Yay it's 2010...well, half way through it. I was going to write stuff on here sooner but I was busy doing something else of equal or lesser consequence. But now that's done, I'm back now so shut up and read on.
OK, let's get all the stuff that's happened out of the way (this is for those of you who can't just experience life but instead need to look back on it retrospectively on Top Ten Things lists or take pictures at a live show / gig rather than just watch the fucking thing. You don't need to prove you were there because you WERE there, photographic evidence is not needed. Oh it's for your Facebook page? Fucking hell!)
Anyway, there was an election in which we bucked the normal trend of jumping from one main party to the other one by ousting Labour and allowing a coalition government to form for the firt time in ages...made up mostly of Tories. There were also some celebrity deaths that were mulled over tastelessly, a footballer shagged someone and I wiped my arse about 500 times give or take.
And so 2010 continues, with some specualting it may not be over until after Christmas.
Anyway, I made an interesting discovery today when I went to type in 'average word count of novels' in Google. This was due to my girlfriend fretting over how long the book she is working on should be. I said to just write it and not worry about pages or word count until you've actually finished. It'd be like starting a war with a death quota in mind instead of an objective of actual victory. "Sir, the enemy have surrendered" "Bollocks, we've still got 10,000 kills to rack up" "Nevermind sir, maybe there'll be a bloody insurgency that'll keep us here for years after the war's meant to have ended" (mmm biting satire)
But she tends to worry about things despite my assurances so I thought I'd look it up. As I typed it in Google did it's helpful / irritating predict-a-search thing which I believe is modelled on the most popular searches. Here was what came up as I typed the word 'average':
average penile size
average uk salary
average salary uk
average iq
Hmmmm. We can postulate from these results that, on average, our chief concerns are earnings and penis size with intelligence being less of a priority. Make of it what you will but there's definately a Guardian article in there somewhere. So, a new Google game for ya; type in a word like Top, Best or Favourite and see what comes up. This game is best for those whose workplace restricts the sites you can look at to a few search engines and the BBC News site (with video and audio disabled).
I don't care what those bollocks 'Bing' adverts say, Google still rocks by search engine socks off, rocks off get your rocks off honey, honey monster, monsterous sex offender, EasterEnders, dum dum dum da da dadada.
Tuesday, 1 June 2010
Wednesday, 11 November 2009
umm...
I have literally nothing to say.
But as is the tradition of the world wide web, I'm saying nothing openly on a web site for anyone to see. Not as cuntish as Twitter, but much the same principle.
'Anything to add Nick?'...Nope.
But as is the tradition of the world wide web, I'm saying nothing openly on a web site for anyone to see. Not as cuntish as Twitter, but much the same principle.
'Anything to add Nick?'...Nope.
Tuesday, 3 November 2009
iMoan, Mismanagement and other random observations while at work (2)
Seriously? £25 for some spangly jacket doing an impression of crumpled tin foil? Has Cheryl Cole worn it recently, is that why you bought it? It was on sale? Well, hoo fucking ray, you bagged a bargain. You’ve won! You haven’t been duped by celebrity lifestyle obsession magazines and cynical sales tactics one bit. No, YOU conned THE M! You were able to buy that jacket for LESS than it was worth last week. Woop! It’s not like it was already worth a lot less than the ‘sale’ price when they brought it in from the sweatshop, it’s not like they put the price up stupidly high to get your salivating and then knocked it down to get you to open your purse. It’s not like they gouge a profit out of you while the people that make the stuff live in actual faeces. No, you have had a resounding victory in the name of fashion and bargain-hunters everywhere! Halle-fucking-julah, god bless Kate Moss!
Got about 4 hours sleep last night so mainlining caffeine this morning (is there a connection? I don’t know; I’m not Sherlock Holmes or Rosemary and Thyme for fuck’s sake!). Just getting a slight tremor with jitteriness so will have to lay off the café for a bit. Gonna start looking like Gollum on a space hopper.
