Call-Centres & Virgin Media Superhub Awfulness



It’s been another one of those weeks when talking to Asians has been both a necessity and an enormous annoyance. Don’t get me wrong, I am generally well-disposed towards Asians, indeed one of my very good friends is Pakistani, however putting them into a call centre when they speak little more than a smattering of English is not great. Top that off with the certainty that they will treat the customer (me) like an imbecile, despite being told repeatedly that I work in IT and I do actually know what the problem is, and it’s a recipe for me losing my rag entirely. It’s just as well that I suffer fools gladly.[1]


Anyway, the first exchange took place with BT. This is to be expected as the BT helpdesk staff are notoriously bad at their jobs, talk down to everybody, deny responsibility for absolutely everything and have to work with some of the worst systems of all time. My step-father, LJ, was having problems with his mail, namely floods of undeliverable responses to emails that he hadn’t sent flooding into his Outlook mailbox and then BT Yahoo blocked him from sending mail due to suspected abuse. Well, unless he’s become a secret purveyor of performance-enhancement drugs then it’s fair to say that he hadn’t sent them. Couple this with the fact that there was no sign of him having sent them in either his Outlook or webmail sent items folders and that both virus and malware scans turned up nothing and it’s odds-on that his email address has been spoofed. But no, the wonder-kid from BT blamed Outlook (or Outlook Express as he insisted on calling it,) then Norton (I asked him at this point whether he’d ever seen a computer before) and then the computer. Brilliant, you unbelievable fucktard, you get Bully’s star prize for wildly inaccurate guesses and all-round incompetence. Anyway, after much toing and froing (yes, Microsoft, that’s how one spells the phrase, shove your spell-checker up your collective arse) he conceded that maybe I was right and that there may be an issue with the BT Yahoo SMTP server. The good news was that their specialist in third party software may be able to help and the first part of the consultation would be free. Exactly what this third party software was supposed to be remains a mystery but, desperate to speak to pretty much anybody else but this fool, I gladly accepted. Imagine my glee when a very Geordie voice answered the call when it was transferred; I explained the problem to Paul in Longbenton who immediately agreed with me, organised the account being reset and had the whole lot working again within 10 hours. Not 10 working hours mind you, 10 real hours, and this after he warned me that it could take up to 48 hours. Very good, Paul, that’s what customer service is.


It’s also worth mentioning that it’s possible to temporarily relay outgoing mail via Google’s Gmail servers, provided that you have a Gmail or Googlemail account of course. This does have the drawback that any mail sent shows as coming from the account that you use, for example Dave St Hubbins [mailto: [email protected]] rather than the BT account that it’s really using, however the actual mailing address for replies etc. is correct and for testing purposes or as a workaround this is quite useful. I’ll post a separate entry on how to do this later on.


The second brush with the bearded ones came tonight when the wireless went off on my router. Fortunately I have a spare Virgin Media Superhub still in its box following their previous feeble attempt to correct a network issue with a new router so it seemed like a fairly simple task to get this working. I plugged it all in and dutifully rang the number on the box to have it activated, then got somewhat lost in the extensive maze of push-button options. Anyway, I somehow navigated my way to somebody who could almost hear me, probably understood a little of what I was saying and almost entirely failed to give comprehensible instructions. Eventually we reached the understanding that the first step was to completely undo the whole plugging-in process that the instructions said to do, so I did this. Some 15 minutes later we accomplished the unthinkable – broadband through the piece of cheap tat Netgear twattery. This, unfortunately, was just the beginning.


The Virgin Media Superhub is bloody awful. I mean truly dreadful, utter dross. The menus are designed for children, mostly made up of pretty pictures in 3 woeful menus, and the advanced menu is the exact opposite. It took me roughly an hour to connect my phone and PS3 to the wireless, only to find that the crappy thing doesn’t support DLNA for streaming content from my NAS boxes. The boxes themselves do show up, however any thoughts I may have of accessing the actual files are thwarted by 2104 errors and the internet is strewn with reports of this sort of issue. The answer, it seems, is to disable the wireless on the Superhub and use it in “modem mode,” namely as a modem with a second router handling the wireless and actual routing. Brilliant, a brand new piece of kit that doesn’t support one of the best features in home networking, Virgin Media have somehow managed to trump their own stupidity. Still when they eventually get around to trebling my broadband speed to 60Mb for free, something that they should have done 5 months ago but are now projecting doing between May and July, the Superhub’s set up and ready to receive this magic porn-fest. Tossers.[2]

[1] I don’t suffer fools, gladly or otherwise.

