Loneliness of the Short Arsed EO

People. Can't live with 'em (bastards!), can't live without 'em (boo-fucking-hoo).

Rave on John Donne, ya good thing, for no man is an island and so forth.

This week, and for one week only (thank fuck!), I find myself in a rather unenviable position in my new Department. Thanks to holidays, the shorter working year scheme and other factors, I find myself all alone in the office. All alone, that is, apart from a person who seems to be the civil service's one and only Trappist EO. Or else he is a Father Stone impersonator. I don't know. But the silence is slowly killing me.

Anyhow, as the tumbleweeds blow gently among the forms, I find myself craving clerical officers, stupid ringtones, even fucking Vuvuzelas. I even rang the speaking clock to hear the sound of a human-ish voice. I had to stop myself when I realised I was dialling the number for Ryanair's call centre.

I was in a shop at lunchtime today and saw a packet of needles, and nearly bought them, thinking that if I stuck them in my colleague he might make some noise. Our HR department might have something to say about that, though.

I passed the undertaker's on my way back. "Fuck", I thought, "maybe he's dead! " Ah, no, he'd have gone off by now with the recent heat.

Then I passed the taxidermist... ah, too far fetched, even for the civil service.

Ok, I'm off out of the place for a couple of weeks soon myself, in the meantime I've had to transfer some of my Billy Connolly CDs onto the iPod thingy.

Next thing we know, there'll be a Trappist EO blogging about the loony EO he has to share an office with who keeps laughing loudly like the blind priest listening to Mr Bean on the "Flight into Terror" episode of Father Ted.

Now that I would like to see. It would prove that he isn't stuffed.

More terrifying than Daleks?

What is it about the civil service that attracts the sort of people you expect only to see as extras on Doctor Who, Torchwood or Psychoville?

Only today have I seen a colleague meander into the middle of the busy road outside the Department, willing the traffic to stop by sheer force of drool and thousand yard stare. I expected civil servant pizza (the dandruff in his hair lending a touch of Parmesan), given public sentiment about our chosen profession. Instead, a car screeched to a halt inches from the dribbling functionary, possibly out of fear, as who knows what was hidden inside the rolled-up copy of the Irish Times under his arm, a gun, perhaps ,or a steel-tipped prototype of the most horrible form ever to come out of a Government Department. The terror!

We also have the chap that seems to be entirely made out of jelly. Yes, his corpulence has no equal in any colleague, public or private sector who I have worked with before. Mr W. Onder (or Wibbly-Wobbly for short) has an arse to rival J. Lo’s, and boobs that would make the sort of girl who stuffs her bra with toilet paper/ chicken fillets/ old forms seethe with envy. Onder’s chair makes dreadful noises when he sits down - the sort of noises that prompt you to run if you are in a building that’s structurally unsound. The chair makes an equally dreadful noise when he stands up. I never thought I would hear an inanimate object emit a sigh of relief.

Many of my new colleagues are single men, possibly living on their own, or still with their mothers, in a sort of Norman Bates style arrangement. I’ve worked this out, despite their intense secretiveness, thanks to several visual cues, other than the non-presence of wedding rings.

For instance:

Mr K. D. Nostrildamus, a keen gardener, likes to commune with nature on a regular basis. This he does by inserting the index finger of his right hand inside his left nostril, leaving it there until the “weeds” have been removed. The time of day or place doesn’t matter. This has been observed in meetings, at the photocopier, and, most disturbingly, in the self-service area of the canteen. If he knew any, a woman would have beaten this out of him long ago.

Mr Tony Grossburger, another rather corpulent colleague, loves his shirt so much, he will wear it for an entire week. By Friday, it has developed an ecosystem all of its own, particularly in the underarm regions and down the front where various traces of Tuesday’s eggy breakfast, Wednesday’s liver and onions and Thursday night’s beans on toast are in evidence. The following Monday, the stains are gone, thanks to the liberal application of what smells like carbolic soap. Grossburger generally sits alone in the canteen.

And the staring. Dear Christ, the fucking staring. The HEO has only to ask me a question, and their heads are up... and the eyes remain on me for considerably longer than is necessary. ("Oh look....WO-MAN ... and not Mammy either!"). I'm fucking dreading the office Christmas party already, in case one of them comes in with a sprig of misteltoe. I will just have to carry a chainsaw with me at all times.

I really should get to work on my idea for a new TV series. Spluttering Shites, the working title, is all I've come up with so far.

