulder, there on the taskbar was a browser button reading "ORGASMIC SIMULATOR". He was there two, maybe three minutes before I realised what was on my screen. Not to mention the fact that SIMULATOR is only one letter removed from STIMULATOR, which could have given the impression that I was shopping online for a bedroom accessory in the shape of a willie. On work time, no less! What bare-arsed cheek!

Remedied by: "Oh look, a meerkat" and a swift right click and close while the HEO was scanning the office for the unlikely intruder. Simples. The same could not be said for my bright red face.

Is this divine retribution for not ticking "Catholic" on the Census Form?

Too late now. I gave it back.

I'm a red-faced statistic.

You Fill up my Census

Last week, I had the fava beans and Chianti on standby for the arrival of my local Census taker when he came to deliver the mother of all forms, the 2011 Census of Population. A bout of indigestion put paid to my hepatic-organ-munching plans and when the nice man from the CSO called around, I accepted the 24 page form meekly.

And what a form!

My first Census as head of household! Ooo the excitement of it all! No more will I have to tick the "Roman Catholic" box under "Religion" in order to pacify my parents. At last: my true calling.


My love of linguistics can also shine through for the benefit of legions of temporary clerical officers sweating over these forms:
Or...





The Census is really important for genealogical research in the future; by filling the form in as follows, I will give future generations a small taste of life as a public sector worker in 2011:



Also, how can you not have a nationality? And, can you make up your own?

Demography, eh?

People are bastards.

Hey Mr Tambourine Man...Fuck Off!

Much change has taken place in my small work unit in recent weeks. (Oh no! Change! The enemy of the cossetted civil servant!) Personally, I like a nice bit of change. Keeps me on my toes and offers me an opportunity to stimulate the dim recesses of the brain which the Electro-Convulsive Therapy rods can't reach.

My erstwhile colleague, Morticia, has left for pastures new. A career break of some sort I believe. I think there's a Mediterranean cruise in there somewhere, so that Morticia can avail of the opportunities to drop in on friends like Benny in Rome, Nicolas' and Carla's holiday home in the French Riviera, BenAli in Tunisia - oops, scratch that one. She took the Atropa belladonna I presented her with some months back, and a large tub of emollient. Good luck to her.

In her stead comes a whole nut EO... I mean, a whole NEW EO. He has been redeployed from some other area of the Department which was found to have surplus staff. I call him Mr Tambourine Man.

Why? Is it because he carries around a small percussion instrument which marks out the tempo of his stride as he arrives into work in his Birkenstocks and white socks? Is it because he is always whistling Bob Dylan tunes?

Nah. It would be OK if he did these things. I could even forgive the tambourine. Those things are easy to grab and throw at people if they piss me off.

Mr Tambourine Man is yet another of that strange band of brothers in my new Department, the unattached Oedipal male. The kind of chap whose only experience of women is (a) Mammy, (b) Sister Nunzilla, the principal of the primary school, (c) Bridie from the Post Office, (d) Yer wan off Winning Streak. But particularly Mammy, as she is still washing his clothes and cooking his dinner even though he is now turning grey at the temples, has a cholesterol problem and is developing a middle-age spread (although not quite yet a member of the Masonic Order of the Generous Waistband like Nosher). He has been a civil servant since time immemorial and got promoted to EO on seniority because he dribbled slightly less than the other COs in his unit.

As a woman who does not fall into (a-d) above, I'm something of a curiosity to him. He likes to sneak glances across the room whenever he gets a chance. I am not dressed provocatively; my low cut tops with neon flashing lights "Boobs in here!" are kept for the weekends.

He doesn't know the correct method of initiating a conversation with a member of the fairer sex. A simple "Did you get any bastards canvassing at your front door last night?" would work for me, as I could describe my "BIOHAZARD- PROPERTY QUARANTINED DUE TO EBOLA OUTBREAK" sign that I had made specially for the front door. And the Petri dishes with the actual virus in them that I've placed at regular intervals around the driveway (I'm not saying where I got those).

Nah, Mr Tambourine Man prefers to let the woman kick off the discussion. He returns from tea break and paces up and down in front of my desk for a few minutes, in the hope that I'll look up and say, "How were the scones today, Colin? How many teeth did you lose today?" A pointless gesture, because I don't look up and enquire about the fucking scones. This pacing is disturbing and is having the opposite effect to what was intended. His attention seeking does not stop there, however. He puts his hand in his pocket and proceeds to play with an unfeasibly large...

...penis?

...NO!

...an unfeasibly large amount of change. Jingle jangle. And more fucking jingle jangle. "Oh Colin, what an awful lot of money you must have," he seem to be willing me to say. Seriously. Is the sound of clinking monetary shrapnel the equivalent of the Sirens' song to Ulysses?

"In the jingle jangle morning, I'll come following you..."

I won't follow you, so fuck off, Tambourine Man, and put it in a pint glass on your bedside table like most normal people. I bet you pay for your scone in the canteen with 1c coins.

Earlier in this post I said I liked change.

Why do they punish me so?