Plus it makes me even more irritable, especially with the kind of arrogant fucknuts I have to talk to here. Last call was from a guy who thought just giving his address was enough to ID him and satisfy data protection law as well as our own security needs. He was an ‘ex solicitor’ (yes, he did say that) so he had a very dismissive and arrogant air about him, basically threatening to do ‘nothing at all’ to help speed up the claim and letting it get to the stage where one of the other policy holders was bound to complain. Rather than say, OBTAIN SOME INFORMATION ABOUT THE POLICY YOU FUCKING OWN SO WE CAN PASS DPA QUESTIONS AND HELP YOU, you’d rather just be a twat and act like we’re being unreasonable for following sensible practices and adhering to data protection law. He may be right of course, because he shouldn’t have to actually KNOW anything about this policy that has his name on it, nor should he have to ‘spend time and money’ on a stamp AND an envelope to write to us for an answer to his queries if he can’t be ID’d on the phone. I bet he walks into banks without a card or paying-in book and just says ‘Look, you know who I am, I come in all the time, just give me my money ok?’ If not, then why does he feel he can be such a complete arse with me when the rules regarding data protection and paying the parties entitled to any funds ARE THE SAME ACROSS THE WHOLE OF THE FINANCE INDUSTRY!!! Heard of the FSA? Wanker!!!
Seriously, Mr ‘Ex Solicitor’, I hope you get hit by a bus or pecked to death by mutant pigeons very soon. One less utter cunt in the world and the remaining policyholders might just be able to claim their money without you holding things up.
Fuck, I need some coffee.
Got about 4 hours sleep last night so mainlining caffeine this morning (is there a connection? I don’t know; I’m not Sherlock Holmes or Rosemary and Thyme for fuck’s sake!). Just getting a slight tremor with jitteriness so will have to lay off the café for a bit. Gonna start looking like Gollum on a space hopper.
Plus it makes me even more irritable, especially with the kind of arrogant fucknuts I have to talk to here. Last call was from a guy who thought just giving his address was enough to ID him and satisfy data protection law as well as our own security needs. He was an ‘ex solicitor’ (yes, he did say that) so he had a very dismissive and arrogant air about him, basically threatening to do ‘nothing at all’ to help speed up the claim and letting it get to the stage where one of the other policy holders was bound to complain. Rather than say, OBTAIN SOME INFORMATION ABOUT THE POLICY YOU FUCKING OWN SO WE CAN PASS DPA QUESTIONS AND HELP YOU, you’d rather just be a twat and act like we’re being unreasonable for following sensible practices and adhering to data protection law. He may be right of course, because he shouldn’t have to actually KNOW anything about this policy that has his name on it, nor should he have to ‘spend time and money’ on a stamp AND an envelope to write to us for an answer to his queries if he can’t be ID’d on the phone. I bet he walks into banks without a card or paying-in book and just says ‘Look, you know who I am, I come in all the time, just give me my money ok?’ If not, then why does he feel he can be such a complete arse with me when the rules regarding data protection and paying the parties entitled to any funds ARE THE SAME ACROSS THE WHOLE OF THE FINANCE INDUSTRY!!! Heard of the FSA? Wanker!!!
Seriously, Mr ‘Ex Solicitor’, I hope you get hit by a bus or pecked to death by mutant pigeons very soon. One less utter cunt in the world and the remaining policyholders might just be able to claim their money without you holding things up.
Fuck, I need some coffee.
iMoan, Mismanagement and other random observations while at work (1)
You now who I hate? Well, I hate most people but I’ve got a particular group in mind. A bit unfair asking you to think of one group really, doesn’t narrow it down enough. OK, forget it, I’ll tell you. Smarmy cunts with an iPhone, iMac and anything else pre-fixed ‘i’. It used to be that young men, when they felt bored or stressed, would abuse themselves as nature intended; healthy, natural and won’t cause offence so long as it’s done in private. Now they just whip out their hand-held 3G-enabled touch sensitive cock replacements and have a good fiddle with some ‘apps’.
FUCK FUCK FUUUUUUUCK! 8 lazy tossers get a half day when they ask for one and the rest of us suffer a hammering and our service level hits a record low…and as a result I don’t get to duck out half an hour early so I can pay money into the bank before it shuts!! FUCK!! Hate this place; it is managed by morons, actual morons. They do the shift rotas by covering their eyes and typing randomly into a spreadsheet, they send people home when we’re ridiculously busy and they spend far too much money on ‘service level’ parties that seem to just be an excuse to see your boss in squeeze into to a hideous spangly dress and get pissed with you like you’re all mates (OMG LOLZ, Facebook pics galore!).
