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.

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.

Location, Location, Location

You may be forgiven for thinking that I'd disappeared up my own hole for the past several weeks or so. And you'd be right. What an exciting place the lower functionary's ileosacral region can be.

Almost as exciting as the adrenalin rush I get from blowing things up, shooting things, kicking the shit out of random strangers and driving at breakneck speeds. Yes, I've discovered (rather late in the day) the delights of Grand Theft Auto 4, the best fucking outlet for pent up rage yet. It's bloody addictive. I knew I had a problem when I drove (a real car) to a friends' house and rammed their wheelie bin, not to mention the urges I got when I saw a Garda checkpoint. Urges I had to suppress, lest I became some tattooed lesbian bank robber's bitch in wimmin's prison.

Meanwhile, back at the Department of Pedantry, I have more or less settled into my fab new role. I've had plenty causes for rage though, as only I could.

My initial accomodation in my new Department consisted of a tiny desk squirrelled away in a dark corner of the Department. Great, eh? Nice little corner, away from the madding crowd? Just what Govstooge needed after being a slave to the leave forms and whims of several clerical officers? Was it bollocks. It backed onto an entrance door into an open plan area. Which meant every fucker who came in could see what was on my screen. Not only that, but I had an unofficial (i.e. not on my Role Profile Form) duty as a concierge for the area, being the first person people would see as they came through the door. My typically pleasant disposition meant speedy results.

"Excuse me, do you know where Hortensia Bucketflaps' desk is?"
"No, I'm new here."

"Can you tell Roger MeSideways that I was looking for him?"
"If I knew who he is, or indeed, who YOU are, I could tell him, but I'm new here."

"Hello, I'm making a collection for Rusty McMinge who is retiring next week, I'm looking for a fiver from everyone."
"FUUUU.... err, I'm all out, and besides, I'm new here."

After several complaints (possibly not ALL of them from me), I now find myself in a far more suitable location, in one of those omniscient positions where I can see everyone coming and still have sufficient time to hide if I don't want to talk to them. A big plant placed strategically helps me with this, and is also useful for hiding in when I fancy sniping at people with elastic bands because things are quiet and I'm bored. Which isn't often, if I'm honest, there's always plenty of stuff to do, but it's nice to have the option.

All I need now is a big enough wall to pin up a poster of my new inspiration, Nico Bellic, and life will be complete. Must remember to bring the plasterboard slabs in tomorrow.

Sleepers Awake

Monday night was a pain in the arse. The squealing winds and pissing rain prevented me from getting my usual eight hours. I can normally sleep through wind but getting up for a wee at 4 am and hearing the deitritus from local knacker- drinking activities being blown up and down Ballyfuck Main Street made the prospect of a return to my dream about Johnny Wilkinson impossible. Looking out my bedroom window, I witnessed an empty Stella can noisily overtaking a Heineken one. A battered Miller box came bumping along a short time later and could be seen adorning the unfinished boundary wall of the local ghost estate the following morning.

The lack of sleep due to the aluminium marathon outside didn’t help the clarity of thought at work yesterday.

A random conversation regarding a smelly weird colleague went thusly:
HEO: I saw him in Nobber last week.
Govstooge: Eugh! He had his knob out? Dirty bastard! Did you report him to the Gards?
HEO: No. NOBBER.
Govstooge: Oh, right.
EO #2: What, was he pissing on the side of the road in Nobber?
HEO: Jesus.
Govstooge: Maybe I should go home now.

And no, catching up on sleep at work is a non-runner. The HEO's the one with the pointy stick now.

Govstooge's New Job

Well, gentle readers, it's been a while, so I'd better offer an excuse as to my extended absence.

I've finally gone and landed on my feet. I've managed to get the coveted transfer I've been hankering after for months and am now a noob EO in the Department of Pedantry where the arses are just as fat, the coffee is equally foul, and the toilets are pongy to an identical extent. So, why did I want the job? The answer is simple.

Fewer PMDS forms. I now have approximately 0.66 of a CO to supervise rather than the double digits I had recently. And it's nice that it's the bottom 0.66 of the CO, as they have no head and are therefore very quiet and leave me alone most of the time. Couple that with a few other eccentric EOs and a sweary HEO, things are very nice indeed right now.

Oh, and the actual WORK was a draw too. Nothing to do with passports or dole forms or any of that stuff where angry queues are involved. Or squeaky doors, which, frankly, were driving me fucking insane.

Lack of malaise is, however, a cause of writer's block for me, so I'll have to find something to get pissed off about fast. Emm...

... Mary Cockup still in Government? Fuuuu...watch this space...

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!

Saint Pancreas

I’m so glad Valentine’s Day fell on a weekend this year. Just so I haven’t had to endure the gushing, faux-surprise exclamations of those colleagues whose partners deliver fucking ginormous bouquets of flowers to the office.

Not even a mention of it! Huzzah! (There has been a whiff of it, however – I would think, one colleague spent much of the morning ostentatiously spraying something with a Tommy Hilfiger logo on the bottle on herself, in the hope that someone would compliment her on the scent and where she got it from! Nobody did!)

As for me, I had dinner cooked for me, a nice walk and a couple of pints in the local. Not a Hallmark logo, overpriced restaurant or pink heart in sight. Not even in the local, which is one of those spit-and-sawdust and greyhounds-in-the-corner type of places where the average age of the clientele is 70.

Anyhow, all that sickly-sweet stuff probably wouldn’t do me any good at this juncture, now that I’m gulping 1,000 milligrams of Glucophage a day to help with insulin resistance which is a complication of polycystic ovarian syndrome (PCOS). PCOS is a rotten condition with irregular periods being the main symptom but also hirsutism, obesity, and acne among others. Being lucky where cosmetic symptoms are concerned, I’m neither spotty nor hairy, but keeping my weight down can be difficult, even if I can still get into a size 12-14!

I had been taking Aldactone for years but the results of a recent liver function test prompted the doc to change the script. Bloody triglycerides!

I still haven’t managed to shift the half stone I put on over Christmas thanks to Bailey’s, Quality Street and all the other goodies that accumulate in my parents’ house in Kilshite over the festive season. And now, it seems, a more concentrated effort is required on my part to shift the extra weight and also lower cholesterol without resorting to statins.

I’ve been lucky with Glucophage so far, the side effects of squits and nausea haven’t affected me. I fucked up last weekend and forgot I was not supposed to drink bucketloads of beer while taking it and ended up having to jump out of the car the following afternoon and violently throw up on the side of the road, after a mere four pints the night before! Not to mention the honking and cheering from passing cars. Bastards!

So, I now have to reduce my alcohol intake as well as moderate my thought-it-was-already-pretty-healthy diet (i.e. lots of veggies, no fry ups, no processed stuff). Bollocks. Most of my socialising involves lots of beer so I’m still at a loss for something to replace it with once the two pints I’m allowed have gone down the hatch. And I hate being the only sober one in a group of drunks! FUUUUUCK! Anyway, I’ll just have to grin and bear it, because it’s for the best. It’ll pay off in the end. Volunteering as designated driver will save us loads in taxis.

And I’ve got ten months to go before Christmas and the torrent of chocolate, so I hope to have made progress by then!