No, Minister (subtitled the Strife of Brian)

What a to-do eh? First Willie O'DamhasO'Dea quits and now Trevor Sargent.

I'm giving up watching Desperate Housewives for Lent. The news at 6pm is more entertainment than my brain can handle. Fianna Fail and the Greens at each others' throats is more than an adequate substitute for the trials of Gaby, Susan, Bree, Lynette, et al.

Mind you, if the "Govern"ment should collapse in the not-too-distant future, I'd be at a loose end at the ballot box. I'm sorry, Enda, but no.

If enough people wrote "Michael O'Leary" across the ballot papers, would that mean he could be elected? OK, he's a tough one, and would make cuts left right and centre. He could also make his remaining civil servants wear rotten blue polyester uniforms, sit at yellow plastic desks, pipe awful music at us all day, abolish the canteen in favour of a lady with a trolley selling overpriced paninis and replica forms, sell advertising space in the Dail, make us pay for the loo and so on ad infinitum, but he'd make a fucking brilliant Taoiseach or Finance minister. He'd have the country's finances sorted while Brian Clowen would still be trying to make sculptures out of his bellybutton fluff and earwax.

A scheduled Ryanair 737 could replace the Government jet, making instant savings. Junkets to Brussels would become less popular as going via Charleroi would be too painful for our cossetted ministers. Mary Harney would have to do the work of two TDs as she would take up two seats in the Dail. Mary Cockup (sorry, Coughlan) could be garrotted and those 300 aircraft maintenance jobs could be reinstated in Dublin.

I would be more than happy to serve as Michael O'Leary's speechwriter, as I share with him a love of the vernacular. Fuck it, get him in!

New Recruits?

What is it with people bringing their babies into work? Today I had to endure shrieks and cries from the other end of the office along with all the other shit I have to put up with when a colleague brought her little bundle of joy into work.

Oops. I might have made this sound all wrong. Let me clarify.

The shrieks and cries weren't from the baby, who was gurgling peaceably in her carry-cot and smiling angelically at everyone. Aaaw. Bless.

It was the middle aged women who were crowded around who were making all the noise! Women whose voices were never meant for indoors! Women who could have made a living as lumberjacks "Timberrrrrrr!"! Women who have done nixers for the local builders when their angle-grinder broke and they needed something to cut sheet metal with, fast! Now think of a crowd of about ten of them and you've got the picture. Shudder. The ensuing cacophony was deafening!

"OOOH She's just like her MOTHER...!"
"DID YOU SEE THAT, DOREEN, SHE WINKED AT ME!"
"AAAAW AREN'T YOU A LITTLE DOTE!"

Fuck it. Let's just sack these loud middle-aged women and replace them with babies. Even on a bad day, a baby wouldn't make the same amount of noise. In all probability, they smell better as well. And they don't care about benchmarking, strikes, NAMA or Eastenders. All they want is a bottle, a clean nappy and a bunch of keys to keep them happy. Swap forms for keys and we're on a winner.

I think it'll work. With a bit of careful planning, no-one will notice the difference. There'll even be the same amount of drool.

Rabble! Rabble! Rabble!

You know the summer's over when all the folk who've been on Term Time Leave during the summer arrive back to work. (Edit: If the summer ever started in the first place. It is Ireland, after all.)

For anyone who's had their head buried in piles of forms all summer, here are the tell-tale signs.

The multitudinous, echoing cries of "Welcome back" and occasional hugging. Have you ever seen civil servants hugging? Fat ones, I mean? 'Tis a fearsome sight.

Being cornered in the ladies' toilet as you dry your hands by someone you don't particularly like saying "So what did YOU do this summer, Govstooge?"

Endless, long winded descriptions of holidays. To be repeated ad nauseam as people continue to arrive in the office. The story about your husband being stung on the willie by a jellyfish in Mallorca was funny, the first, the second and even the fifth time. But now I've heard it twenty times I'm starting to lose my patience.

Having people ring your extension asking "Is Hermione there? Her line's engaged." and you answer "Yes, she's on the phone to her friend downstairs, and there are two other calls holding for her. Would you like to remain in the queue?" Goddamn it!

Having the number of staff you supervise nearly double overnight. Excellent from a workflow point of view, but not so excellent if you have to spend an hour reminding each one what their job was.

Finding a car parking space becomes almost impossible if you're a late starter. Similarly the availability of croissants and tables in the canteen is curtailed significantly.

