Boo Shit

Well, I got hammered last night, went to work hung over - from which it took me most of my working day to recover. Ok, it was a silly thing to do, but I had a laugh and it helped me forget yesterday's role profile meeting with the malignant knobjockey CO.

So I'm now back on form to deal with the voluminous clouds of shit that are coming my way in the next few weeks. Getting time off in the coming weeks will be difficult. Unless, of course, you are a parent. Having a sprogling comes in handy - sometimes. I am not a parent (the very idea of someone as feckless as me being in charge of another person... heyyy... wait a minute!) so I and the other sprogless wonders will be manning the place while the majority take time off for the mid term break. I will have to resort to one of my remaining uncertified sick days if I decide I need a break.

The curse of the "family friendly" workplace. Maybe I should campaign through my union for something similar for people in my situation. Something like "Hangover nursing day" or "Burnt out EO day" or maybe even "Had a curry last night I fear an exploding rectum" day.

Well, I have seen more ridiculous ideas already in place. Anything is possible in the civil service. You might be retired or dead by the time anything happens though.
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Now playing: HANDEL - Air
via FoxyTunes

Rotten

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Scary

One of the more harrowing experiences of my recent trip to Dublin was this toilet door I encountered on the journey.


Seriously, what the fuck are those holes for? Lesbian toilet voyeuses? Fulfilling the need for sexual pleasure of men with multiple penises of various shapes and sizes - who just happen to have a chipboard fetish?

Either way, I finished my business as quickly as possible. The threat of another lady glancing through that aperture at me as I hovered made sure I did not linger.

I was not alone, I'm sure of it, because ALL THE FUCKING DOORS WERE LIKE THIS!!

I'm becoming very, very scared of public toilets.

Now, where's that complaint form?

Something that occurred to me...

... when I had nothing better to do.

In relation to submitting information to a government body do you:

- Fill "up" a form?
- Fill "out" a form?
- Fill "in" a form?

I know I use all of the above variations. When I have a pint too many and think about this, I feel like my brain is going to explode. And also the brains of those around me who have to listen to my confused ramblings.

Ah fuck it.

Just say "Complete a form". That'll settle it. But it loses the alliterative beauty of the post label below.

Crap as usual

Woke up this morning to a white-shrouded building site (No, I will never make it as a blues songwriter). My heart leapt with joy at the thought of pulling a sickie and staying at home building a snowman in my back garden. A snowman who I would build lovingly and then christen with the name of my least favourite co-worker, before kicking the ever-lovin' shite out of the fucker.

Well, bollox anyway. By the time I had my coffee, it had turned to sludge. Bastard.

The weather in this country is really crap. It's almost as if it doesn't even try.

It's like some senior civil servant in the sky got a great idea six years ago to give the country snow on February 1st, 2008, spent the intervening years planning the project only to find that, on the day itself the implementation of the project failed miserably and it had to go back to the drawing board at a cost of millions to the taxpayer. The project would probably have been called "Precipitation Planning And Related Stuff" (or PPARS for short).

So it's back to shitty rain and wind for us poor damp sods.

And don't get me started on the summers.

Is there a way of tilting this planet on its axis so that Ireland ends up where the Canary Islands are? Like a big nuke or just get Mary Harney to jump up and down for a few hours?

Office Etiquette

I was at the doctor today gettting my bitch valve replaced (having worn out the old one from spewing vitriol on this blog) and while I was waiting I thumbed through the magazines in the waiting room. Amazingly, they were all current editions, not ancient copies of National Geographic or Kay's catalogues from 1988 with the bra pages torn out, such as I have become accustomed to over the years.

I came across a copy of Image magazine, an Irish glossy I only read if a friend passes it on to me, because most of the stuff in it is geared towards women who live in giant houses in Dublin 4 with barrister husbands and who can afford to spend more on a scarf than I earn in an entire month.

This particular edition was different, however; it was geared towards women in business. It made for interesting and inspiring reading. It featured articles on women setting up their own businesses and suitable business attire for board meetings etc (again, all items costing an absolute fucking packet - what's wrong with a suit from Next, girls?).

The most interesting thing in it for me, though, was an article by Terry Prone on office etiquette. At the end of the article, she had helpfully appended a list of dos and don'ts for people who want to make the right impressions on their co-workers and bosses.

Close to the top of the list were two of my regular transgressions.

- Don't swear.
- Don't eat garlic during the week.

Jesus, does this mean if I tone down my language, stop eating curries, and spend €3,000 on a designer suit, that I'll be admired and respected by all?

Fuck that for a game of soldiers. I'm a civil servant, so it doesn't matter what I do. But, as a protest, I will arrive at work on Monday morning in a beer-stained hoodie that I have slept in all weekend, while calling everyone bastards.

Take THAT, Image magazine!

GONG...!

So I discovered that I'm on the long list for the "Best Newcomer" award at the Irish Blog Awards 2008. I am very, very flattered to be up there with a lot of people whose blogs I dip into regularly. I'm very grateful for the nomination; I hope I can continue to live up to it. Fecking great! My only wish is that I could boast about it at work, but then everyone would know what I've been writing about them and I could get carpeted by the Department dickhead.