Venusian Motherfucking Aikido

I swear I have never seen anything so just awesome. I am gapmouthed in a way I haven't since the first time I heard Reign in Blood. 

One man did this. On his fucking tod. (Otaking, since you ask nicely)

Shit. If I live to a hundred I will never come near this level of awesome. (Not least since I'd try to repeat the trick with Blake's 7, which I don't think anyone in the world could turn into a good idea. Challenge, Fucker).

Bloody Fist.

PWN3D!

You really want to read the motherfucking comments. It makes it all make sense. Nasenbluten were of course responsible for Cunt Face, Cocksucker and Rotterdam takes it Up The Arse.

Spoors

Deer: Fewmet

Otter: Spraint

Joshua Tree National Park

And those rocks are literally at least several weeks old, and talk in their own language and some times in each others. The sky is enbluened with a gobbet of beetle wings, and there are no owl scats to distract you from the incessant hobbling of tiny gnats on their tiny zimmer frames.

Palm Springs

Evidently Chickentown

Oh and by the way

If none of the below, or for that matter the above, makes that much sense, it is because I am generally drunk when I post here. Thank you.

Myers, Briggs and Belbin can kiss my white arse.

They can do so because they are all wrong. There are actually ten types of people in the world, those who can understand Binary and those who can't.

Of those ten types of people, one type are oriented towards like doing shit cooperatively and the other are into like making people do shit to self embiggen.

The former type know to "discuss" with other people. The latter think that people need to be forced into doing shit by whatever underhanded means necessary. And so, they cultivate the habit for playing games.

The only exception is where people are too incompetent to work out what how to gain rapport with and deal with others.

In short, you level with and communicate as if levelling with another autonomous sentient being who has every right to be such or you're either incompetent or malicious. That's it. And don't give me a load of bullshit about that being black or whit thinking. It's not. It's simpler than that. Obviously the stuff of being Human clause gives you exemption from having to be perfect about stuff. But it's like the old saying. Once is an accident, twice a coincidence and thrice enemy action. So if the general course of action is not based on levelling (in the Virginia Satir type sense), then it is either persistent incompetence or malice.

End of.

So when I'm hearing about tasks that have been assigned to me in an attachment to an email sent by a third party (The long suffering Saint of the Second) , without prior discussion, without any indication that they had been so assigned, I'm suddenly in a quandary.

Twats or Pigfuckers? incompetents or wannabe Macchaiavels? Morons or morons? Crew of the Red Dwarf or Season One Cylons.

Emote the Verbalisation of your inner youness here.

OK So

cherubim...ergo sum made a perceptive comment about looking forward to the world of work.

Comrade cherubim...ergo sum, who quite forgetteth that cherubim is hebrew (like seraphim or chaverim) and ergo sum Latin, a mistake I woud not have permitted cherubim...ergo sum to make, upon pain of a Malcolm Tucker impersonation, can rest assured.

Although I am quite drunk, I would still point out that very few places in the private sector are as poorly managed. The first rule of Strategy being "Nobody likes having their arse kicked", the private sector by and large steers clear of the general Woo Woo that passes for management in the pubic sector. Nowhere you are likely to ever work will be as badly managed as a British Public Sector Institution.

Comrade Cherubim, if that is really Comrade Cherubim's real name, can take consolation in the inevitable progression of Orthodox Marxist Leninist Maoism and especially in the fact that only really stupid people like, I don't know, academics specialising in management practice or something equally useful, act to help the inevitable progression of marxist leninist maoism.

Really, nowhere you work will ever be as shit. Even if it's McDonalds.

Hypothetically

Sometimes, working out what the fuck is going on at work requires the mindset of a natural poh-lice. A McNulty or a Freamon, maybe. That may be difficult when what you actually want to do is be all like Omar Little on the place, which if we're talking about the shotguns is often and if we're talking about the gayitude is more like "what the fuck would you want to think about the Gayness of Omar for, dude", but I digress.

So anyway, I'm having a what the fuck let's get investigative shall we? Let's throw a hypothetical situation into the mix shall we? Let's say that a very small department has an IT guy. This department, which we'll call House Slytherin, has to do a few, very routine things . One of which is the notifying of the Central Elves of which software they wish to have licenced. This should be a short process of sending an email and finding out.

But now let's suppose that this isn't the case. Let's suppose that The Elves are building a new Central System system (out of their elvengold or something). The It guy doesn't know this. He also does not know that this means that he has until friday to bid for items, and that if there's no bid they will be gone. Nobody in Slytherin seems to be able to understand this point. So the message goes through at least two "managers". before landing with the least useful person, adminstratoid with little IT clue.

Hypothetically, you'd say that, hypothetically, at least one of the people in that chain is an idiot. You might also say that, hypothetically, that's a complicated management structure for a little teensy weensy department, and you might also be right, although, hypothetically, I couldn't possibly comment on that case.

But no-one could actually run anything like this, right?

Well, leaving aside the question of whether anything actually runs, which is, I should hasten to add, a question on which an open answer is advisable, the answer is yes. Your tax money supports the teaching of management by the world's worst managers.

Cool huh?

Sick Puppy Break

Get it before it's gone again. Bishops Lips, AKA Chris Morris' s cut up of the Archnigel of Cantebury's speech at the Diana Funeral.



And whilst I continue on mission of offending everybody, here's my favourite Blue Jam monlogue. Listen on headphones late at night, preferably after ingestion of strong antipsychotic medicines.

Thought for the day

The world doesn't need better "management". It needs better human beings.

