I’ve been writing again for the first time in a few weeks. I think having to put things on this verdammt website that blew out the cobwebs. Still it’s a good to be able to put pen to paper, or at least hammer those impudent little plastic keys into submission.
Monthly Archive for October, 2007
Have you ever noticed that the modern business world is full of a great number of people who are “in IT.” It’s got a certain ring of mystery to it, a kind of a nebulous efficiency at obscuring the truth. HP Lovecraft would be proud. Hell’s bells son I could phone you up and say that I’m “in your HOUSE”. You wouldn’t really know where I was in the house or even if I really was in the house. Hell for all you know I’ve broken into your house and I’m taking a dump in your fish tank.
I mean let’s be honest with each other. The majority of you fuds “in IT” are out there doing not very much more than printing out reams and reams of meaningless reports. You’re making corporate bog-roll for your masters. People who are invariably tiny troll like creatures that you rarely see or they’re towering proof that the Nazi genealogical experiments had far more widespread consequences than anyone could have foreseen.
The letters I and T are supposed to stand for Information Technology but for many it’s the twenty-first century version of alchemy. You tell some poor guy on the street you work in IT and his eyes glaze over out of unfounded fears. The old crap about computers being magic boxes with super powers comes tripping out of their mouths. It’s an affront to every man jack of us that figured out how to set the video timer or work a possessive pronoun.
So far today during my adventures in IT lands I’ve heard the following in-depth computing discussions:
- USB stands for Unilateral System Bus.
- I like shiny monitors lets order thirty.
- You can only have a maximum of twelve Strepsils in a day.
- I love lemsips I drink them even when I’m not ill.
- What do you think they put in these things? These gel filled gel things?
- Sweden that’s near Poland isn’t it?
Couple that wie their incessant trips out for cups of coffee at £4.50 a pop?!
Ah’m in the wrong business.
I’m sure you’ll all be pleased to learn that I managed to satiate my bizarre lust for various unusual foods. In one fell swoop I managed to obtain and munch a Mars Bar while on my way to pick up Miss Kat from the station. Then with equal deftness I cooked a superior plate of Bangers and Mash for the pair of us while watching various jabber on the TV.
Kudos to Kat who cut through all the red tape associated with me buying anything worth more than a Tanner to pick the shiniest masher in the shop. It fair did the business and nobody died.
For reasons that I can’t fully explain I’ve recently been struck by cravings for certain foods. Naturally my first reaction was to put this down to a vast government conspiracy and wheel out my tin foil hat. I then gave some creedance to the theory that I may in fact be pregnant. This was quickly discounted however with a quick check with medical professionals that revealed my hardware to be incomaptible with any known form of child rearing with the possible of Bot Fly larvae. Armed with this knowledge of my own shortcomings I’ve decided I may actually have to aquire the aforementioned foods.
First on the list is rather banal. I really find myself wanting a Mars Bar. Aye, a MARS BAR! Most people get cravings for crazy stuff they tried once, or something expensive like a really good steak or lobster. I just want a Mars Bar, and I can have Mars Bars. I can have Mars Bars by the tonne. They’re cheap right? They sell them in the shop next door. The more I think about it though, the more I think how much modern Mars Bars taste like crap and then I don’t want one anymroe.
Problem solves itself!
Well it did, till I thought…
I really could go some Bangers and Mash! I don’t know where it came from, or why it’s here but I want Bangers and Mash, not anything fancy just mashed tatties and some beef sausages and I’ll be happy.
Hail to all from my new internet death satellite. I am currently orbiting the planet at an average speed of 7.5 MBits/s with an apogee of “I can see my house from here!”
Roughly translated for the less technically minded amongst you I have upgraded my internet connection. I have to admit that much to my (trademark) violent surprise it was a relatively painless process that was completed in a highly professional manner by all concerned.
I have to admit I have some regrets over ditching my long serving connection with Freedom2surf but their recent acquisition by the monolithic forces of the Combine Tiscali convinced me it was better to jump now or be squeezed to death.
On the advice of Napoleon Bonaparte’s cousin McDowall I’ve signed up with the possibly ironically named Freeola who seem very nice for all the twenty minutes or so I’ve been using their services.
The pay progression system at The Work is a joke and nobody seems to be able to do a damn thing about it. Some time in the distant past it seems that someone thought that the idea of an annual cost of living increase was a bit too much of a cost to the business. Instead they invented some bizarre hybrid of daylight robbery and performance management as if they hadn’t found enough ways to cut corners.
Essentially the system works like most target orientated review and rewards schemes. Every employee is set a series of targets at the beginning of the year and at the end of the year each target is graded on a scale between 1 (Outstanding) and 4 (Jakey Bastard). They take the average of all these scores and that decides your rating for the year.
That seems fairly standard doesn’t it? Well that’s only the surface impression; wait till you hear about the sneaky stuff. Firstly nobody gets a one unless it’s to correct a problem with their salary being below the median for everyone else in the post. So even if you work your arse off all year and exceed every possible target you still can’t get top marks. Worse than that, every team apparently has targets relating to this system. If someone is given a one to correct an imbalance then someone has to be given a four to even out the average score. Therefore it’s in everyone’s best interests for you NOT to complain about any inequality in salary since you risk being stabbed in the balls by someone in the team.
