The Uncivil Servant's Rant

The Outside View (Part the First)

2011-10-21T20:19:00.001+01:00

I'm pleased today to introduce part one of a guest posting following on from a visit by a leading academic in the area of occupational psychopathology to my work unit. It's about bloody time!

A visit to the Department of Pedantry by Doctor Constantin Constantinopodopoulous of the Department of Psychiatry and Public Service, University of Chipping Sodbury.

At first glimpse, it looks like an ordinary civil service building. Peeling paintwork, suspicious carpet stains, grey men and women staring blankly.

A cursory glance into the office canteen at tea break time confirms this suspicion initially. The tables are occupied by a variety of interesting specimens. In particular:

- CO staring out the window as three-inch long rope of drool hangs from the corner of her mouth.

- CO staring at the wall (table not adjacent to window) as five-inch long rope of drool hangs from the corner of his mouth.

- CO standing at back of canteen staring at nothing in particular, but with a strange look of murderous intent on his countenance.

- Large group of middle-aged female EOs talking about Eastenders and cackling loudly. People at adjacent tables wearing ear protection.

- Senior managers pretending to discuss policy documents over coffee – in reality they are trying to finish the Irish Times crossword, which they have photocopied and slipped in with the weighty looking stuff.

- Private contractor (wearing VISITOR badge) looking around him in bewilderment.

However, behind this dreary and grubby façade, there is a surprising flurry of activity.

A visit to the Apostrophe Enforcement Unit proved that things were not quite as they seemed.

The unit is staffed by two HEOs, three EOs and three COs and is responsible, as the name implies, for the regulation and enforcement of correct apostrophe use. Forms are submitted by members of the public to this unit, when an infraction of the relevant punctuation mark by a business or advertiser has been identified. Forms are also completed internally by a member of staff who monitors the media, specifically print journalism and the Internet for misuse of punctuation. The forms are collated and processed, and a member of this unit’s staff visits the offending business premises and attempts to “re-educate” them in proper English. A variety of weapons are at the unit’s disposal for this purpose. Pens, multicoloured sticky notes, Departmental letterheads and leaflets entitled: "Common Grammatical Errors and You, You Illiterate Fuck".

More recent additions to the responsibilities of this unit include Text Speak Infractions (outside of mobile phone usage), and this alone has ensured that the volume of work has increased tenfold since the proliferation of mobile telephony in Ireland. The attendant impact on everyday written communication of the 140-character-or-less short messages has been devastatng.

When I first entered, a HEO was busy training two of the COs in correct form-stapling operations. One CO had correctly collated several dozen forms and was progressing well. The other CO had managed, in the short observation period:

1: To staple his thumb and forefinger together

2: To staple a (bloodied) form to his sleeve

3: To staple himself to the HEO.

When this last incident occurred, the local first aid representative had to intervene, and both officers were taken to A&E to be separated.

One of the EOs came forward and wiped up the blood from the desk, so I could sit and observe the remaining staff. "We're used to blood aroud here", she said apologetically.

I made myself comfortable. It was going to be a long day...

In Part 2: More bodily fluids, forms, red tape (nothing to do with blood this time) and commonly available stimulants.

ButtCacks.... er.... Cutbacks

2011-10-18T20:28:00.000+01:00

Much has been happening in the Department of late. The recruitment freeze and general cutbacks are making their presence felt. Staff morale is lower than normal; some COs are now so inert they can't even muster the energy to log onto Facebook during work hours. They sit, dribbling on their forms, marking time until their tea break.

Staff who have retired/ transferred/ died/ sublimated have not been replaced, and consequently there are a lot of empty desks in the open plan areas. The Personnel unit have attempted to alleviate these lacunae by placing mannequins dressed as civil servants in strategic locations around the building (i.e. the ones clad only in suspenders, PVC knickers and lacy bras have been assigned to all senior managers' offices as "personal assistants").

One retiring EO has written the Department into his will and intends to come back here after death as a stuffed civil servant. It is argued that there will be no discernible impact on his work output.

More cutbacks have been announced. Some of them are devastating. The CO attached to the senior managers' washroom has opted for worksharing, and in the absence of a work partner, senior managers must now either wipe their own arses in the afternoon, or hold it until they get home.

Members of the public have been advised to fill out forms using pencil. This way, once the form has been processed by the Department, the details can be erased and the form can be re-used, therefore cutting down significantly on reprinting costs. A dedicated CO has been fully trained in Eraser Operation for this purpose. A FAS intern has been assigned to lick the forms that have been stained by tea or coffee. He is frequently off sick.

In my own immediate vicinity, Nosher has been put on verbal warning to lose weight, as the Facilities Management Unit can no longer afford to replace his chair every time it collapses under his 20 stone plus frame. The Trappist EO, sickened at the impact on his take home pay of the slashes to the overtime budget, has taken on a second job as a bingo caller.

The worst is yet to come!

Where the South Wind Blows...

2011-09-09T15:17:00.000+01:00

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

2011-08-16T11:47:00.000+01:00

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!

2011-07-26T19:30:00.006+01:00

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

2011-06-20T23:07:00.003+01:00

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)

2011-05-03T22:07:00.004+01:00

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

2011-04-28T22:58:00.008+01:00

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

2011-03-15T20:38:00.007Z

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.

Hey Mr Tambourine Man...Fuck Off!

2011-02-10T23:59:00.008Z

Much change has taken place in my small work unit in recent weeks. (Oh no! Change! The enemy of the cossetted civil servant!) Personally, I like a nice bit of change. Keeps me on my toes and offers me an opportunity to stimulate the dim recesses of the brain which the Electro-Convulsive Therapy rods can't reach.

My erstwhile colleague, Morticia, has left for pastures new. A career break of some sort I believe. I think there's a Mediterranean cruise in there somewhere, so that Morticia can avail of the opportunities to drop in on friends like Benny in Rome, Nicolas' and Carla's holiday home in the French Riviera, BenAli in Tunisia - oops, scratch that one. She took the Atropa belladonna I presented her with some months back, and a large tub of emollient. Good luck to her.

In her stead comes a whole nut EO... I mean, a whole NEW EO. He has been redeployed from some other area of the Department which was found to have surplus staff. I call him Mr Tambourine Man.

Why? Is it because he carries around a small percussion instrument which marks out the tempo of his stride as he arrives into work in his Birkenstocks and white socks? Is it because he is always whistling Bob Dylan tunes?

Nah. It would be OK if he did these things. I could even forgive the tambourine. Those things are easy to grab and throw at people if they piss me off.

Mr Tambourine Man is yet another of that strange band of brothers in my new Department, the unattached Oedipal male. The kind of chap whose only experience of women is (a) Mammy, (b) Sister Nunzilla, the principal of the primary school, (c) Bridie from the Post Office, (d) Yer wan off Winning Streak. But particularly Mammy, as she is still washing his clothes and cooking his dinner even though he is now turning grey at the temples, has a cholesterol problem and is developing a middle-age spread (although not quite yet a member of the Masonic Order of the Generous Waistband like Nosher). He has been a civil servant since time immemorial and got promoted to EO on seniority because he dribbled slightly less than the other COs in his unit.

