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.
Wednesday, 11 November 2009
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.
Saturday, 24 October 2009
'The Awww Bless Factor'
It doesn't matter that Tony Blair dragged us into an illegal and immoral war, or that he smarmed up to 'big business' and hung the rest of us out to dry via New Labour because he had a winning smile and did that sketch with Catherine Tate. Awww bless!
It's much the same story with weekly bile fest The X Factor. Every week the search for a talented singer / performer with that special 'x factor' is over-shadowed by the search for the contestant we like the most. Am I wrong in thinking this isn't what a talent contest should be about?
The contestant's family / back story are focussed on as much as their actual ability, which makes the actual performance seem pointless. Why else would those hideous twins still be there!? They're 'entertaining' like Timmy Mallet is entertaining; might make you chuckle, but mostly just creeps you out. Then tonight we had Stacey singing a flat version of a Disney song...for Big Band week...hmmm. But the crappy song choice aside, all the judges seemed to comment on was how 'nice' she is. Then the adorable simpleton voice kicks in and everyone coos like they're watching a dumb puppy walking into a patio door.
I guess this is what counts now; likable characters, regardless of actual talent. Paul McCartney is referred to as being a bit of a twat (a friend of mine, a scouser, says he looks 'shifty and doesn't have a nice face'). But...he gave us 'Yesterday' and 'Let It Be'. If he turned up on a contest like The X Factor the fact that he is a musical genius would pale compared to whether he was likable or not. Maybe if he put on a thicker scouse accent and talked about his working class background, he'd get to the quarter finals. "This song is called 'Hey Jude'...and it's dedicated to me Ma". Awwwwww bless!!
It's much the same story with weekly bile fest The X Factor. Every week the search for a talented singer / performer with that special 'x factor' is over-shadowed by the search for the contestant we like the most. Am I wrong in thinking this isn't what a talent contest should be about?
The contestant's family / back story are focussed on as much as their actual ability, which makes the actual performance seem pointless. Why else would those hideous twins still be there!? They're 'entertaining' like Timmy Mallet is entertaining; might make you chuckle, but mostly just creeps you out. Then tonight we had Stacey singing a flat version of a Disney song...for Big Band week...hmmm. But the crappy song choice aside, all the judges seemed to comment on was how 'nice' she is. Then the adorable simpleton voice kicks in and everyone coos like they're watching a dumb puppy walking into a patio door.
I guess this is what counts now; likable characters, regardless of actual talent. Paul McCartney is referred to as being a bit of a twat (a friend of mine, a scouser, says he looks 'shifty and doesn't have a nice face'). But...he gave us 'Yesterday' and 'Let It Be'. If he turned up on a contest like The X Factor the fact that he is a musical genius would pale compared to whether he was likable or not. Maybe if he put on a thicker scouse accent and talked about his working class background, he'd get to the quarter finals. "This song is called 'Hey Jude'...and it's dedicated to me Ma". Awwwwww bless!!
Thursday, 22 October 2009
'Don't Call it a "Comeback"'
Yeah, best not to refer to Robbie’s recent re-surfacing as a ‘comeback’; might make it sound like he’s got something new and exciting to offer. Never been a fan of his; there’s something about a prancing tit with mediocre vocals and average songs being pawed over by thick chav girls that just doesn’t quite do it for me, you know? The fact that Take That swooped back into chart success so easily, and with a few decent tunes, is testament to the fact that they have both talent and popularity. Robbie, on the other hand, has always seemed to thrive on the ‘popularity’ element, rather than being a consistently good artist.
In fact, he’s not an artist; he’s an ‘entertainer’. What does that mean exactly? Butlins Red Coats are entertainers, but I wouldn’t put them on a sold-out stadium tour. You can electrocute a small cat and it’ll bounce around in an entertaining way, but that doesn’t mean it should be encouraged. It seems the mantle of ‘entertainer’ has been applied by those who realise that he’s not that good vocally and his songs aren’t great, but he’s cocky and fun and oooh tickle his tummy he likes that! Who’s a good recovering depressed drug abuser? Who’s a good little pop star? You are! Yeeeees, you are!
His life / lifestyle will be commented on far more than his music, which might be sensible considering his music sucks the sweat off a dead gazelle’s bum. He’ll be photographed constantly and appear in Heat almost as often as Jordan or Cheryl Cole until he stops being weird or ‘on the edge’ and then they’ll dump him like a baby in a skip. The same tasteless, tacky chav girls will fawn over him they way they do over Peter Andre and he’ll have some success on the back of those fans who really think ‘Angels’ is a great and beautiful song. But within a few months, unless he gets a talent transplant ASAP, he’ll be back in the bargain bin of a late night garage before you can say ‘Rude Box’.
In fact, he’s not an artist; he’s an ‘entertainer’. What does that mean exactly? Butlins Red Coats are entertainers, but I wouldn’t put them on a sold-out stadium tour. You can electrocute a small cat and it’ll bounce around in an entertaining way, but that doesn’t mean it should be encouraged. It seems the mantle of ‘entertainer’ has been applied by those who realise that he’s not that good vocally and his songs aren’t great, but he’s cocky and fun and oooh tickle his tummy he likes that! Who’s a good recovering depressed drug abuser? Who’s a good little pop star? You are! Yeeeees, you are!
His life / lifestyle will be commented on far more than his music, which might be sensible considering his music sucks the sweat off a dead gazelle’s bum. He’ll be photographed constantly and appear in Heat almost as often as Jordan or Cheryl Cole until he stops being weird or ‘on the edge’ and then they’ll dump him like a baby in a skip. The same tasteless, tacky chav girls will fawn over him they way they do over Peter Andre and he’ll have some success on the back of those fans who really think ‘Angels’ is a great and beautiful song. But within a few months, unless he gets a talent transplant ASAP, he’ll be back in the bargain bin of a late night garage before you can say ‘Rude Box’.
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