Most people get a three since the three is the baseline; it’s the “thanks for coming in and doing your job” score. Some lucky people out there will get a two either through hard work, brown nosing, nepotism, cronyism or any combination of the four. Only the village idiots routinely get four.
Worse than any of that however is the AMOUNTS involved in the progression. Take a look at the table below:
I’m in the middle of Band F, the lowest band in the place and I make £15,450 before the taxman takes his cut. So if I turn up every day and do my job to the standard expected I can look forward to progressing to the dizzying heights of £15,550 next year. The unbelievable thing is, the amounts in the grid have actually dropped since the last financial year. Last year a rating of three at band F was worth £150 and a rating of two was £250.
Band F runs from about 11,500 to about 18,500. Hypothetical that means someone hired in at the very bottom of the band would take about SEVENTY years to reach the top of the band.
Three words: Fucking Robbing Bastards.
NOW AS I UNDERSTAND IT LIFE IS A CONSTANT STREAM OF NOT VERY FUNNY EVENTS. YOU WAKE UP IN THE MORNING WITH A SNAP AND YOU REALISE IT’S ANOTHER ONE OF THOSE DAYS. YOUR ALARM IS BLARING OUT IN SOME GOD AWFUL ENGRISH VOICE TELLING YOU THAT IT’S SIXSH-TIRTY AY-EM. YOU STUMBLE ABOUT IN THE DARK LOOKING FOR THE WAY OUT OF THE ROOM AND FALL OVER YOUR LAUNDRY BASKET. YOU TURN ON THE SHOWER BUT FORGET TO PRESS THE HEAT BUTTON. ICY COLD WATER IS YOUR REWARD FOR GETTING UP EARLY IT SEEMS. YOU SCRUB YOURSELF DOWN IN A DAZE. THEN YOU TUMBLE OUT OF THE SHOWER AND LAND ON YOUR FACE ON THE BATHROOM TILES. A BRUISED BODY IS YOUR REWARD FOR STAYING NICE AND CLEAN IT SEEMS. YOU GO TO YOUR KITCHEN AND GRAB YOUR BOX OF WHEATABIX THEN YOU MIX IN SOME MILK. YOU PULL ON YOUR WORK CLOTHES. YOU GRAB YOUR KEYS, YOUR PHONE AND ALL YOUR OTHER CRAP. YOU PILE IT ALL INTO YOUR POCKETS AND HEAD DOWN TO THE STREET. YOU DECIDE TO WALK A BIT AS THE BUS CAN BE CROWDED. YOU STEP IN SOME DOG SHIT. DOG SHIT ON YOUR TRAINERS IS YOUR REWARD FOR TRYING TO BE HEALTHY. YOU HOP OVER TO SOME NEARBY GRASS. YOU TRY TO GET RID OF THE DOG SHIT BY WIPING YOUR FOOT ALONG THE GRASS. YOU SLIP AND END UP IN FACE DOWN IN THE BUSHES. YOU LOOK UP. A JAKEY LOOKS YOU IN THE EYE AND ASKS “ANY SPARE CHANGE PAL?†YOU LEAP TO YOUR FEET AND MUMBLE SOME HALF-HEARTED APOLOGY WHEN REALLY YOU WANT TO SAY “FUCK OFF YOU!†THE JAKEY CURSES YOUR LACK OF CHARITY AND YOU CURSE YOURSELF FOR NOT ANSWERING HIM BACK. YOU WALK TO THE CORNER STORE AND PAY FIFTY PENCE FOR A BOTTLE OF WHITE STUFF THAT WAS MILK IN A FORMER LIFE, MAYBE EVEN COWS MILK. YOU GULP IT DOWN AND DON’T GIVE A MOMENT OF CONSIDERATION FOR THE CHEMICALS THAT IT CONTAINS. THE SHOPKEEPER SMILES POLITELY BUT YOU KNOW HE’S JUST BARELY CONTROLLING HIS URGE TO KICK THE CRAP OUT OF EACH AND EVERY CUSTOMER. THANK YOU, COME AGAIN YOU BASTARDS. YOU LEAVE THE SHOP AND RESUME YOUR JOURNEY, HEAD DOWN AND FEET DRAGGING. YOU CAN’T REMEMBER WHY YOU STARTED OUT ON THIS WALK BUT YOU SURE WISH YOU COULD STOP, EVEN FOR A MINUTE. YOU TRUDGE ON, ONE FOOT IN FRONT OF THE OTHER YARD AFTER YARD, MILE AFTER MILE. IT TAKES A WHILE, A LONG WHILE. YOUR HOT, YOUR SWEATY AND YOUR MUSCLES ARE BURNING. YOU REACH YOUR WORK AT LONG LAST AND FUMBLE IN YOUR POCKETS FOR YOUR