As a woman who does not fall into (a-d) above, I'm something of a curiosity to him. He likes to sneak glances across the room whenever he gets a chance. I am not dressed provocatively; my low cut tops with neon flashing lights "Boobs in here!" are kept for the weekends.

He doesn't know the correct method of initiating a conversation with a member of the fairer sex. A simple "Did you get any bastards canvassing at your front door last night?" would work for me, as I could describe my "BIOHAZARD- PROPERTY QUARANTINED DUE TO EBOLA OUTBREAK" sign that I had made specially for the front door. And the Petri dishes with the actual virus in them that I've placed at regular intervals around the driveway (I'm not saying where I got those).

Nah, Mr Tambourine Man prefers to let the woman kick off the discussion. He returns from tea break and paces up and down in front of my desk for a few minutes, in the hope that I'll look up and say, "How were the scones today, Colin? How many teeth did you lose today?" A pointless gesture, because I don't look up and enquire about the fucking scones. This pacing is disturbing and is having the opposite effect to what was intended. His attention seeking does not stop there, however. He puts his hand in his pocket and proceeds to play with an unfeasibly large...

...penis?

...NO!

...an unfeasibly large amount of change. Jingle jangle. And more fucking jingle jangle. "Oh Colin, what an awful lot of money you must have," he seem to be willing me to say. Seriously. Is the sound of clinking monetary shrapnel the equivalent of the Sirens' song to Ulysses?

"In the jingle jangle morning, I'll come following you..."

I won't follow you, so fuck off, Tambourine Man, and put it in a pint glass on your bedside table like most normal people. I bet you pay for your scone in the canteen with 1c coins.

Earlier in this post I said I liked change.

Why do they punish me so?

Bring it on!

2011-01-27T00:02:00.004Z

Lower ranking civil servants to take on extra duties:

http://www.independent.ie/national-news/lowerrank-civil-servants-must-take-on-new-duties-2511019.html

Well, hahahahahahahaha!

We do most of the work anyway!

What additional duties will we be taking on? Tea-drinking? Brown-nosing? Black Ops on PS3 in the conference room?

I'm sure I could make time for such activities in my busy day.

Should have been done years ago...

In other news, Langer replaces Biffo as head of Zanu FF.

Yawn.

I still won't vote for the pricks...

Worst ... Aid ... Ever!

2011-01-14T21:39:00.003Z

Now that the beta-blockers that the doctor prescribed for me to control the crazy physiological manifestations of my utter OUTRAGE (even the HEO ducked for cover, and the building was almost evacuated) at the sight of my first 2011 payslip last week have kicked in, I am now able to put my no longer trembling fingers to keyboard to compose my first post of the year.

I’m not going to write about the changes to my take-home pay and the attendant austerity measures I must adopt in my lifestyle. I may die in the pro...........

..... hmm. That light was very bright. It gave me a migraine.

Anyway.

Earlier this week, a friend who is currently in college asked me if I would like to participate on a first-aid course currently being undertaken by herself and other members of her class. Given the cost to non-students, I politely declined, saying also that a similar course is periodically offered at work free of charge.

I’ve never done a first-aid course at work. It’s a useful skill that can, for once, be used in the real world outside the Civil Service.

The problem is, if I did do the course in work, I would be listed as a first aid practitioner (and possibly defibrillator operator) among others on the Department’s Intranet.
What if I actually had to do something? There are a lot of fairly unhealthy looking types in the Department. You can hear them wheezing, puffing and panting on the stairs. Their red faces serve as emergency lighting. Most of them have bad teeth, skin problems and are challenged in the niceties of personal hygiene. The others are arseholes. The very thought of having to give mouth-to-mouth or defibrillate the bare chests of any of them makes me want to puke.

Although...

... I might just have the power to decide whether they live or die! To play God! BWAHAHAHHAHAHAHAH!

Imagine! A prostrate, purple-faced psoriatic EO with week-old sweat stains under his arms, or a cyanotic CO whose smugness suddenly seems to have left her...with only me... ME! as the one to grasp them and firmly reinstate them on this mortal coil. Or a talkative CO with an annoying voice struggling to breathe, necessitating an emergency tracheotomy with an old biro to keep the airway open – sure why not rip the vocal chords out while I’m at it?

Endless possibilities for evil, violence and fun, while helping to keep employment levels down. Helping the public sector employment statistics for the Croke Park agreement.

Although, knowing my rotten luck, it’ll end up being me prostrate on the floor, especially if there are any more cuts or tax increases. Well, at least I have nice skin, good oral hygiene and shower and change my clothes daily. I’d have some chance of surviving, I suppose.

Anyway, happy new year and all that, motherfeckers.

Rubbery with Violence

2010-12-30T20:14:00.006Z

"Fuck your Honda Civic, I've a horse outside", bawled Govstooge in a perfect Mid-West accent at the office Christmas party Karaoke. There was no backing track. I didn't need it - after seven pints I could make my own kind of music. I also belted out "People are strange" by the Doors at an earlier point in the night - the joke was lost on the motley crew of oddballs, none of whom dared approach the mike.

There was a disco also. Jesus Christ, the sight of middle-aged civil servants bopping away to Katy Perry is a sad one indeed. Nosher, the fat EO, sated from his repast (which included mopping up the remnants of his neighbours' dishes) wobbled over to the bar which I was valiantly propping up during a slow set to find a dance partner. His hand extended towards mine. Eugh. People have camera phones. The moment could be recorded for posterity, posted up on the Departmental Intranet for people to chuckle at when bored. "No thanks, Nosher", I said firmly. "Ah, come on, it's that song by Elton Jim!", he protested. I rounded on him. "Look Nosher, the last man I danced with lost his left bollock due to an ill-timed move on my part." Nosher thought for a second, - possibly contemplating the armour of his pendulous abdomen viz-a-viz his testicles regardless of any crap dancing on my part - and turned away sadly.

I've nothing against fat blokes, I've even gone out with one, it's just that it was a Friday night, and Nosher was wearing the same shirt that night that he had been wearing since Monday, and I could still see remains of strawberry jam from Tuesday morning's scone on it.

All in all, it was a memorable night, not least with the snow gently falling around us as we went from place to place, and not a drop of vomit in sight!

Christmas chez Govstooge was a different matter. Following a hearty dinner, Brussels sprouts included, there was a pitched battle between Govstooge père and Govstooge mère over which DVD boxset to watch. Would it be Only Fools and Horses Complete Box Set (Govstooge père, from Govstooge) or A Night with Daniel O'Donnell, a gift from Govstooge frère to Govstooge mère. Govstooge women being made of stern stuff, Daniel O'Donnell won the toss and it was imperative that I leave the house immediately before my slightly deaf mum got her hands on the volume control button, but not before shooting evil glances at my brother.

Kilshite main street was deserted, and white. Even the dogshit was white. Not a sound other than the gurgling of the river under the bridge. Placid, until a boy racer tore up the street, "Fuck your Honda Civic..." blaring from his windows.

Ironic. He was driving one, the dimwit.

Where everybody knows your name... almost

2010-12-11T21:14:00.001Z

I’m not going to write about the Budget 2011 and its raping of my already gang-raped pay cheque. I have more pressing things on my mind right now.