[2] That’s irony.



BODMAS – It’s Really Quite Simple.



Right, time for some very elementary mathematics from somebody who has not progressed much further than said standard.


Once again Facebook and Yahoo Answers are proving that the users of said platforms are largely retarded. Using the power of copy and paste, here is tonight’s so-called “tricky” question from Peter Griffin of Quahog, Rhode Island:


I Bet 95% will fail to answer this simple question !!

10 + 10 X 0 + 10 =

A = 10
B = 0
C = 200
D = 135
E = 20
F = 125

G = 30

What is the correct answer ? …



Now, aside from the fact that the person asking the question deems it necessary to capitalise “bet,” a common-or-garden vowel, and also seems to think that following a perfectly executed question mark with an erroneous ellipsis, this is really quite simple. Somehow, though, it is causing arguments on Facebook and wars between some small mathematics-based countries.


The answer, however simple it may be, is proving difficult to explain. Of course, if it was easy to explain then this question would not be presenting itself now, in the same way that nobody asks what the sum of 6 and 3 is. This proves that either the level of teaching is dreadful or that the students are stupid or don’t listen. Or all three.


Anyway, consider the acronym BODMAS. Or BIDMAS. Or BEDMAS. Or PEMDAS. They’re all the same thing but the words making them up differ. Whichever you use, they are the order in which operations are performed and the order is as follows:


Brackets (or parentheses)

Orders (such as 22, also referred to as exponents)






Therefore, in the sum above there are implied brackets around 10 x 0 as this operation must be performed first. Rewriting the sum (showing my working-out) should simplify things (although Facebook proves otherwise.


10 + 10 x 0 + 10 =


10 + (10 x 0) + 10 =


10 + 0 + 10 = 20


So, the answer is E. For some reason there seem to be issues with remembering to add the first 10. There’s no reason for this, other than stupidity of course, but there’s certainly a lot to be said for “showing your working-out” if you forget something as elementary as this. Anyway, if you don’t believe me then try the following:



  1. Google it. The top answer is a pretty picture, plus it’s right. Do not look at Yahoo Answers though, it’s where the people who don’t understand Wikipedia go to die.
  2. Put the equation into an Autosum formula in Excel. This too gives the correct answer, unsurprisingly.


Tomorrow we’ll be covering German sentence structure, in particular the “verb, comma, verb” and “time, manner, place” rules. Not really, I can’t be fucking arsed.







I’d tell you what a bunch of cunts my employers are, however even my far-reaching vocabulary does not contain the words to fully describe their utter cuntitude.




So long and thanks for all the fish.



There are days when I think that it’s all just a huge waste of my time. Sometimes, however, I have bad days when I question my time’s validity. I have, of late, been erring toward the latter.


Some weeks ago, I believe it may be nine or so, I asked for a meeting to discuss my career path with my current employers. Now, all of these weeks later, I have withdrawn my interest in this enquiry as I have not been furnished with any sort of response at all. Now, had this been a routine assessment of my progress after, for example, the initial twelve months of employment, I’d have little cause for complaint (although it would still be a less than stellar attempt from them at being organised.) This is not the case though. After 12½ years of working for them I had, for some unfathomable reason, expected to be treated with slightly less contempt than this.[1]


Fortunately, and I say this with some trepidation, all is not lost. My good friend and manager (of sorts), Keith, has gone out of his way to expand his role in the company to benefit me by assuming the position of public address system.[2] [3] So, without further ado, there is nothing more to say on the subject. Well, that’s his assessment of the current state of play anyway, mine involves going into the office to do my bits and bobs long after everybody else has left for the evening and taking this time in lieu either at the beginning or end of the normal working day. Anyway, all that Keith wants (other than another baby, she’s gone tomorrow) is for everyone to, and I quote, “Come in, get on with their work and have a laugh.” He has been left under no illusion that I will not be laughing until a) I have finished typing my letter of resignation or b) I need wellies to stop my feet from getting wet as I leave the building via the blood-soaked carpets littered with their still-warm carcasses. As I pointed out to him, I am not contractually obliged to “have a laugh” so he can get fucked (or hacked to death, his choice.)


