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.