It’s that time of year again, the annual office Christmas “do”. As I’m in a whole new Department, I’m filled with trepidation at the thought of what kind of festivities my new colleagues indulge in.
I’ve already established a list of people beside whom it is safe to sit at the dinner. Basically, it’s anyone who is not:

- The Trappist EO. I am a convivial sort, and sitting next to a silent colleague would be awkward, but he is the best of the lot of them, if I want him to make noise I could stick him with my fork.

- The Bionic Woman. The colleague who has so much cosmetic dentistry and Botox and IUD devices inside her that she is surrounded by a strange magnetic field, has paper clips stuck to her back and can change ringtones on people’s phones merely by coughing.

- Morticia. Just...go away. I don’t care about the turkey and ham you ate at a table a Bishop sat at once.

- Nosher, the corpulent EO. I can see him now. “Govstooge, look at the lovely outfit Mary is wearing!” I look. “Oh yeah, nice top,” I agree. I look back at my plate. WHERE HAVE MY FUCKING CHIPS GONE?!!!? Nosher is grinning and rubbing his ample belly.

- My arch-nemesis. Yes, I have one. Even here. Nothing’s ever happened between us. It’s a hatred akin to that of Maggie Simpson and Gerald, the monobrowed baby who seem to simply glare at each other, just as this colleague does to me. (And I reciprocate, because underneath all this erudition and consummate professionalism, I am profoundly childish.)

That leaves me with: The HEO, his boss, their boss and some other uber senior manager.

Does that mean I’ll be kissing serious arse at the table?

The pub, karaoke and other crap will be another matter entirely. It’ll probably involve dancing.

I hate dancing.

The Silence of the EOs

2010-11-02T18:34:00.003Z

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!

2010-10-12T20:33:00.005+01:00

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.

The price of nosiness...

2010-08-23T22:05:00.002+01:00

Ok, I've been in my new Department a good five or six months now. I know how most things work so far and I suppose I'm generally content. Some things make me wonder, though.

I'm not usually a nosy person, I don't give a fuck about the tedious minutiae of the lives of others (I am not, or have ever been, a Stasi agent). However, all this went out the window one evening last week when I was returning to my desk after having been to the toilet. I was working back a little bit later than usual and think I may have taken my colleague, the previously mentioned Trappist EO by surprise.

The Trappist EO was on the phone! He glanced up as I returned to the room, with an expression akin to that of someone caught by the Bishop having a wank on a Richard Dawkins book at the back of a church. The conversation was terminated very quickly at that point, and the consternation of the other party was audible from my side of the room before the receiver was replaced.

"Hmmm..." I thought. "What the feck was all that about?"

The next day, the Trappist EO had returned to form. Nothing was said. Lunchtime rolled around, and I expected the Trappist EO to vacate the room and make his way to the canteen before the one o'clock rush, as is his daily, unchanging routine.

One o'clock, and he was still there, meditating on a pile of forms. "He's up to something," I thought, and decided to delay my own midday outing purely for the reason that he might be waiting for me to get out in order to make another one of his furtive calls. "I'm not moving until he does," I resolved.

Unfortunately, the two cups of coffee I had earlier were making their presence felt, and nature was calling, loudly, but not quite shouting. Yet.

1.30, and both of us were still manning the office in silence. He was shuffling bits of paper around his desk with an inscrutable expression. I was trying to hide the fact that I was pressing my legs together while wiggling in order not to reveal the fact that the flood gates could open at any moment. Fuck. What was I doing to myself? A ruptured bladder just to hear the Trappist EO making a call?

1.45. He was finally off. Maybe he gave up. Phew. Now came the hard part. I had to negotiate an open-plan area full of COs and a corridor with some APs' offices off it in order to get to the toilet. I rose, steadily, keeping my legs crossed. I grabbed a bundle of forms that I could pretend to study if I had to make an emergency stop along the way. Waddle waddle waddle, through the open plan area. I stopped right on the threshold of a double door, a group of COs parting as they passed me on either side on their way back to work. I felt my face going red. More waddling, until I reached the door to the toilets. I ran a gauntlet of gossiping civil servants before finding an empty trap.

Aaaah, major wazz. Crisis averted! And not a drop spilt!

As I sat there, I thought, nosiness is never worth it. Just think of the embarrassment I could have suffered had I had a major accident in the Department! I'd have to look for a transfer back to Squeaky Doors, a fate worse than death!

No, next time, I'm just going to drop a "listening device" in the office and save myself the hassle.

Fuckbook

2010-07-26T22:35:00.002+01:00

I checked my email earlier. "You have 10 new messages", it said. "Yahoo" (or should that be Gmail?) , I thought, "lots of new stuff to read, maybe a couple of lolcats, who knows."

Wrong.

One email worth reading, from a friend.

Two emails from Blogspot saying that a Chinese spammer with links to adult sites had left a comment on my blog, do I want to publish or reject?

Seven from bloody Facebook:

Joe Blogs took the movie quiz. Can you beat his score?
Bloke you met on holidays sends you a million kisses.
Fanny O'Toole invites you to join the group "Women against Vicars who hop around on one leg"
Richard Cranium tagged you in a photo in the album "Seven drunken nights"

And so on...

Yaaaaaawn...

Does nobody want to communicate by proper email anymore?

Bloody Fuckbook.

Blaaaaaaart!

2010-07-21T23:25:00.004+01:00

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.

I go away for two weeks and this is what happens...

2010-07-21T11:32:00.004+01:00

Ah, the iridescent glow of sunburn on pasty Irish skin. And not just me, either. Most of my colleagues are back from their summer holidays now and red is the new trendy colour in the Department. Red with a nice peely texture. Yummy. Not for me the beach or the swimming pool, however, I spent my leisure time bouncing merrily on beer-fuelled hikes through non-touristy areas and gaining a nice bright farmer's tan to boot. Oo-arr!

So the silence I'd been suffering in before I left has ended. And there's been another EO thrown into the melange! Oh what fun, another person for me to glower at! So here I am, sandwiched between Mr Trappist EO, the untroublesome CO and this newbie EO who bounded over to me to introduce herself.

EO: "Hello, I'm Morticia! And how are you this fine morning?"

Govstooge: Uhurrrgg. It's my first day back. What do you think?

Morticia: And where were you?

Govstooge: I was hiking in the little-known principality of Fukofaganski.

Morticia: Well, what a co-incidence! My grandmother was born on Fukofaganski, and we still have a house there, don't you know.

Govstooge: Err, no. I've just met you.

(Much blather follows from Morticia about the wonderful baroque architecture of the Cathedral of Saint Stinkyfoot of Bollixybillski, the capital of Fukofaganski, and the glorious Roman Wazzatorium which is preserved nearby.)

All of this, of course, while Morticia is leaning over my desk, breathing this morning's rancid camomile tea breath all over me.

Suddenly, my phone rings! I heave a sigh of relief. But Morticia doesn't go away! She clings onto my desk attendant on the end of my phone conversation, ready to compare Fukofaganski with a myriad of other places around the world, just to illustrate how awfully well-travelled she is.

Jesus.

I don't fucking care if you think the temple of Wan Ker in Malaysia looks like a stone on the road outside the Pontifical University of Bollixybillski.

Go away.

I hate you already.

Who will rid me of this turbulent EO?

