Tuesday, 28 February 2012
I want to get rid of the new intern. Scrap that, I need to get rid of him! Tom has been with us for a few weeks and because he's familiar with the blog, it's been difficult blogging about what happens in the office in case he picks up on it. I'm obviously going to have to kill him. Or upset him so much that he leaves. I don't think that will be too difficult. On his first day I asked him what his hobbies were, he listed sports, politics and following Christ. That is a real conversation killer, I can tell you. Tell Tom you think Obama is going to win the US election and watch him go a funny shade of repressed purple. American Conservatives remain a complete mystery to me.
"I like your bowtie, Tom. Bowties are cool!"
"O...kay." Mental note to self, Tom doesn't get popular culture. "So plans for the weekend - you're a young man in the prime of his life, you must have a packed diary with beers, tits, sports and more beer. Right?"
Nothing but an uncomfortable silence and judgemental stare. It was just like my first attempt at drunken pole dancing all over again.
We're coming to that time again when everyone gets in as much spending and IPSA claims as possible before the end of the financial year. Last week I ordered 100 pink paper clips. I didn't need them, I already had a 500 in my desk drawer but they're not pink so morally I win.
On a completely different subject which my dear readers may or may have not been aware of - I am now writing a monthly column for Total Politics magazine. My most recent article can be found here and I do encourage you all to read and comment. Even if it's just abuse, feedback is good. Who knows how long they'll be willing to use ink on the garbled craziness I cobble together so get it while you can!
And before anyone goes looking at the register of interests, I am not getting paid for these articles so don't waste your time, darlings!
Thursday, 16 February 2012
|Why mummy, why?|
A few things caught my eye in the Evening Standard this week. The story about how children are being turned away from the Speaker's nursery made my blood boil. I've never seen more than four kids in there at a time and now I know why. It's not just a waste of taxpayers money, it's also a bloody waste of space. All those who remember Bellamy's Bar will have set a black dot next to The Speaker's name.
Dear readers will have known of my dislike of the PCH trees many months ago. As I said then: if you want to have your meeting or lunch under a tree, next to water – p*ss off to St James' park. In fact I know people who could have got those trees for free and would have only asked for a picnic on the roof as payment! £100,000 on oak panelling? You mean those god awful corridors where the doors look like the walls and a less that sober person can get so lost they tearfully call their friend up asking for them to come get them? Get your money back, I say.
I've only seen the boss once this week as it's recess. And true to form he wanted an off the estate lunch to be our catch up meeting. It ended up with the pair of us bitching and gossiping like a pair of middle aged women. I would never actually say this to him as he would take it as the greatest insult.
“Who the hell is this Sean Penn sh*t I've been reading about and why is he allowed to comment on foreign events but when I do it I'm 'making a diplomatic incident'?”
Tuesday, 7 February 2012
I haven't been the best person to work with for the last few days. There's nothing to be done about it and rather than moaning - the older, wiser males in my life have kept a fair distance. Those wet behind the ears have asked if I'm in some way angry with them or having a break down.
*tap, tap, tap*
“What is that noise?”
“My keyboard as I type.”
“WELL MAKE IT STOP!”
Cue fire, brimstone and male tears. I'm not proud to admit it but I kicked a water cooler today because it wouldn't fill my bottle up quick enough. This unfortunate state of insanity is the very reason why I never apply for work with female bosses. I don't care if they're Mother f*cking Teresa, there will always be times when they become dementor-like monsters; flying about the room, dropping the temperature and sucking souls out of poor sods too scared to run.
So I do apologise to all those who have crossed paths with a fire breathing dragon recently. Remember my darlings – it's not personal.