This is has been a busy and loooong day, so long I felt the need to add a lot of extra o’s to the word long, that’s how long it’s been. If that elongated ‘long’ were spoken, it would sound like a moose dying from a shotgun blast to the abdomen being recorded, then played back at half speed. Not that I’ve ever shot a moose, or that a moose (plural meese or mooses?) can speak one English word, even if it’s their last. I know this is bollocks, but as per my previous typed-utterance; it’s been a fucking looooOOoooooOoooooong day!!! Mooooooooose!
FUCK FUCK FUUUUUUUCK! 8 lazy tossers get a half day when they ask for one and the rest of us suffer a hammering and our service level hits a record low…and as a result I don’t get to duck out half an hour early so I can pay money into the bank before it shuts!! FUCK!! Hate this place; it is managed by morons, actual morons. They do the shift rotas by covering their eyes and typing randomly into a spreadsheet, they send people home when we’re ridiculously busy and they spend far too much money on ‘service level’ parties that seem to just be an excuse to see your boss in squeeze into to a hideous spangly dress and get pissed with you like you’re all mates (OMG LOLZ, Facebook pics galore!).
This is has been a busy and loooong day, so long I felt the need to add a lot of extra o’s to the word long, that’s how long it’s been. If that elongated ‘long’ were spoken, it would sound like a moose dying from a shotgun blast to the abdomen being recorded, then played back at half speed. Not that I’ve ever shot a moose, or that a moose (plural meese or mooses?) can speak one English word, even if it’s their last. I know this is bollocks, but as per my previous typed-utterance; it’s been a fucking looooOOoooooOoooooong day!!! Mooooooooose!
Monday, 26 October 2009
'Wishing I Was in the Thick of It'
I’ve recently re-discovered The Thick of It, BBC 4’s brilliant comedy set in a fictitious government department. I caught a couple of episodes about two years ago, but lost track of it until the new series emerged last week. It is painfully funny, superbly executed and takes the most revealing and disturbing look at civil servants and politicians since Yes, Minister. The back-stabbing, the spin, the arse-licking and the cover-ups help worsen an already poor opinion of all who weald power or are trying to gain power in Westminster. So, it’s satire with a painfully real insight that helps us hate and scrutinize some of the bastards in Whitehall a little bit more; which is a good thing, I think.
But watching it did make me sad. Well, not sad really, just envious.
The main protagonist, Malcolm Tucker, Director of Communications at Number 10, uses some of the most amazing put-downs and swear-riddled ‘verbal colonics’ I’ve ever witnessed. He specialises in spin and battering any minister or civil servant that aggravates him or doesn’t tow the party line. He tears people to shreds, whether they really ‘deserve’ it or not, and it’s a joy to watch. But I imagine it’s more fun to actually do it.
In my role in a call centre, I have to face a great deal of abuse, stupidity and utter tedium thanks to the callers and the procedures my company has to follow (to do with insurance claims, bonds, pensions etc). In the environment of customer service, you cannot, under any circumstances, point out just how wrong the customer is. It doesn’t matter if they talk like a lobotomized dog with a speech impediment and have all the common sense of a hedgehog crossing the M40; they are ‘always right’ and we have to treat them with respect.
I’d like just one day of amnesty where I can let my natural misanthropy flow and really put some of the utter cretins that call me in their place. Whether it’s the snooty Daily Mail reader who can’t seem to read or accept the small print (the ones that cry ‘Watchdog!’ the second something doesn’t go their way), or the financial advisor that talks like they know more about your own product than you do (a lot of IFAs are often work-shy, glorified car salesmen who are terrified of their clients). I just want one chance to really tear them a new one and make them understand just how stupid some of their questions are.
E.g. ‘If you don’t listen to what I’m saying and follow our reasonable instructions for making this claim, I will be forced to roll up your policy terms and conditions into a tight baton, then force it so far up your arse that you’ll be spitting paperclips when you blow out the candles on your 70th.’
Or something like that, it’ll come to me when I’ve actually got the unsuspecting dolt on the phone. Now, to anyone who sees what I just wrote as a little harsh; spend just one Monday morning in this office and see just how quickly your contempt for mankind will rise. You’ll be cursing an IFA’s unborn children before your first break at 11. I suppose I’m in the wrong business really. I can do the job more than competently and professionally, I just hate it.