There is a silver lining though. Morticia likes to talk an awful lot about herself and has already provided me with a happy ending. She may have just transferred into my area, but plans on taking a career break soon or maybe even retiring, as she is of that vintage (even in spite of the inane chatter akin to that of a very insecure teenager).

I could barely conceal my glee, and smiled across at the Trappist EO.

He was grinning too.

Loneliness of the Short Arsed EO

2010-07-06T22:48:00.007+01:00

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?

2010-06-09T23:22:00.008+01:00

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....

2010-06-03T11:41:00.000+01:00

...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

2010-06-02T23:10:00.003+01:00

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

2010-04-07T22:28:00.001+01:00

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

2010-03-23T23:34:00.002Z

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)

2010-02-23T22:41:00.000Z

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

2010-02-15T23:23:00.002Z

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!

In the Thick of It

2010-01-19T22:10:00.004Z

Last week wasn't an easy one for me.

I discovered 1920s style personal hygiene due to the total absence of water in my house, decided it was crap and went round to an unaffected friend's house to borrow their shower in exchange for some beer. I may have a filthy tongue, but smelly I am not. Anyway, the H2O's back now, pouring from my taps as well as drenching me from on high when I go outside, so all that's over.

A HEO descended on me with a printout of an email from Personnel. "Please conduct PMDS annual reviews asap," it said. "Bugger." I replied. And then, "You could just have forwarded that to me... save the trees and all that." The HEO responded that I smelt too nice to be a tree hugger and told me to just do it. Arse.

The second working week of the new year flung me into the shit with a new project that demanded intense concentration and participation of me. Neither of which I really wanted to supply at the time but I think I muddled through OK only to burn out just as the weekend was upon me.

In spite of this, I was happy to have the Bearded One (aka "Himself") turn up on my doorstep with some beers and a bottle of Buckfast. The resultant hangover rendered me useless for most of Saturday, which was an utter pain in the arse as there was stuff to be done that had to be put on hold as I lay upstairs trying to shut out the waves of alcohol-induced pain surging through my cranium.

This week feels far more calm. So far. Mind you, I haven't gotten round to those PMDS forms yet so who knows what delights they have in store for me.

Fed up with Brick!

2010-01-11T23:31:00.003Z

Ok, I've had it. Now that the snow's finally melting, I'm officially bored of this weather.

I'm sick of walking around like one of those clockwork dolls to avoid falling on my arse. No I don't have a key in my back. But I can put my foot up the backside of the next person who pisses me off.

I'm sick of slush being sprayed at me by passing cars whose drivers are irritated that I haven't fallen on my arse and given them a cheap laugh just because I didn't fall over like that bloke on the news the other night.

I'm sick of driving at 15 miles per hour and arriving into work late.

I'm sick of the fucking teenage c***s who decide that 1.30 in the morning is a perfect time for a drunken snowball fight in Ballyfuck Main Street.

I'm sick of not having any running water (but at least I got plenty of bottled stuff without a fight).

When it was white it was lovely. How fickle am I?

When icicles hang by the wall, and Dick the shepherd blows his nail

2010-01-05T23:18:00.004Z

Or, more colloquially, this weather would freeze the balls off a brass monkey. (Mind you, I have never seen a brass monkey, with or without balls.)

Anyway, I love this weather. There is nothing quite like a gentle stroll in a wooded area on days like these, with the white ground crunching underfoot, returning home to a warm house and a steaming mug of coffee.

It's not all fun and games though. It's taking about twenty minutes to de-ice the car every morning to render it safe for purpose. My commute this morning was almost twice its normal duration due to the state of the roads. At certain points, a speed greater than 5mph would result in movements that could be considered the automotive equivalent of Torvill and Dean. And still the knobjockeys in the Transit vans continued to overtake.

Given the road conditions, I've decided to take the rest of the week off with some annual leave I'd reserved specially for this purpose.

Add my traditional New Year grouchiness into the mix and there you have it, a happy ending for both EO and the poor misfortunate COs who must put up with the irascibility and general sweariness of the said EO.

I'm also between projects at the moment and therefore things are quiet. I do not ask the HEOs for more work lest they jump at the opportunity to dump everything on me and go back to playing Spider Solitaire or updating Facebook while the EO on 20-grand-a-year-less does all the hard work. Seriously. It has happened. It is happening. Just to prove a point, I wrote a report recently that had a HEO's name on it. I sent the report as a read-only file to the HEO for approval, without granting the HEO editorial privileges. I doubt the HEO even read the report, they merely nodded and said "that's grand". Really? Even though I "accidentally" misspelt your name on it? Isn't it great, being a HEO and having a report written for you with your name at the bottom, a report whose sole authorship and editorial privileges are assigned to a lowly EO? That, gentle reader, is the life.

So, to just return to having to deal with the quiet period, I've been dreaming up things for myself to do, like give the desk a clean to remove the Olympic symbols I've been making with coffee cups. Or draft a "how-to" for my successor should I run away screaming. I have internet access, but there's a restriction on most of the good stuff, like some blogs and b3ta.com.

Time off is a very good idea right now.

Winter walks a-plenty for Govstooge. Happy days.

New Year, Same Old Bollocks

2010-01-03T22:58:00.002Z

Argh, facing into a new year is generally fraught with optimism and hope for change for the better. But once the Prosecco hangover wore off on New Year's Day, those alien emotions wore off pretty damned quickly.

I'm back at work tomorrow, and to get myself in the mood, I dug out my DVD of Falling Down. I felt better straight away.

Sometimes, when faced with pay cuts, PMDS Annual Reviews, training courses and being sucked onto new project teams, one needs to find some way of detaching from it all. I choose a Michael Douglas film about a bloke who goes mental one day. Hmm.

Anyway, much of tomorrow's going to be catching up with everyone else at work. I expect to hear all of the following (I should really devise a bingo card for this stuff):

"I got soooo twisted on New Year's Eve."

"Timmy didn't like the choo-choo Santy brought him. I was gutted."

"My mother-in-law's turkey was so dry it was like eating wood shavings."

"Whose turn is it to take down the office Christmas decorations?"

"Are there any sweets left?"

"Govstooge, my PC won't start. There's melted chocolate all over my keyboard."

"Govstooge, can I have the afternoon off?"

Argh, fuck off.

For the record, my contributions to the whole affair will be along the lines of:

"Who wants to do their Annual Review? And where's my knuckle duster?"

"If there's any Galaxy truffles left, they're MINE!"

"Christmas? Oh yes, it was fine. You know I'm a Hassidic Jew, though, right?"

"Ah, just piss off."

Here's to 2010, folks. Have a good one. Because I know I won't.

Uhurrgh!

2009-12-25T11:04:00.002Z

It's Christmas Day, the ground outside is white (at least it is in Kilshite), the turkey and ham are on and I have a HANGOVER.

Wahoo!

Merry Christmas!

National Abbatoir to open, thousands of jobs created

2009-12-03T22:13:00.004Z

Hmmm. So no deal has been reached on our unpaid leave as yet. And time is marching relentlessly on until Budget day.

Today's planned strike was averted because of the "breakthrough agreement" on 12 or so unpaid leave days for the public sector.