All joking aside though,[4] and this is becoming something to rival Alan Partridge’s novel “I, Partridge: We Need To Talk About Alan” in terms of excessive use of the footnote function in Word,[5] it’s time for me to move to pastures new because, as Matt so eloquently put it, they can only take the piss out of me for so long. You see, I am on a level-pegging or better when it comes to wielding a screwdriver and fault-finding on the hardware side, but there are things that I can do on the software, networking and solutions that they can’t even spell. That said, their spelling is truly dreadful but this should not detract from my point. Add to this the fact that I can speak three languages, four if you count Geordie, I can memorise numbers, times, dates and sequences, I can exist on very little sleep, particularly in a job that doesn’t really necessitate me being awake, and I have recently given up smoking and therefore have a dreadfully short temper, and you have the ingredients for a truly awesome Bond baddie. Either that or I’m ready to reshoot Good Will Hunting as a fly-on-the-wall documentary, because we need more of that sort of televisual feast. We need more so-called “reality TV” too.


So what to do? Well, my head tells me to change industries and career paths (Ha!) entirely, whereas my heart tells me to rape them blind by taking as much business as possible elsewhere. Once again, an excellent Bond baddie. Many’s the hour I spend playing out various schemes in my head when I’m working on a machine, coming up with ways to hit them where they feel it the most, in their pockets. Unlike them I plan a longer game, with many blows raining down at once yet all with their own minor devastation. I think of their schemes that my 12½ years have made me privy to, the network access that my solutions role has necessitated, the sensitive information that I can copy unchecked and, suddenly, employing Paul Maddison seems like an even more foolish thing to do than everybody already knows it to be. You see, getting rid of that unadulterated fucktard[6] and paying me a proportion of his salary would have served two purposes: firstly, things wouldn’t be damaged / broken / smashed / fucked up as often as they are now and secondly I wouldn’t be looking to leave and fuck them up with considerable malice aforethought.


So, if you’re looking to employ a vindictive bastard who reacts with extreme prejudice to being treated with contempt by his employers, please do get in touch. I’m thinking Al-Qaeda, Spectre, the royal family…

[1] Silly fucking me.

[2] I recognise the irony of levelling this accusation in the public domain of this ‘ere blog type thing, but I don’t really give a rat’s ass, tiny or otherwise.

[3] “Public” is a tad unjustified, he just told Shaun. Who then told Steve. And Rob. And probably Sue too. The massive cunt.

[4] There is none, I’m not “having a laugh.”

[5] The format of which being less impressive once I’ve put it on here, I have to say.

[6] I do love the word “fucktard” so, it manages to convey my utter contempt for just about anything with so little effort.



2 Days Running, It’s Unheard Of.



What an infernal nuisance customers are. They ring with a problem, I haul my fat arse over there and tell them that they are doing it wrong, tell them how to do it right, then they ring again 10 minutes later to say that it isn’t working. Well no, it won’t, try doing what I told you to do 10 minutes ago. Bloody hell.


Another customer rings the office to say that they can print from Word and Adobe Reader and they can print a test page from the driver, however they can’t print jpegs. They are advised, for reasons best known only to the imbecile on our hinderdesk (like a helpdesk but fuck all help,) that they’d be better off ringing me directly but to leave it for an hour. I’m informed that they have called and give them a ring back, telling them that as they can print from other applications then it isn’t the printer, it’s something on their network or the application which they’re using. But what do I know, I haven’t looked at it and their IT Manager (in title, not by merit) says that it’s definitely the printer. Full of hell and unsure whether to punch or fuck said (female) customer, I haul my fat arse over there and, somewhat unsurprisingly, it’s a network issue.  Credit where credit’s due though, the IT Manager actually fixed it when she realised her own blunder, plus she has most excellent breasts. Breasts go a long way towards pacifying me when I’m in one of my huffs.


All that said, the good news is that I only have to put up with this for one more day before a much anticipated long weekend at Chateaux Goodey and a beer festival in Maldon. This should be fun. What will be almost as much fun will be my mock surprise tomorrow night when I inform the hinderdesk staff that I am not at work on Friday or Monday; I’m fairly sure that our rigorous system of information hoarding means that this will not have filtered through to them and it amuses me to drop the bombshell at the last possible moment. If I’m really lucky, and it’s by no means unheard of, then I won’t hear from them tomorrow afternoon and I simply won’t show up on Friday at all. Oh, how I’d love the “Hi, Chris, sorry to bother you, where are you?” conversation on Friday, but life’s just not as fair as that.


