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 Now, all of these weeks later, I have withdrawn my interest in this enquiry as I have not been furnished with any sort of response at all.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.



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.

The Mighty(ish) Arsenal

Well I never, 3 points at Stamford Bridge against the PRF in crisis. It’s all going pretty well at the moment for us Gooners, particularly considering the shaky, putting it mildly, start to the season.


Last night’s beers went quite well, at least the part in Trillians did, however then Darren became obsessed by his telephone and Facebook and I got royally annoyed by this. Big John and Dave Silburn turned up too, monged beyond belief, but they quietly dispersed before any lasting damage could be done. I got a taxi home and ill-advisedly looked at Facebook – this is when the trouble started. What had annoyed me earlier regarding the lack of communication from Darren descended into an outright rage at what I took to be a complete reversal of his assurances regarding his intentions with our friend Tan Don. Subsequent phone calls and texts have proved that I was incorrect in my interpretation of what he said, however I’d vented my fury on him via Facebook comments bythe time that I got the full story and thus outed him as a “self-serving cocksucker,” a “fucking nob,” a cunt and an “unbelievably desperate bell end.” So, whoops and whatnot.


Anyway, that’s all water under the proverbial bridge now, we’ve kissed and made up (metaphorically speaking) and it’s business as usual. I did get a rather amusing phone call from Matty today, informing me that Lou had locked the car key in the boot and that Mother has the spare. I almost offered to drive down to Kent with it, however common sense prevailed at the last minute and I binned that silly notion. So, twat of the day award goes to Lou, you’d never catch me doing anything exactly the same as that in Leatherhead and then having to punch my window out or anything. Oh no, that would never happen.


Well, I’m off for a Tim Rothathon – Reservoir Dogs, Pulp Fiction and Made in Britain. I’ll be pausing it, wherever I’m up to, so that I can watch Match of the Day and gloat at Chelski’s inability to defend or, in the case of John Terry, stay on his feet. He probably got distracted by a black man and stopped to hurl abuse at him, the big twat.



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