But now, following dissention from backbench TDs, everything's up for grabs again. Backbench TDs, some of whom I might add, have alleged that "sure don't a couple of pints help a nervous driver to relax a bit?"

Even our revered Tanaiste, Mary Cockup... ahem, Coughlan, has agreed that nothing has been confirmed yet. This is the same person on whose behalf taxpayers, public and private, forked out €9,000 to keep a limo waiting for her at the WTO talks in Geneva last year so she wouldn't have to walk, or God forbid, use a taxi whose previous client was a cuckoo-clock maker. Not to mention John O'Donoghue's profligacy.

We all have to make sacrifices. The country is on its knees. For me and many of my colleagues, it's not the pay cut/ unpaid leave that galls us. It is the failure of our public "representatives" to set an example.

It's no wonder people are dying of swine flu. The country is being run (into the ground) by a shower of porcine individuals, all with their filthy heads in the trough.

George Orwell summed it up nicely in Animal Farm (and again, the pigs were running the show) with the quotation:

"All animals are equal, but some are more equal than others."

It's put me off sausages for life.

Oh, Bugger.

2009-11-26T22:33:00.003Z

Rumour has it that the CPSU have lifted their embargo on completing PMDS forms and reviews!

Just my fucking luck. I had a great summer not having to fill in countless stupid Interim Review. forms and now the annual reviews are here to bite me on the arse. Or papercut me on the arse. I don't know.

Yes, more of the same old treadmill of booking rooms, arranging meetings with clerical officers only to find that when you both get to the room, it's occupied by two trysting HEOs and then the clerical officer wants to go to the toilet and you say "Ok", and the CO goes off in the direction of the jacks and is never seen again because he/she had an inkling that you were going to give them a bollocking. Next time you have to do a review, you decide to hold the meeting in the toilets.

Or you might have to find a broom cupboard to have the meeting in, and then it's always with the smelliest CO in the building and being in a confined space with them makes you vomit up your lunch all over the form.

2010 will be easier in terms of not having as many meetings. (I will have more real work to do, but that's fine - not as annoying.) The Department has shed some staff due to DSFA pinching them, there have been early retirements under the incentivised scheme, and of course, career breaks. There will be less pressure on the meeting rooms for PMDS appraisals with the staff we have left. I might even get a meeting room with a window this time around!

'Allo, 'Allo

2009-11-25T21:20:00.006Z

Bonjour, mes petits chouxfleurs!

As we all know by now, there will be une autre grève - another strike - next Thursday.

And, given the five mile tailbacks many of us had to endure when we fucked off to Newry yesterday, I thought maybe next time, let's go all out. Let's make a proper trip of it.

Why not France, I thought. Home of Champagne, Malbec, and ooh, it's Beaujolais Nouveau time round about now too! Think of all the Brie and runny Camembert we can pick up for our festive entertaining!

It's time for the ultimate public sector Booze Cruise!

Attention, Cherbourg, les fonctionnaires viennent.

PS: Private Sector: No torpedoes now. Season of Goodwill and all that.

Revolution's just a T-shirt away

2009-11-24T22:05:00.004Z

"Bunch of WASTERS", screamed a driver, slowing down especially to make his feelings felt about our picket line. Our windswept, sodden picket line, not a hundred miles from one of the many flood-damaged areas.

Undaunted by this comment, or by the wind whipping up our holes, or the rain dampening our placards, we marched stoically on outside the Department. The more publicity-shy of us (including me) tried not to catch the eyes of the reporters from local radio.

Overwhelmingly, though, the attitude of the passers-by was supportive. Horns tooted, thumbs were raised and at one stage a person stalled their car in order to get out and applaud and cheer us. I was pleasantly surprised at this response, it could not have been better if we had been a lynch mob cheerfully garrotting Sean Fitpatrick, emasculating Roddy Molloy and delivering reverse colonics to the entire cabinet, and Bertie too.

And more to come on the 3rd December. It's unrealistic to think that we will avoid a pay cut in some shape or form. We are lucky to have jobs. If I had remained working in the private sector (where I gained most of my work experience to date), I would now be on the dole queue, as my old firm let go a third of its workforce recently.

Cutting the pay of the lower paid public sector workers simply because they are an easy target when the above named fuckmuppets - among many others - got away scot free is sickening. And this is the motivation behind my ticking "yes" to industrial action on the union ballot papers. And I am not alone.

And no, I wasn't in fucking Newry afterwards. I was at home making a nice curry.

Where's Noah when you need him?

2009-11-19T21:43:00.003Z

They came from all over the county, even in spite of the inclement weather. They braved floods, fallen trees, plagues of locusts, frogs, airborne germs, even car stereos stuck on local radio stations.

They overcame all these obstacles.

For the forms.

There was a tremendous sense of camaraderie in the Department this morning as each staff member arrived with a tale of woe about their journey to work. Each of us regaled the others with the gory details, like war veterans comparing scars. The dripping rain gear on the coat stands and the sodden umbrellas bore grim testimony to the battles fought and won this morning.

The outdoor smoking area attracted only the diehard adherents of the weed today, and those experts who could manage to keep their fags lit.

Occasionally, when the howling gales outside made it seem as if the Department roof was going to be swept away, there was much shuddering and invoking the Almighty: "God, will it ever stop?"

Departing colleagues were wished a safe journey home. Even the normally horrible ones who make me want to mount a rifle on my computer monitor.

The sense of "we're all in this together" was, I think, a foretaste of what we will experience on the picket lines next Tuesday. COs, EOs, HEOs and even APs picketing the gates of the Department and hopefully being choreographed well enough to not poke each other in the eyes with the sharp placard corners.

Striking paper pushers will elicit no sympathy from the passing public in this climate, and we will come in for abuse, I've no doubt. We'll be an easy target. But like today, we will cope by sharing war stories, this time over pints in a nice pub around the corner.

Mind you, the warm fuzzy feeling I had for most of the day disappeared rapidly when some sadist in the bowels of the building decided to inflict a Fire Drill on us. Bastard.

Create your own title

2009-10-28T18:53:00.005Z

More strikes on the horizon it seems. We could all be standing outside the Department with the wind blowing up our holes on November 24th if our unions' ballots are passed.

Maybe it's a pointless exercise and our pay will be cut anyway.

I don't know. Public sentiment toward us is generally negative anyway given the recent media coverage of our sick leave, expenditures etc.

There must be some way of showing Joe Public that most civil servants are ordinary PAYE workers and are not milking the system for what it's worth like those FAS or HSE executives.

It's obvious that the major wastage is coming from the upper echelons. But what's the betting that those of us earning under the €50k public servant "average" will be the ones most affected by any forthcoming paycuts?

Naturally, I'm biased. But further pay cuts (pension levy, anyone?) to one of the largest sectors in the economy will affect purchasing power, our confidence as consumers, and ultimately, the VAT take on what we used to buy. For instance, I'm going to cut down on drinking, and ultimately, give it up altogether, in order to recoup the damage to my disposable income.

Failing that, there's always Freeganism.

Oh, bloody hell.

Synaptic Knobs

2009-10-22T23:23:00.004+01:00

I've returned once more. The ongoing media war against the public sector has made me nearly wee myself with fright (or maybe I shouldn't have had that 15th cup of coffee), so I was in hiding for a bit.

