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.

The Silence of the EOs

So, thanks to the inclement weather today (The high winds mean that a person of short stature such as myself runs a risk of being blown into the Atlantic if they put a foot wrong), I found myself remaining on in the Department during lunchtime and, rather than break my teeth on a concrete-like Departmental Scone in the canteen, I remained at my desk with a large coffee.

It was quiet. Bloody quiet.

Morticia hasn’t been seen for days. One of the last times I spoke to her, she was wittering on about it being her birthday and “oooh, I don’t want to tell you how old I am, but it’s between 58 and 60,” she prattled. She seemed to have been angling for the rest of us to get her a present seeing as she plans to retire/ take a career break/ die soon and it’s likely to be her last one in the Department. When I looked around there was no-one else within earshot who I could – ahem – “volunteer” for the project, I felt it fell to me to do something for the good lady.

Actually, I tell a lie. There was someone else within earshot. The Trappist EO. Not exactly a good person to fob the whole project onto. Apart from the protracted silences, the said EO is widely known to be the only civil servant who can claim an input into the production of metamorphic rock – i.e. if you shoved a lump of coal up this EO’s arse, it would come out as a miniature, sparkly Hope(less) Diamond.

Anyway, I hadn’t got a lot of cash to spare myself. What little I had at the time was earmarked for essential stuff, like beer and books. And I was fucked if I was going to spend it on someone I didn’t particularly like. A small unit like ours would yield fuck all cash anyway if I had a collection. I felt, however, that it would be a small outlay considering that we’ll be shot of Morticia for good in the next year or so, and, with this in mind, I set about contemplating what would be nice to get for her, that wouldn’t make any sort of a dent in the personal finances.

Having sifted through all the options open to me, and thinking that the giftwrapped dog poo was taking things a little too far, I opted instead for a nice flower from my garden in a pot. Morticia was ecstatic when I brought it in the next day. She placed it on her desk, right beside the picture of the Taj Mahal and Princess Diana with a cutout of Morticia glued crudely to one side. She watered the plant, stroked it and sang songs to it for the whole day. That evening, she picked it up carefully and took it home.

She has not been seen since. And it’s a pity, because I'm interested to know how my cutting of Deadly Nightshade (atropa belladonna) is getting on.

I still think it was a better gift than the poo.

Floored!

Well, here I am again, returning from yet another one of my protracted absences - my excuse this time is that I became engulfed in an explosion of something called WORK at work, and have scarcely had enough energy to even stay awake for the entirety of a film. (That was OK though. The film was Seven Pounds, and it was seven pounds of shit despite having Will Smith in it, so I wasn't missing much.)

I've also been wrestling with fifteen boxes of engineered three-strip oak flooring, the attendant underlay and trimmings and I have won. However, that was just getting the bastards out of the car. Now to get somebody to lay them for me (oo-er missus!) as I'm right fucking pissed off stubbing my toe on them every time I go downstairs. The neighbours do not need to hear "Ooooow you fucking *****!" at 7am every morning through the wall. They have small kids who may suffer irreparable psychological damage from hearing such outbursts.

Anyway, just as I thought I could relax, my arch nemesis decided to pay a visit. No, not Untidy Guy from my previous Department. (If he turned up on my doorstep, I'd have a horrible job getting enough acid to dissolve the body of the fat bastard.) Nope, it was time for my annual chest infection.

My lungs filled up with goo. And over a weekend too, so I end up being too fucked to go to the pub. But bless my turbo-charged garlic-fuelled immune system and its fighting phagocytes of fury! When Monday comes, my phlegmy rattle goes, and I can work!

My body is such a bastard. Out goes phlegm, in comes vitriol. Watch this space. Especially YOU, Untidy Guy.

Blaaaaaaart!

Morticia approached me yet again today. She toddled right up alongside me and said:

"I have an Orts degree, you know."

Now, in my present Department, there are a great many people with Arts degrees. And Business degrees, computer science, even electronic engineering graduates. It's not unusual to have a degree in the civil service. I myself am the holder of an Arts degree, along with a Master's in a humanities discipline. This I reveal to my colleague.