Going in to work on Friday

Obviously that means....



Downset.
Anger. Hostility towards the Opposition.
Anger. Hostility towards the Opposition
Anger. Hostility towards the Opposition
Anger. Hostility towards the Opposition
Anger. Hostility towards the Opposition
Anger. Hostility towards the Opposition
Anger. Hostility towards the Opposition
Anger. Hostility towards the Opposition
Anger. Hostility towards the Opposition

Benchmarking

The teaching effort on the Good Ship Lollipop is to be redoubled. Analysis, and don't forget the first two syllables get the stress, conducted redoubtedly in fairness and integrity across the university's departments in all their diversity etc, has concluded that the optimal teaching load is to be benchmarked at a more efficient level. That is, near doubled.

That is the good news. By the way.

The oft quoted benchmark is a competitor in the far away lands of Hobbiton on the Shire. A 'university' that became one roughly a hundred years after our august institution, and still has another hundred years of catching up to do. (Proof available on request). Scoring lowest in the country for staff satisfaction, approx half Lollipop's marks on the Grauniad's and not even there on the research list. That's our relevant competitor how?

Changing the subject. I'm furious about Darren Bent. You see, some moron thought that he could make the jump from Charlton to Spurs for an exorbitant wad of wonga. Now no respect to Charlton Athletic who have given sterling entertainment to the cousin fuckers of South East London, but it's not exactly the kind of team or player that Spurs should be comparing themselves to. Or even to whom Spurs should be extending a hand of "this is your level". See it's not the comparison. Dreamers we may be, but us yids are dreamers with a purpose, and that purpose is at least fifth place right now. (and we might have done it this year if we hadn't had such a shambles). What I'm saying here is that we benchmark with the Manc, Bin Dippers, Chavski or The Child Rapists., not Charlton Athletic or Kidderminster Harriers or God help us all Rushden and Diamonds.

Stepford, however, is insistent that this comparison is valid. And she has a formula, and that determines the loading. This is quite incredible really as the department is small enough to ask people what they are doing, but for some really unknown and unfathomable reason, collection of quite inaccurate and loaded data (Hey kids, it's called garbage in garbage out for a reason you know?) takes precedent.

Of course, asking implies communication which implies a two way exchange of information, but that is of course, no way to treat people who do or teach management. So instead, we can safely just be told.

(Paraphrase of genuine communication: I hope you had a nice holiday. Here's another course for you to run. I'm fucking off on holiday, so talk to someone else.. )

The irony is that if you genuinely ask people, you usually get their goodwill (up until the point where you start taking the piss).

I come home to She Who Must Be Obeyed. I tell her the above. "What do you teach, again?" she says.

Oh fortune how you mock me.

Great moments in Gabber

I've got some long cathartic posts about the den of shitheads saved up and ready to roll off. But I'm now too angry to post.

To the Queen of Wands. I'm really sorry. We have such a shitty attitude to contract killings in our society. i can think of no better way to solve your Stepford problem.

Til then, this is the best I can do.

The Class System

In my workplace, the class system is alive and well. Thinking about the fourth/third/second floor split, made me think of this.

and 1) I'm on the third floor. a good few of the fourth floor wish they were too.
and 2) I think it's a fucking disgrace. (And I'm sure I'll have more to say on how much I love the workplace too).
and 3) These guys put it best.

Saturday is Tiswas day.

Matey's Orgone and Wrongspeed are at the Foundry. I have no idea what Orgone will be playing as he hasn't told me yet. I do have a clue that I will at some stage be most drunk. The marking season starts soon. I'm already having to deal with n hundred cherubim, and it's my fucking liver, not yours.

Here's your fucking flyer and stop bothering me.

Back

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.

Fish Pie.

One day, I thought to myself I'd really fancy some fish pie.

So I went to the stall in the market , and I went to the very nice lady behind the stall "Do you have any fish pie?" and the lady behind the stall said, in her rich basso profundo, "no, we haven't got any fish pie".

"Are you sure you don't have any fish pie?"

"No, I'm sorry we don't have any fish pie"

"Oh, because I really like a nice fish pie."

"Oh, me too. i love a nice piece of fish pie"

"But you haven't got any fish pie?"

"This stall sells clothes"

Oh, I said, and sadly turned and went off to find the greengrocers where I could buy a bottle of thunderbird and 40 B&H for my baby niece.

What I thought I'd do was I'd pretend I was one of those deaf-mutes

The Laughing Man, Ghost in the Shell: Stand Alone Complex 1st Gig. Referencing J.D. Salinger, The Laughing Man. The quote, of course, from Catcher in the Rye,

Please Kill Mr Kinski.

Everyone has their limits!

The Half Squirrels

These days, they follow me everywhere.

"The half squirrels", I said. "They follow me everywhere. Everywhere I go so do they"

For a brief moment, you seemed interested in what I had to say. I seized my chance.

"Half squirrels. I see them everywhere.".

You looked puzzled. So I said it again.

" Left half squirrels, Right half squirrels. Top half Squirrels and bottom half squirrels. Even the odd front half squirrels and occasional back half squirrels. Everywhere I look."

For a moment puzzlement almost made you say something, then you realised that would be a very bad move and stopped before realising that once you'd started to think about what you might have wanted to ask me it became impossible to go through the rest of your puny miserable existence without asking. So you asked.

"If they're half squirrels, what's the other half?"

"What other half?" I replied, as the wish that you had never formed that thought escaped from your brain to your face.