I wish I hadn't bothered to come back out though. 7% pay cuts? Haven't we poor public servants suffered enough, what with that stupid pension levy and having to fill out 29 forms every time we want to pull our office blinds down on the rare occasion that the sun shines on our septic little isle?

And, all the time, the media is full of stories of the excesses of John O'Donoghue, Rody Molloy, and general Fás fuckmuppetry. Not to mention flat-capped TDs opposing the proposed reduction in the legal blood-alcohol limit because of the impact it will have on the turnover of the pub they run as an adjunct to their 100k-a-year-plus-expenses slice of taxpayer's money. You only have to look towards the south-west to see a good reason to reduce the number of scrounging TDs.

Meanwhile, back in the Department, things are going not so smoothly either. There has been an uptake on the paid career breaks, incentivised early retirement and so on, thereby reducing the number of staff reporting to Govstooge. In spite of empty desks, I can still bound around the office with a big grin on my face. (No, not because I have fewer PMDS forms to fill out. The CPSU put paid to that months ago, remember? Nor is it because I can jump on the empty desks now without squashing a colleague's hand). I'm swearing less. (!!!!!) Well, only fucking slightly less. The HEO no longer has to use a long pole to attract my attention. More has to be done with less resources, and this goes down a lot more easily if the EO doling out the work to the COs isn't grimacing.

How can I have achieved this when the economy is in tatters and the social and industrial unrest is palpable?

How can I laugh in the face of negative equity and NAMA?

Well, gentle reader, you are about to find out:

The answer is simple:

Tra-la-la-fucking-la.

It's the chemical equivalent of being in the civil service for more than 20 years. It insulates you against harsh reality without the need for sixteen layers of adipose tissue brought on by years of canteen sausages. A bit like alcohol, really, but easier on the liver, and you won't upset Noel Dempsey either. Everyone's a winner!

Blogorrhea!

2009-10-07T19:08:00.003+01:00

I wandered into work today at 10am, much later than usual, because I simply couldn't have been arsed getting up earlier. What I gained in sleep this morning was negated by the annoyance I suffered within two minutes of hanging up my coat.

"Govstooge", said the HEO bounding over to me.
Oh Jaysus, I think.
"What is the ETA on the current project you are working on? Remember to touch base with me if you've any problems... are you OK?"
"Yeah, my stomach just sort of...flipped when you said 'touch base'."
"Oh right. Well, usually some antacids help with that. Get some in case you need them going forward."
I look balefully at the departing figure of the HEO.
"Bleargh!" is my only response.

Two minutes later, my extension rings. I manage to resist the temptation to retch following my manager's management speak.

It is a colleague in another Department.

"Govstooge, can you do something for me?"
"Sure, Morticia. What is it?"
"Well, you know that issue your unit are working on with us?"
"Yeah...sort of. Actually, my HEO deals with that rather than me. Will I put you on...?"
"NO!!!!!!!!!!"
"Oh, right. That was emphatic."
"Sorry, Govstooge. But if I asked your HEO I would be on the phone for two hours and still be none the wiser. All the management speak you see."
"Ah, yes. The old logorrhea, or verbal diahorrea, if you will."
"Anyway, can you pass on this question? Just a quick one. And tell your HEO to contact me by email. Say one of my ears has fallen off due to leprosy or that I've got a terrible fear of curly wires and I can't use the phone."
"Right. Go ahead..."

The things I do for my colleagues. Risking being in the firing line of more management speak so that others may get on with their daily tasks. There should be an award for us unsung civil service heroes.

Even if it was just a shiny new paperclip or something.

Intrusion

2009-09-30T22:27:00.003+01:00

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

2009-09-23T23:58:00.002+01:00

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

2009-09-09T22:41:00.003+01:00

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.

L'enfer...

2009-09-08T23:08:00.002+01:00

...c'est les autres. At least, that's what Jean-Paul Sartre once said.

And I'm inclined to agree. Hell truly is other people.

Take one of my colleagues for instance. Let's call this colleague "Calamity" for illustrative purposes. I don't work directly with Calamity as he is in a different office, but I speak regularly with him on the phone. I shouldn't, but I invariably do, ask, "How are you today, Calamity?" Because this invariably leads onto a litany of the latest woes to befall this misfortunate functionary.

So far, I've been told:
"My arse exploded last night."
"My wife's arse exploded last night."
"I was off last week. Spent the whole time in bed with a bucket by my side."
"I was on holidays in Darfur. Stupid time to go, really."
"There was a dead sheep with an upside down crucifix stuck in it nailed to my front gate this morning".
"Hitler's ghost woke me up last night."
"Bertie Ahern is my best friend."
"The hubcap came off my X5. I have an X5 you know. It's shiny."

For several months now, I have been a shoulder to cry on for Calamity. I have been a sounding board for all his problems. I have been Marjorie Proops, Doctor Phil, Joe Duffy, all rolled into one. I have interjected his lament with "ooh you poor thing" on innumerable occasions, so much so that when my nearby colleagues hear this phrase they have to snigger and say to each other "Uh-oh, Govstooge's onto Calamity again."

I bet you are thinking, "Aaw, Govstooge's really nice after all." No? Oh well.

Anyway, Calamity, if you happen to be reading this in between your bouts of vomiting and missing hubcaps, please take note that I am no longer a free counselling service. Find a properly qualified therapist and pay them whatever they ask, you earn more than me anyway, you tight fucking bastard.

And next time a piece of information goes astray between my department and yours, complain to me directly. Don't ring up my managers denouncing me and making out I don't know what I'm doing, even though it was the first time something went wrong.

Because, if I knew where you lived, I'd be round there to give you something new to complain about.

Hell is Govstooge with a pointy stick.

New Recruits?

2009-09-01T23:35:00.002+01:00

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!

2009-08-31T22:48:00.002+01:00

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.

Umm....

2009-08-30T22:10:00.002+01:00

Oops, been off the radar for a bit. Fecked off out of this shitty windswept hole of a country for a couple of weeks. Looks like I didn't miss much. Anyway, back in fine form for more sweary ranting... and currently listening to lovely if depressing modern Polish classical music to get me in the mood.

But really, I won't need any help. Watch this fucking space.

Deaf? I don't think so!

2009-08-12T20:31:00.005+01:00

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.

Johnny Come Lately

2009-08-11T22:29:00.005+01:00

I see our good friends at Tesco are marketing extra large condoms.

For the big prick in your life.

I'm going to buy a trolley load of them and sell them as disposable scented sleeping bags at Electric Picnic.

I'll invent a new award for underperformance at work called "Dickhead of the week" where the offending CO has to wear one on his/ her head for a full week.

I'll seek out Assumpta the most pious civil servant the Department has ever employed and fill her desk drawers with them when she isn't looking. And stick one over the mini statue of the Virgin Mary on her desk to really set the whole thing off.

I may even put them to use in their intended purpose. Flattery will get me everywhere.

In the Shite Garden

2009-08-05T21:01:00.004+01:00

Back home, and I opened my front door and battled my way into the hall through the usual profusion of fake charity collection leaflets (Go away.) and Sky TV promotions (just feck off!), and I decided that then was as good a time as any to make good the damage wrought by the recent inclement weather on my back garden.