"Ooh", she replies,"but you're not using it." This, said with a smug little smirk and a victory wiggle, which make me furrow my brow and retort curtly:

"Yes I am. A large proportion of what I studied is relevant for what I'm doing right now." (This is actually true, even on EO pay!)

"I'm not using mine at the moment", Morticia confides in me. I'm half expecting her to offer to sell it to me for an aloe vera plant and the chain of paper clips I had in my old Department for whipping clerical officers with.

"I wouldn't have thought so," I reply "as a lot of your generation (ha! Age dig!) doing Arts would have become teachers, or would be higher up in the civil service."

Morticia looks dejected, as her attempt to make herself feel superior to me has backfired in her face.

I smirk and turn back to my work. Morticia returns to hers without saying another word. I did a little victory dance in my swivel chair. I'm a really crap dancer, so I nearly fell off and had to make it look like I was picking up a biro I'd dropped.

The virtual Vuvuzela of victory in my head was going "Blaaaaaart!" for the best part of the next hour.

Since when....

...has it been OK for staff in different, adjacent sections to ask me to pick up their phone because they want to nip out to their car for their fags?

I only glanced up as she was passing by and just happened to catch her eye.

Now, I might have to get up from my desk and wander across the corridor when I hear her fucking annoying ringtone, answer the fucking thing, and then take a message relating to some obscure conversation she had with her other half at the breakfast table this morning, find some paper, scribble a note on it.

I saw her ID badge. She's a CO. I'm an EO. She can fuck off.

Mind you, she hasn't seen my handwriting yet. My scrawl, which resembles the marks made by spiders with inky legs crawling across a sheet of paper left on a trampoline being bounced on by Mary Harney, will be punishment enough. Ha.

Intrusion

You know how it is. You're fucking whacked as you arrive home from a pretty exhausting day at work. Deadlines to meet, meetings to attend, COs to beat (ha!). All you can think of is grabbing the remains of last night's curry out of the fridge, nuking it in the microwave for 5 minutes, scoffing it down and then collapsing in front of the telly for the rest of the evening.

I had one of those days today. I'm not complaining, being nicely busy makes the day go faster. Evenings at home on these days are usually a stark contrast to the day in work. I like to just do feck all. Grass needs cutting? Arse. Ironing? Pish. I'm going to watch The Simpsons.

So I was barely in the door and had just about left my handbag down along with the random assortment of stuff I've brought in, when the doorbell rang. "Ooh", I thought expectantly, "It must be that fit new neighbour with the nice tight jeans that show his nice muscly arse off to perfection coming round to introduce himself." And off I bounded to answer the door.

Yikes.

"Hello, my name is Lara and I am an art student from Israel. Would you like to see some of my paintings?"

"Eh. No."

"Oh just have a look."

"Er, no."

"Please?"

"I've just got in from work. I haven't even had a chance to take this ID badge off. I'm not interested."

I got the door closed before the girl had time to take another breath.

That's the third Israeli art student I've had ringing my Ballyfuck doorbell this year. The first one managed to keep me on the doorstep for twenty minutes in January while he proudly displayed "his" work. I didn't buy anything but did enjoy the puzzled look on his face while I compared one painting to the work of Jack Vettriano and another to that of Modigliani. Art student? My hole. And the hard sell techniques are spectacular. The second one came at a time when I was recovering from a chest infection and stood wheezing in the doorway. Incredibly this "art student" was also a "medical student" and offered a back massage to help clear the congestion! "Feck off", I told him.

I usually "answer" the door by sticking my head out of one of the upstairs windows and shouting down to the caller. It's great fun altogether.

"No, sorry, you can't come in. I'm imprisoned in this upstairs room but if you come back in five years I'll have grown my hair long enough to be able to let it down and then you can climb up and rescue me and maybe at that point I might buy something off you".

Or, alternatively, a stack of pre-prepared flour and water bombs by the window are another useful aid.