Finally, hello and thank you for taking the time to pass comment during your hectic working day, Mr Parker. I’m not sure that trying to hold me to ransom is truly British but, as there’s a 4 day break to look forward to, I’m feeling quite well disposed towards people in general at the moment. Please feel free to stop it whenever you’re ready though, that would be better again.


Right, bollocks to you all, I’m off to watch something on television and have a bite to eat.



So Very, Very Angry…



As my level of content with the world in general continues to fluctuate between “moderately dischuffed” and “seriously fucked off,” I’ve begun to compose what I believe the numpties across the pond refer to as a Shit List. On the other hand I, being of sound mind and less than morbidly obese body, just about in the case of the latter, am going to refer to this as my Collection of Uniformally Nasty Things. This is essentially therapy for me, therefore any off-topic ramblings are mine and you’ll just have to put up with it. This may take the form of a series, depending on how irate I become.


1. Coldplay.

Really, I’ll have to come back to this later, it’s a big one.


2. Work.

It has become evident that my manager suffered extensive internal damage to his prefrontal cortex some months prior to Christmas, resulting in him having no idea what the hell he is doing, where he is, what time it is or how to use a telephone. On top of that, he also forgot entirely what his function within the company is and that he has several members of staff in his department who have not suffered a similar trauma and, because they are in possession of all/most of their faculties, WE KNOW THAT YOU KEEP DISAPPEARING AND THAT YOU ARE DOING FUCK ALL.

Sorry about the shouting, this train has gone from Intensely Annoying to Laughably Obvious, stopping at Fucking Outrageous, Desperately Inconvenient and Holy Fuck, How Long’s He Going To Get Away With This?

Full marks for lack of effort and sheer testicular fortitude though, I for one am not confident enough to flaunt the system so blatantly and make such an utter arse of myself in the eyes my own staff; in some perverse way I suppose that you should be nominated for the Brass Neck 2012 Award. Geoff, Paul, Paul, Nathan, Phillip and I will be voting for you. Twice, because you’re worth it. I even deleted the fucker from Facebook, another show of insubordination (there have been numerous others of a more obvious, up close and personal nature) which has passed without mention in a Debbie-shaped swirl of cuntitude. That’s his lady-friend, by the way, the new object of his affectation, sorry affection, to whom he must portray himself as the big boss, the head honcho, the top dog, the big cheese, the skipper, the commandant, the top banana, and so on and so forth.

Over the course of his 3 day break last week, we managed to get the shit storm of his creating under control. Less than 1 full working day (that’s roughly 3 hours for Keith) later and it’s all gone to hell in a handcart again. Seriously, wow, that’s how to fuck the fuck out of it spectacularly, dickhead.

Having left the office at 9:10 this morning to visit one of our larger customers, whose offices are a mere 10 minutes away, to fit some parts, he had still not arrived at 9:40 when they called to report a second fault. Then, at 10:40, he called to say that he had forgotten all of the parts which he had gone to fit, thus writing off the first 2½ hours of the day as a non-event.


Well, that’s points 1 and 2 covered, for now at least. There may be additions to the second due to the incompetence being a daily occurrence, plus I’ll have to set aside a fortnight’s leave to bang on and on about Coldplay’s utter shiteness.


So, in the words of Vincent Vega, to be continued…


I will leave you with this brand of utter stupidity from an Audi driver, the now infamously viral Sarah Duncan of the previously little-known Sarah Duncan Knitwear. This woman proves that not only is she arrogant, legally dim-witted and utterly vile, she is also the proud own of one weapons-grade cunt of a husband.



The people of Bath are just too lucky for words.

It Worked, Now You’ve Broken It



Facebook, the perfect place to go to become confused, disorientated and to miss important information. Why do these people find it necessary to piss about with something which works perfectly well or has an easy-to-use drop-down menu?


I’m talking about the news feed, if that wasn’t already obvious. One can study the news feed in minute detail yet, upon looking at a friend’s profile, there are things there which have not appeared in the feed. Then one looks at the feed using an app for iPhone or Blackberry and the content has changed once again. Even combining the content of both the PC and the phone does not result in getting all of the information. It’s baffling.