First of all, a haircut for the lawn which, if a lawn could be compared to a person, would be Brian May. Or Slash.

Throwing on my old tracksuit bottoms and baggy t-shirt, I bounded gleefully out the back door and begin the slaying of the grass. When that's done, I decided to tidy up the edges and pulled on a pair of sturdy gloves, in order to pull up nettles, thistles, atropha belladonna, hemlock, stinking bindweed and all the other nasties that seemed to have congregated for a weed convention among my gladioli.

I filled a whole sack with the stuff. And as I picked up all the waste vegetation, I felt a draught on my back. "Oh bollocks, stupid tracksuit bottoms, the old builder's bum is showing again" I thought. I stood up, hitching up the offending leisurewear. At the precise moment the next door neighbour stuck her head out of her upstairs window and went "Jesus Govstooge, the place is looking lovely! It's like the Botanical Gardens".

"Er, no it's not." I responded, pointing in the direction of the Asiatic lilies, stripped of their vermilion petals by the recent high winds, "But thanks anyway. I try." More pleasantries were exchanged. And my ego was massaged for a little bit, even if some of the praise was tongue in cheek. But all I could think of was "did she see my bum cleft?"

Anyway, it's all looking slightly neater out there now.

The triffids are thriving.

Get the hell out of my face!!!

2009-08-04T19:59:00.003+01:00

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?

Bless me manager, for I have sinned

2009-07-31T00:43:00.004+01:00

I had my Interim PMDS review a couple of weeks ago.

In spite of the moods, the flailing about, the swearing, the general scowling that I was demonstrating earlier this year, my HEO is happy with me!

Well, the job is being done, and on time. And that's the bottom line I suppose. And no-one's really been hurt.

So, I'm a pretty decent, if sweary, EO.

Take note, Bord Snip.

I probably have the right temperament to be levied off from my current Department to the Department of Social and Family Affairs. DSFA are conscripting civil servants from all other Departments to help with the backlog.

I'll probably remain under the radar, but I could prove to be a powerful weapon in dealing with some of the more errant and antisocial claimants in the dole office:

CO: Govstooge, that man over there's pissing on the floor!

Govstooge: Pass me my machete. It's sausage time. (Leaps over counter).

Or...

Govstooge: Here, you can't consume alcohol on these premises.

Wino Claimant: Burp! Fuck off!

Govstooge: Make me. Oh look, I've grabbed your wine. And you're too pissed to get up and do something about it. Not to worry, I'll have security help you to the door.

Wino Claimant: Belch! Y'bitch! Gaargh!

Govstooge: Let's see what it is. Ooh, Buckfast. Reminds me of college. Shame it's been in the gob of someone who reeks of wee. But I think there's a drain around the back that needs unblocking. Next time can you bring in some Dutch Gold so we can at least share them? There's a good chap.

Might be fun, now that I think of it.

Delaying Tactic

2009-07-22T18:34:00.003+01:00

One day, at work:

It is 10.45. I am about to get up from my desk to go to the canteen for my tea break.

All of a sudden...

HEO: Govstooge?

Govstooge: (Jaysus) Yes, O boss?

HEO: How is everything going?

Govstooge: Fine. Same as yesterday.

HEO: How did you get on with that job I gave you last week?

Govstooge: I told you yesterday, the person I need to speak to is out sick, and there's no-one else to cover. They're not due back until next Tuesday.

HEO: Oh yes, now I remember. And, is there anything else?

Govstooge: No, nothing.

HEO: You're sure now? You would tell me?

Govstooge: Of course. (I edge towards the door.)

HEO: Oh and one other thing...

Govstooge: (Jesus, you've been in since 9 and you pick this time to talk to me?) What?

HEO: Have a nice tea break! (Heh heh heh, that's at least five minutes knocked off Govstooge's tea break. A new personal best. Must put it down in the log. Muahahahaha.)

Govstooge: For fuck's sake.

Nice work if you can get it....?

2009-07-22T17:58:00.009+01:00

In yesterday's paper we had a report of a civil servant of AP rank in the Department of Defence who was paid €80,000 a year to do nothing except sit on his hole reading the paper. More here.

Has the world gone mad?

Eighty fucking grand? To read the fucking paper? Ah come on now.

I'll do it for forty. No quibbling!

Ok, so there are underlying causes such as harassment which can occur at all levels, and to be fair to him his complaint to his Personnel Officer about being idle went unheeded, but it does raise the question of how many civil servants are sitting doing nothing in single-occupancy offices. Heck, there are many in open-plan areas doing fuck all!

I'm not one of these by the way. I have a wide area of responsibility and rarely get a moment to myself. I'm also not in a position to be idle, given that my desk and computer monitor are visible from a wide area and by many people at any one time. I'm not senior ( by way of rank or tenure) enough to hold the coveted corner desk within my unit which guarantees privacy for the incumbent to surf the net, watch DVDs and follow auctions on eBay. This prime location belongs to a HEO who, funnily enough, likes to delegate a lot of stuff to the EOs. A HEO who's not very fast with the Alt and Tab when I approach with a form to be signed off or a question, so I can usually see what's on the screen, or I can just glance at the task bar. Invariably, it is something completely frivolous. Nice work if you can get it, eh?

It's demoralising for those of us in the lower ranks who are not afforded these luxuries of time and optimum accommodation, and who actually do stuff.

But it's not restricted to the public sector, might I add. I had a manager in the private sector who used to spend hours on the boardroom phone talking to her daughter in New Zealand. On company time, at company expense. She was never taken to task about it. I think the bandages on the Managing Director's head had something to do with that.

I've said it before, in hierarchical organisations the higher up you go the less you have to do. So Bord Snip and dear old Lenno would do well to focus on many of the useless layers of middle and senior management when considering how to make cuts. Fuck it, the EOs and SOs run the bloody places anyway!

P.S. I'm not at work right now by the way!

Bored Snip

2009-07-10T10:17:00.003+01:00

Jesus fucking Christ, Lenno. Can't you just release the details of the bloody McCarthy report and put us all out of our misery?

All this leakage into the media is making me feel sick.

Govstooge v the CPSU

2009-07-09T00:02:00.003+01:00

My HEO approached me today with yet another stupid question:

HEO: Govstooge, why haven't you conducted interim PMDS reviews with your staff this summer?

Govstooge: I can't. All my staff are members of the CPSU.

HEO: So?

Govstooge: The CPSU have an embargo on PMDS since March or so of this year?

HEO: So?

Govstooge: (Jesus!) Look, if I was to ask them to fill out their self-assessment forms, I would be asking them to contravene their union's advice.

HEO: So?

Govstooge: Look, knucklehead, what I earn isn't enough to enable me to take on several hundred COs and their union officials - officials, might I add, who generally earn twice what I do.

So as far as I'm concerned PMDS is not happening this year. Haven't you heard?

HEO: No.

Govstooge: Well, maybe if you didn't have such a fetish for listening to Gerry Ryan every morning talking about his holidays and the latest Danish pastry he's shoving down his gob, you might have heard. Actually, now that I seem to know more than you do, can I have your salary?

HEO: No.

HEOs. What are they good for exactly?