Forms downloaded from Revenue's website and left by the window are great too. "Are you paying income tax on these sales? If not you'd better fill this out!"

Bloody cold callers. Why can't they all just fuck off and let me eat my dinner in peace? The next one gets a fork in the eye.

Shooting the Breeze

Most people I know like to catch up with current events and gossip over pints at the weekend or a convivial tea break in the Department canteen. This is an important part of our daily lives and it helps if it's done in reasonable comfort.

Which is why I can't understand people who conduct their social lives in strange places.

Like on the stairs. As someone who likes to jog up and down stairs I frequently find myself impeded by groups of middle aged women who, at some stage, decided to take a rest going upstairs and just stopped where they are, ripe for being run into by that rarest of civil servants, the energetic ones. And do you think they say sorry, cop on and go somewhere else? Not likely. There must be a rule somewhere in the civil service code of conduct that says "You must inconvenience a minimum of three people daily in shared areas". If I find where this rule is written and if it doesn't specify how I should inconvenience others, then I'll resign myself to kicking these people up the fucking arse.

The ladies' toilets are also ripe, in more ways than one, for social gatherings. What more perfect way to get the latest news with the tinkling background music of hissing piss and the gentle percussion of poo plopping into the water? Not to mention the attendant aromas? It always disturbs me when I walk into the workplace loos to find two women gossiping and who glare at me when I enter, as if it were their private space. They are usually still there when I've finished washing my hands.

Worse again are those acquaintances from other sections who attempt to engage me in conversation in the bathrooms.
"Hello Govstooge."
"Hello Lucretia."
"Any holidays planned?"
"No, but I've just come back actually."
"Really? Where from?"
"Outer Mongolia."
"What was that like?"
"Pretty good. Whiffed a bit in places, mind. A bit like here. Have to go, I'll talk to you later."

Maybe for the next staff suggestion scheme I'll make a submission saying everyone should set up a Twitter-type thing on the Department intranet. That way we'll know what everyone else is up to. We won't even need the canteen after that...

Eh, maybe not. Coffee anyone?

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.

Deaf? I don't think so!

A typical day in the Department. I am up to my elbows in paper. And then, the most unwelcome sound of all.

Extension 666, the direct line to Govstooge, rings.

"Bollocks", I say, before taking a deep breath and adopting my posh professional civil servant voice.

"Good afternoon. Govstooge speaking. How may I help you?"

A faint crackle and the distant sound of the Pussycat Dolls.

I sigh, and try again: "Good afternoon. Govstooge speaking. How may I help you?"

"Can you speak up?" comes the voice at the other line.

I take a deeper breath.
"Govstooge speaking. How may I help you?"

"I still can't hear you."

"CAN I HELP YOU?"

"Ah, that's better. Now just hold on until I turn this radio down."

(Goes off to turn down the radio, which is now blaring Lady GaGa.)

"Jaysus", I say.

People, eh? Hate 'em. Bunch of gits.

Get the hell out of my face!!!

Dear colleagues,

It has unfortunately come to my attention that some of you have a nasty habit of creeping up on me while I'm working.

I wouldn't mind if your advances were directly related to my area of work, or even vaguely GAA-themed.

However, when you flip flop up to my desk chewing gum in my ear and ask me (without even so much as a "please" I might add) to tell Antigone when she's off the phone that you have gone for tea, don't expect a smile and a cheery "Sure"!

You'll be lucky to get a curt nod. Like you did today. Try it tomorrow, and the result might be different. I might just chase you through the section throwing staplers, forms and other random office paraphernalia in your general direction. Because I'm trying to concentrate on what I'm doing. Your spearmint-tinged halitosis has just sent me back to square one.

This is not confined to my immediate colleagues, but extends to those of you "visiting" from other sections also. I don't know most of you from Adam, so why pick me to pass on a message?

Just fuck off.

Or I'll bite.

Govstooge

CC: Facilities Management

Where's the fucking perspex screen for around my desk?