Apparently some boffin at Facebook felt that an algorithm could better determine what I want to see than I can. I have had my viewing content censored by a formula. Unfortunately the formula doesn’t work, however being Facebook this isn’t relevant and we will both put up and shut up. My iPod uses an algorithm to determine the “shuffle tracks” order, even that isn’t truly random, but at least it does work which must be a first for anything free from Apple.


Then, for reasons best known only to some thick-lensed glasses geek at Facebook, they’ve added this ridiculous sidebar feed thingy with the chat window underneath. The latter worked fine the way it was so why not keep users on their toes by shuffling things around the screen ad nauseam? And what is that stupid feed on the right anyway? What does it do? Why, for tonight at least, do the main feed, the side feed, the pop-up window, the notifications globe whatsit and my phone bear no resemblance to each other in terms of time? I get a comment notification as a pop-up, a minute or so later it hits my phone, 7 minutes later it appears in the side bar and a minute after that the globe glows red…ridiculous! If I had more than one comment then I wouldn’t know whether I was coming or going, what I’d read and what I hadn’t.


Having scoured the internet for literally minutes, I can report that there are no settings which can be changed by us normal people which would allow Facebook to function fully. They don’t even give the option of installing an update which can then be reverted to a previous version when it’s wanky (I give you Adobe reader X – 9.4 as an example of this,) thereby telling me what I want to read despite my protestations. Next they’ll be doing the equivalent of burning a huge pile of books and telling us that the content is “un-Facebook” and that we should invade neighbouring countries. Or something.



Did I mention…



That I have to sit through a health and safety update meeting next week? Honestly, some cunt in a 2-for-£100 suit telling me how to climb ladders safely? Really? Have you lead a climb up an exposed arete? Can you set up a belay? Can you put one foot in front of the other without falling over? No, can you bollocks, get fucked. If there’s any sign of the bugger repeating his instructions of how to adjust the seat in my car, he’ll be getting a mouthful of abuse then too, the sanctimonious wanker. Well, by the end of it I’ll have sky-high blood pressure and be a couple of hours closer to the grave, how’s that for health and safety? Have you thought about doing something a bit more useful? Picking the sleep from your eyes with hedge-cutters maybe? Or taking a crash course in not being one of those people who read a leaflet and became the sodding expert? If there isn’t a leaflet for the last one, I’ll design one for you with the sole purpose of you leaving me the fuck alone.


What a dick.



Full Of Festive Cheer



What a day! Here, using bullet points and other equally dull things and beginning at the point when the shit hit the proverbial fan, is how today went.


  • 11.21 – call helpdesk to inform them that I am nose-deep in a lake of shit and they will have to reallocate my work to the other engineers.
  • 11.22 – call line manager to appraise of the situation. He’ll ring me back.
  • 11.30 – get call back from line manager and discuss the fault.
  • 12.19 – place initial call with Ricoh for assistance, explaining the nature of the fault in nauseating detail. This is passed to Level 2 Support as a tricky one.
  • 13.27 – call helpdesk to update.
  • 13.58 – get call back from Ricoh and explain the nature of fault in nauseating detail for a second time. I am advised to ring back when the machine’s working. If it were working, why would I ring back? Fucking retard.
  • 14.41 – get another call back from Ricoh advising that “it’s probably a sensor” or something equally useless. Ignore this as bollocks as all sensors have been checked already.
  • 14.51 – line manager calls to check on progress and is informed that I am “doing very badly.” I am cheerily advised to carry on.
  • 15.33 – call helpdesk to update.
  • 16.33 – line manager calls to check on progress, by which time reinforcements have arrived in the form of Big Geoff. I am told to carry on.
  • 16.56 – call Ricoh back and inform them that the fault is now on both machines having swapped parts between them. They advise that a faulty motor has probably blown a board and both machines will need these parts.
  • 17.25 – call line manager. No reply.
  • 17.26 – receive call back from line manager and inform him of our findings and Ricoh’s advice. We have arguments concerning various topics, including why I had been there all day, why we had blown up 2 photocopiers, why he hadn’t shown his face earlier in the day, why he hadn’t mentioned bailing out sooner and so forth. Give it up as a waste of time.
  • 17.40 – forget to turn off the A19 at Killingworth and get butt-fucked by the traffic jam for Moor Farm roundabout.
  • 17.55 – go to McDonalds for coffee and the Co-Op for cigarettes. Contemplate dowsing myself in (company expensed) petrol and setting myself alight whilst leaving a note saying simply, “Dear twunt, get fucked.”


