This blog is now open.
It hasn't been updated in ages mainly because my life has been so disfunctional (I am not giving in to the tyranny of English spelling by writing Dysfunctional. If it's dismiss, disappoint it's fucking dis-fucking-function. OK? well fuck off then). A lot of this has to do with the insane workplace in which I work which has the design feature of being able to drive a person into madness. A lot of the credit for my not being incarcerated in the nearest home for the Criminally Insane has to do with my friends in the office... (so take a bow, please. You know who you are). On the other hand.. management makes Baltimore P.D. seem like the fluffiest, nicest most productive org in the universe.
But, well the times they are a changing. Prof Bateman departs at the end of next month. Patrick, as we know him, among other names some of them repeatable, some of them just willfully obscure, has had a distinguished tenure, characterised by a degree of narcissism that Narcissus himself would have blanched at. His ability to take credit for other people's work (in some cases work done 5 years before he arrived, trust me I know. I worked on the plans) is something of a legend as is the cult of Patrick self-embiggening, appointment of idiots and general ability to fuck anyone's shit up. At christmas, (and by the way, bear in mind that WE pay for our Christmas party. If you read shit in the Daily Mail about cosseted public services, let me tell you it ain't true. Our management pinches more pennies and demands more than you private sector knob-jockeys will ever know), we had a great e.g.
So, it being Chrimbo, we decided that meant organise drinks.
Front Desk duly tries to do so.
Bateman decides this is a great idea, and orders the bookage of a restaurant ( a not very good pseudo Italian chain one that costs way more than food of that quality has any right to be charged for), with the incentive that the first drink is on the department.
A flurry of communications happens.
It begins with "are there any bankruptcy inducing drinks on the menu?"
Then goes on to "Are you actually even bothering to go?"
Then "Is anyone?"
Then "One person. Shall we have a sweepstakes on who it is?" (turned out to be office creep Dilly, a man (?) with serious talents in the realm of obsequiousness).
To Bateman's fury the whole thing had to be cancelled. I wish I had been there to see that little "it's not fair!' look on his boat. Unfortunately, I was quite happily avoiding anything to do with the fucked up place, so I wasn't.
All of this is to set the scene. Bateman's departure email came a couple of weeks ago. It was fair to say that nothing so characterised his tenure as the leaving of it, with a self aggrandising list of other people's achievements dressed up as a fond goodbye.
And with that the fun begins. It is a truth universally acknowledged that when a potential stepping stone appears, the posse gets into the whole jockey for position thing, like riders in the peloton in the tour. I couldn't have fewer ambitions towards a position with such a low ratio of hassle to reward, so I'm going to be Alan Partridge and commentate here. so if I say something about them looking like cattle on bikes in some mad way, then you know why.
I kiss you all, and defenestrate your monkeys.