The "Term time" scheme is no longer open only to parents of school-age children during the summer. It's now been opened up to the rest of us by having been renamed "Shorter Working Year Scheme". Unpaid, of course.

I must say, I'm tempted to join their ranks. Maybe during the winter, when the weather's less harsh.

Manners and Spanners

I cannot ABIDE poor manners. Yes, that seems strange coming from a person who swears almost uncontrollably and can only barely suppress her violent rage. I actually believe in good manners. I hold doors open for people. I give up my seat for old folk. I say "thank you" to shop assistants. I thank my staff at work when they do something I have asked, and acknowledge good work. My tolerance for impolite people is almost zero. And falling.

As previously mentioned, I am the section's unofficial IT go-to person. This means that I am the port of call for any niggling computer problem that my colleagues might have.

Sometimes my eagerness to help a colleague in distress overrides my hatred of blatant stupidity and poor manners. My normal acid tongue just doesn't manifest itself. Yesterday, for instance:

The office bore, a grey little chap, approaches me meekly:

"Govstooge, how do I send an email to the whole section?"

"Ok, Declan, open up a new email window. There, at the top left of the screen, where it says 'New'... now do you see the address book icon at the top? Click that. Do you have anything set up under groups? Yes... GROUPS... there at the top left... no... LEFT. There. You have it set up already. Now just select and the name of the group will appear in the email window. When you send, everyone will get it."

"What do I do next?"

"Write your email as normal..." I return to my desk, my unfinished sentence reverberating around my head "... do you expect me to do THAT for you as well?"

Not even so much as a "Thank you Govstooge." Next time he asks for my help I will say "THANK YOU GOVSTOOGE" as loud as I possibly can when I finish, so that everyone in our section, and the neighbouring sections and possibly the senior manager at the end of the corridor can hear it. Simple manners cost absolutely nothing, Declan.

Mind you, I get a chance to retaliate a few minutes later, when Declan sidles over to my desk once again.

"I was at the dentist the other day. He says I have to get a bit of work done..."

Silence.

"Yeah, quite a lot actually."

Silence.

"Govstooge...?"

Silence. The vein in my temple is starting to throb, though, and the only sound coming from me is my measured breathing, an attempt to restrain myself from doing something I might get sacked for.

Declan catches the eye of another CO who is just unfortunate enough to glance up from their work at this time and wanders over to his new audience to continue his story of pain at the dentist.

Yes, simple manners cost nothing, but sometimes, life is too short.

You can't get me, I'm part of the Union....

I got my ballot paper on the proposed industrial action regarding the Pensions Levy from my trade union today. My union are proposing up to two days' strike action. With strike pay equivalent to net pay. (I'm wondering will "net" be with or without the deduction of the Pensions Levy?)

Tomorrow we will know the result of the equivalent CPSU ballot on their proposed industrial action to take place on the 26th February.

If this does go ahead, I'm wondering what the rest of us do.

There are no plans that I'm aware of to close Government Departments on that date. The rest of us will probably have to take up the slack in dealing with queries from the public and other duties. Meaning getting leave on that particular day is probably out of the question. At least, for those of us who will, on that day, be at the very bottom of the pecking order. Nads.

Is it really "passing a picket" if the rest of us are likely to be striking on the same thing at a later date? It's probably not, but if I do have to come into work on that date I'm going to make my own placard with "I'm a fucking EO, I couldn't get the day off, leave me alone" for the benefit of any militant strikers who may not know me.

I've never been on strike before, so I'll have to put a survival kit together for the days. So far I've listed:

- Waterproof gear, in case it rains (hope the union laminate the placards so the ink doesn't run, because then we would look completely fucking stupid)
- Earplugs so we can't hear the abuse passing members of the public who were recently made redundant will roar at us (I'm a sensitive soul really)
- Large hipflask full of lovely yummy single malt Scotch to keep me warm.
- Throat lozenges
- Shovel for digging latrine
- A set of those foot outlines people put on the floor when they're learning to dance, so we are all co-ordinated and don't crash into each other. The corner of a placard could take someone's eye out you know.
- A second placard with "HELLO MUM" on it in case a TV crew stop by.

Viva La Revolucion!

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.

Letter to the Facilities Management Unit.