So, another fucked up day in the glamorous world of photocopiers. What pisses me off more than anything else is the veiled insinuation that I have done something wrong or, and I suppose this is moderately better and slightly more accurate too, I haven’t done something which would have been right. Although I say it myself, I am exceptionally good at my job. Ok, my customer service skills could maybe do with a little honing and I do get exasperated by the helpdesk staff, not to mention my boss, but there are things which I can do which nobody else in the company can and this seems to pass everybody by as a given.


Which reminds me, I haven’t had an email which I requested to be sent to remind me to do something which nobody else can do, without which I’d most likely forget due to the shit tip of a day I’ve had. What’s worse, it’s something which I should have been asked for prior to today but wasn’t, necessitating a further visit to a customer’s site, and now they STILL haven’t asked me. Hang on, I’ll just send a scathing email to my boss…


Right, I almost feel better now that I’ve got that off my chest, this is so cathartic. Not as satisfying as running amok with an HK MP5K through the corridors of our building, but somewhere legally close.


Speaking of my customer service skills, or a lack of, I pissed Tanya off last night on Facebook to such an extent that she stopped speaking to me. Being the grown-up chap that I am, I publicly apologised and when this got no reaction I asked whether I was forgiven. When she failed to answer that I really manned-up – I deleted the entire post and unfriended her sorry ass. She’ll be sorry next time she calls me out to her office, I’m going to pull her hair and call her stinky-pants. It’s a shame though, I like Tanya, I’d quite like to do bad things to her.


Well, I’m off to catch up on House and a bit of old South Park. I might have a poo too.



Fucking Cock-Smoking Twatbag


Right, having got the niceties out of the way with my “Thank you for dropping by” speech, it’s time to call somebody a cunt. Phillip’s got a pass today, he’s on holiday, but that’s proven to be irrelevant as it’s somebody else who has got my goat, so to speak. Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, children of all ages, I give you….drum roll….my “boss,” Keith.


Yes, the fucker has gone and upset the fuck out of me today on more than one occasion, so it’s probably best to go chronological on his ass.


Firstly, I ask for Friday off, out of the week which I still have to take this month, in order to visit that lovely chappy Matt and his good “lady” Lou. Well, what a palava that caused. Both Maddison and Justin Bieber are on holiday then, apparently, and this has a bearing on me how exactly? One new boy and one part-time monkey? It’s also worth pointing out that Maddison used to attend college on Thursdays, doing some sort of half-arsed engineering course or other, and when this finished he went to Keith and asked to change his day off to a Friday. No, he doesn’t want to work 5 days per week as this would harm his family tax credits or something equally scroungy and that wouldn’t be worth his while. I’d have shown the fucker the door if he’d come to me with that bollocks, however our illustrious leader saw things differently and, despite warnings from both myself and Geoff regarding people wanting to tag an extra day onto a weekend, he agreed to this lunacy. So, today was the first day that this was put to the test and, predictably, I played my “Well I fucking told you so” card at my earliest convenience and with devastating effect. Dummies flew, toys were out of the pram, a telephone slanging match ensued. He then called back and told me that he’d got the whole thing around his neck and yes, Friday would be fine.


Secondly, a rumour passed my way that the lazy tosser was at home with his feet up by 2:30 on Friday. Sorry, he was too busy to come and bail me out of the shitstorm which I was in, but not so busy that he had to do any actual fucking work. What a twat.


Thirdly, after phoning him repeatedly regarding a problem with a customer (this is why he gets paid the big bucks) and getting no answer, he called me back. Apparently he was in Seaburn outside a customer’s offices. This, however, is a very busy road and there was absolutely no noise whatsoever. “Bollocks,” I thought, “you’re at home again.” I then had to call him again regarding a meeting tomorrow which I was finding increasingly difficult to justify attending. No answer again. He eventually called back again though, still with no background noise from the car which he had to have been driving then. Not only that, the fucker spent the entire conversation eating down the phone at me. And, to top it all, I know that his crazy ex-wife was demanding that he look after his children today and he’d refused due to work commitments, then he pulls that stunt.


So, my question is this; how does one approach ones boss and accuse him of lying, swinging the lead, taking the piss out of his staff and taking the piss out of the company? I thought that a direct approach might be good, something like “Keith, seriously, are you taking the piss? Do you think that we’re all stupid? Do some work, nobhead.”


Answers on a postcard.



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