Crap day

2009-07-06T19:07:00.004+01:00

Anyway, it was a crap day as I pre-empted in my previous post.

Much of it stemmed from the fact that, while I was busy on other tasks, my HEO approached with something pointless and irrelevant for me to do.

"Govstooge, can you get onto Persephone in Hinges and Knobs Division about this matter. I think we should be informed about what's going on with this."

"Isn't it Hinges and Knobs job to do that in the first place? I mean, we've done what we had to do on it and sent it on, it's out of our hands now, isn't it?"

"Don't rely on them to do everything. It may be that they think it's our job to do it, and that THEY'RE doing nothing. It may well fall between the cracks and we could end up with egg on our faces."

"Jesus. Do I get a second EO payslip for doing their job as well? That might help to bring me up to the €50,000 a year we're all said to be getting."

"Heh heh heh. I'm getting more than that... Uhem! Ah, ... no."

"Jesus."

So, I fired off this missive.

From: govstooge@squeakydoors.ie

To: persephone@squeakydoors.ie

Dear Persephone,

Please see attachment.

Can you advise as to what is the status of this project?

I know I've already signed off on it but my HEO's powers of omniscience are receding and there is concern on their part that the project might not be seen to fruition now that it has passed from our division to yours.

If I can be of further assistance to you please return the attachment in the internal mail along with your most recent pay cheque.

If you need anything else please complain to annoyingHEO@squeakydoors.ie.

Kind regards,

Govstooge

Keyholes and Escutcheons Division

Aargh!

2009-07-06T18:47:00.004+01:00

Picture the scene. It is 7.30 am on a Monday, and I am morosely commuting my way from Ballyfuck to the Department. Noticing that the fuel hand on the car is dangerously close to "E", and that my stomach, were it to have a similar gauge, would be showing the same thing, judging by the rumbling thence. Damn! I wish I'd gotten up twenty minutes earlier and had breakfast!

I turn into a handy garage and fill up. The car, that is. Not for me the breakfast rolls and damp floppy sandwiches on offer. The most palatable thing on the shelf is a bottle of a drinkable form of yoghurt. Mmmm ... sugary, milky goodness! Or something.

Wanting to get to work for 8, I decide to have it "on the go". Well, I'm going to be stuck at any number of traffic lights on the way so there'll be ample opportunity to gulp it down safely. Or will there?

This morning, I discovered the perfect method of avoiding long waits at traffic lights in the morning. You have to really want to eat or drink the comestible you have brought with you in the car. Then, and only then, will you get a clear run through ALL the sets of lights before you arrive at your destination. Hungry and with low blood sugar. FACT.

Today was the first time in my entire commuting life (Sounds like a swear, eh? Maybe it should be.) that I've seen green lights all the way. No opportunity whatsoever to stop so I had to greedily gulp down the messy goo in the Department carpark before clocking in. And I managed to spill some on myself as a bonus.

It was an inglorious start to a rubbish day.

Wah! The scissors is coming!

2009-06-29T21:06:00.004+01:00

Tremble with fear!

The report of the Special Group on Public Service Numbers and Expenditure Programmes (or Bord Snip Nua) is to be presented to our interestingly-coiffed Minister for Finance tomorrow.

Expect lightning bolts to come out of the Department of Finance striking random public servants and erasing them from the payroll. Expect poison in the water coolers. Expect much noise from the CPSU. Expect the cheerful face of Turlough O'Sullivan of IBEC grinning as he rubs his hands with glee as yet another axe is taken to public-sector pay. Expect confirmation of the hideous rumours circulating on the news. Possibly two thousand less Gardai on the streets? Never mind, we'll send Turlough et al. into Limerick and watch gurriers and gang members flee as they suck the life out of them, too. Muahhahhahaa. Problem solved.

As far as I know, the report won't be released into the public domain. I'm wondering if any recommendations will be made on TD pay, expenses and numbers. Or will the Brians do some convenient "snipping" of their own, to limit the damage?

Biffo: OK Lenno, let's go over this report.
Lenno: Oops! Butterfingers! Gosh this scissors is sharp.
Biffo: Try not to get blood on it, will you. We don't want the civil service to get suspicious.
Lenno: Sorry, Boss. Anyway, that bit about reducing TD and Ministers' pay by 50% is gone.
Biffo: Good work, Brian. Give yourself a pay rise.

Oh to be a fly on the wall.

The Whine, the Bitch and the Wierdrobe

2009-06-23T22:51:00.006+01:00

I have run out of cynical things to say about the current glorious weather, and have decided that I must enjoy it from now on... while it lasts -D'oh! There I go again!

The temperatures in Ballyfuck/ Department mean it is no longer possible for me to wear my shirty-type blouses at work / driving to work without melting. And nobody wants to step in a puddle that was once an EO.

So I've had to rummage around in the back of the wardrobe for more suitable stuff.

The criteria are:
1. That it must fit. Given that I've not worn some of these things since we last had sun in 2006, the chances are slim (ha!) to none.
2. It must not be stained. Curry / beer stains undermine my authority as a supervisor and just show me off to be the beer swigging, vindaloo munching person that I really am.
3. It must not reveal my cleavage in any way (i.e. no "pulling" tops. Even though they are perfect in terms of aeration, I still don't want the leery guy from the neighbouring section trying to get a look at my bra while I'm at the printer).
4. It must not be part of my typical weekend going-down-the-pub-for-pints wear: i.e. Father Jack/ Che Guevara/Guinness/ Munster RFC/ GAA are out.

Anyway, I managed to find some stuff that met all these criteria. Yes, even the first one... I am actually more svelte than in 2006, apparently.

Gleefully pulling a respectable, fitted garment over my head this morning I took some time to assess the look in the mirror. My top, though it fitted me, looked far from flattering...

What the hell... WHY DO I LOOK LIKE I HAVE EXTRA NIPPLES? I look like a less well endowed cousin of the Triple Breasted Whore of Eroticon Six! (With apologies to Douglas Adams) Oh, wait, it's just the seam on my bra. Umm... that won't do. I don't want to draw Leery Guy's attention. Maybe if I get a top in a different fabric the seam won't show. Err... no, that won't work either. Maybe a different bra... (and so on. )

I finally leave the house satisfied that there are no lumps or bumps where they shouldn't be. Behind me I have left a trail of destruction. It looks like Bannockburn after the battle, except with clothes and differently seamed bras, not bodies and broken, bloody swords. To be tidied up when I get home. I'm late for work as it is.

I find my winter wardrobe far easier to cope with. You can hide everything under those layers.

By the way, this is the first time I've mentioned the word "Nipples" in a blog post. It's downhill from here, I'm afraid...

A Thought for a Sunny Day

2009-06-22T20:20:00.002+01:00

Yes, it's warm, and nice, but I could have irrigated the Sahara today with all the moisture dripping from my face.

***Shudder***

The Uncivil Unseen PMDS

2009-06-15T19:35:00.004+01:00

Ok, now that no-one's going to see my interim review reports this year, I might as well have some fun with them.

Edited highlights as follows:

The Unseen PMDS reports

CO No. 1

Manager’s Comment on Overall Performance

What can I say? Simply super. If there was such a thing as the Golden Clerical Officer Award, this person would win hands down. A shining example to all COs.