Dear Facilities Management,

I realise you have enough to do what with ensuring a steady supply of stationery, that people don't park their cars in the foyer on wet days because they don't want to get their clothes wet, that some of the stranger employees don't use the bins in the ladies' toilets as headgear, but I hope that you will at least give my request a little consideration.

I am at my wits' end. You may have seen me tearing my hair out at my desk as you went about your building inspection. You might even have heard the plaintive whines from all corners, surrounded as I am by several clerical officers:

"Govstooge, can I have tomorrow off?"
"Govstooge, can I have yesterday off?"
"Govstooge, this form's not filled in right. Can you fix it?"
"Govstooge, can you ask the HEO for me about.... (insert anything you like here)?"
"Govstooge, I forgot my password."
"Govstooge, I think I broke Microsoft Excel (this from the HEO)."
"Govstooge, there's a splinter in my desk."
"Why is the sky blue, Govstooge?"

Jesus. How do you expect me to work in these conditions? I have a lot of important EO-stuff to be getting on with.

I am making an official request to have a soundproof perspex shield around my desk. With a sliding window for me to shout at people out of. Preferably with a megaphone. (Please supply this also.) If the window could be spring loaded that would be a big help because anyone attempting to open it could lose a finger and frankly, I need a laugh when I'm on duty. This I feel will increase my productivity as people will stop bothering me and go somewhere else with their silly problems.

If this is not possible, could I have my own office? I know there is a vacancy down the corridor. I believe its former occupant met with a sudden and tragic accident in the vicinity of Ballyfuck recently.

I await your reply in earnest.

Yours sincerely,

Govstooge
Executive Officer
Noise Pollution and Pestilence Section

Apologia pro vitae suae

To my colleagues:

I'm sorry I growled and spat venom at you all today.
I'm sorry I said "CUNT" loudly at the tea break table, causing many heads to turn in our direction.
I'm sorry for muttering under my breath after you left my workspace having brought me yet another pile of forms to sign.
I'm sorry for shouting "BOLLOCKS" in the office every time my phone rang.
I'm sorry for the temporary CO who I may have scared off from coming in ever again.

O God, just what have I become?

I'd better avail of some anger management classes before the Department management see fit to send me to a home for burnt-out EOs.

Down time

It's been almost a week since I wrote anything. Fact is, I've been enjoying the weather too much ("sickie", anyone?) and, in the last two or three days when it started pissing again, I've been getting pissed. Mainly to forget about what's coming up in the next couple of weeks.

The interim reviews. Oh, fuck.

The thing is, with all the new minions reporting to me since earlier this year, it's going to take me a whole week to get through these poxy meetings. Not to mention the fact that I inherited a few extra people as a result of another EO leaving.

Some of the meetings might be fun this time around, however, as I might like to get revenge on some of these additional staff for an incident on the other EO's last day, which went something like this:


EO: Well, I'm off. It was lovely working with you all. (Goes to door)
CO: (Stands on desk) O Captain my Captain!
CO 2: (Stands on desk) O Captain my Captain! Please don't leave us!
EO: Err...
CO: Yes, please don't go. Our new EO is a bitch.
CO 2: Yes, she swears at us.
(At this point the HEO intervenes saying that people standing on desks is a breach of health and safety law and he ushers the EO out the door, while simultaneously restraining Govstooge from harming herself and others, as she is now foaming at the mouth and flailing her arms relentlessly. The HEO receives several bite marks to his forearms and has to leave early to go to the doctor.)
CO: Fuck, anyway.


The rest of the interim reviews won't be fun. Especially since I am now medicated to keep all that involuntary movement under control. It's just going to be a lot of sedate form-filling and box-ticking and running around trying to find an office vacated by an AP on a well-timed sickie so I can at least hold the review meetings in private.

Brick

A colleague keeps a brick on their desk. What a cunning plan.

Very useful for smashing things or throwing at people. And the hollow bit can hold paper clips. I think it's very nice, it "enlivens dull desk".

My desk is very boring. I haven't attempted to personalise my work space as I might be moving desks (again) very soon. I have a couple of posters I'm going to put up once I'm settled again. One says "Hard Work Never Killed Anybody Important" and the other says "How About A Nice Cup Of Shut The Fuck Up". And a crudely fashioned one "EO, I owe, so off to work I go".

Those, combined with an electrified barbed wire fence around my desk, an intravenous coffee drip and a Father Jack Swearing Screen Saver (yes such a thing exists - somewhere) would make my life complete and I might stay in my job for ever and ever.