On second thought, it would be dangerous to give me that ‘free-reign’ to abuse and put down even if it’s just for a day. For one thing, we’d receive more complaints the following day than a Jane Moir article after Elton John’s funeral. Worse still, I’d probably become addicted to the thrill of just saying what I want. I’d get hooked on letting the angst I normally have to mask just take flight, like some venomous bird from Hades.
I’d become unemployable in any public-facing role and I’d wind up in an office worker’s rehab facility; slowly chewing my own tongue off and swearing at all the radiators. Worst case scenario is I get a job in the civil service instead. Might not need to sew my tongue back on either; I could lick MPs arses and lie to the press at the same time.
But watching it did make me sad. Well, not sad really, just envious.
The main protagonist, Malcolm Tucker, Director of Communications at Number 10, uses some of the most amazing put-downs and swear-riddled ‘verbal colonics’ I’ve ever witnessed. He specialises in spin and battering any minister or civil servant that aggravates him or doesn’t tow the party line. He tears people to shreds, whether they really ‘deserve’ it or not, and it’s a joy to watch. But I imagine it’s more fun to actually do it.
In my role in a call centre, I have to face a great deal of abuse, stupidity and utter tedium thanks to the callers and the procedures my company has to follow (to do with insurance claims, bonds, pensions etc). In the environment of customer service, you cannot, under any circumstances, point out just how wrong the customer is. It doesn’t matter if they talk like a lobotomized dog with a speech impediment and have all the common sense of a hedgehog crossing the M40; they are ‘always right’ and we have to treat them with respect.
I’d like just one day of amnesty where I can let my natural misanthropy flow and really put some of the utter cretins that call me in their place. Whether it’s the snooty Daily Mail reader who can’t seem to read or accept the small print (the ones that cry ‘Watchdog!’ the second something doesn’t go their way), or the financial advisor that talks like they know more about your own product than you do (a lot of IFAs are often work-shy, glorified car salesmen who are terrified of their clients). I just want one chance to really tear them a new one and make them understand just how stupid some of their questions are.
E.g. ‘If you don’t listen to what I’m saying and follow our reasonable instructions for making this claim, I will be forced to roll up your policy terms and conditions into a tight baton, then force it so far up your arse that you’ll be spitting paperclips when you blow out the candles on your 70th.’
Or something like that, it’ll come to me when I’ve actually got the unsuspecting dolt on the phone. Now, to anyone who sees what I just wrote as a little harsh; spend just one Monday morning in this office and see just how quickly your contempt for mankind will rise. You’ll be cursing an IFA’s unborn children before your first break at 11. I suppose I’m in the wrong business really. I can do the job more than competently and professionally, I just hate it.
On second thought, it would be dangerous to give me that ‘free-reign’ to abuse and put down even if it’s just for a day. For one thing, we’d receive more complaints the following day than a Jane Moir article after Elton John’s funeral. Worse still, I’d probably become addicted to the thrill of just saying what I want. I’d get hooked on letting the angst I normally have to mask just take flight, like some venomous bird from Hades.
I’d become unemployable in any public-facing role and I’d wind up in an office worker’s rehab facility; slowly chewing my own tongue off and swearing at all the radiators. Worst case scenario is I get a job in the civil service instead. Might not need to sew my tongue back on either; I could lick MPs arses and lie to the press at the same time.
An Ode to Nothing Much (a poem/song)
The average conversations or intimate relations,
Moves like an agony of wasps on a child’s bear foot,
Or they simply stay put,
The day to day person, or equivalent version,
Is as self-absorbed as a collapsed star most of the time,
Or just when killing mine,
The facts and statistics that are spewed by sophistics,
Tend to support whatever ‘values’ they’ve learnt recently,
Or read up on Wiki,
These bleak observations and hollow citations,
Go further to explaining myself than shedding much light.
On you or your life,
But so what? If you’ve got
Your own take, then fuck off and write.
Moves like an agony of wasps on a child’s bear foot,
Or they simply stay put,
The day to day person, or equivalent version,
Is as self-absorbed as a collapsed star most of the time,
Or just when killing mine,
The facts and statistics that are spewed by sophistics,
Tend to support whatever ‘values’ they’ve learnt recently,
Or read up on Wiki,
These bleak observations and hollow citations,
Go further to explaining myself than shedding much light.
On you or your life,
But so what? If you’ve got
Your own take, then fuck off and write.
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