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Dude. Lives in Stockport. Likes records, wandering aimlessly and changing sound into electricity.
Recent front page messages:
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Best answers to questions:
» Bastard Colleagues
The 50 Year Old Virgin
Right. First post an' all that, so here goes...
Earlier on in this decade I did a retard admin job in the South of Englad while I figured out what I wanted to do with my life. It being entry-level, we attracted our fair share of - how shall we say? - damaged goods. But none were as sad and fascinating as the 50 Year Old Virgin.
We had a team from a certain high-street bank supervising the data entry we did for them, sorting out problems, and somehow this woman had made it onto the team. How could we tell she'd not jumped the spunk shark? Well:
- She looked kinda like a tapeworm in a tweed jacket, with a face like Stuart Lubbock's arsehole.
- She lived with her mum. At 50. Oh yeah. Wouldn't let her go out on her own with guys, no shit. And the kicker:
- She LOVED Daniel O'Donnell. Could not make this up. Had a signed picture. Wrote him long, long letters. When he got married, she sent him a final correspondence saying "Now you're married, I don't think I should write you". Who'd admit to that? Loser. Also she claimed he named an album after something she wrote him. Was it that hit record "Darling, I sent you my dump"?
- To top it all off, she was a devout Christ-Lover.
I mean, these things just add up.
So going by this she should be a harmless rema. Oh no, she was a truly hateful shrew, on our case all day, every day. I guess to make up for her near-lifetime without guy-pork action, she had a chip on her shoulder against anyone who was younger and wanted to have a bit of a laugh. Her 'work' consisted of sucking up outrageously to her manager (who kinda deserves her own entry, but anyway) to the point of obsession - more on which later - and directing work from other branches to our department, even if it wasn't our job. Didn't do any of it herself, of course. She was disgracefully lacking in manners or social graces. I vividly remember going up to her with some work query, and her phone rings mid-sentence, and she picks it up quick as a, I dunno, fuckin' COUGAR while I'm literally in the middle of a syllable to talk on that instead, as if I wasn't there. Unbelievable.
Her speech patterns were stultifyingly repetitive, to the point where she just kept saying "That's Leeds" to a colleague for no reason, over and over, for five minutes when he asked her a question about a postcode (which funnily enough, wasn't even Leeds!). She was Spawn of Joey, and to cap it had a right Papa Lazarou swagger for some reason. We thought she might be autistic, but then autistic people are usually GOOD at something.
Work was her life - funny, because if she had to depend on her actual skills and do real work, she'd be out in 5 minutes - and she took every opportunity to grass up her colleagues (always the male ones, for some reason) for insultingly minor transgressions - one guy was disciplined for YAWNING in front of her. Because that meant he wasn't "into" the job, right? Obviously. She totally hounded the guy out of his job for stuff like this. Once I too was bollocked for "undermining" her because I was too busy to see to her billionth query that day (she used to come up to me, like, 5 zillion times a day to look up an account number, squint at it, then go away. Achieved nothing, but hey ho, saves her actually WORKING). Bought her cabbage-stink over to my corner too, which was pretty unwelcome.
So, to the suckup thing. As well as the aformentioned O'Donnell, she had an unhealthy obsession with this manager. And said manager would take it, and then mock her behind her back (nice). Despite this, the manager would always stand up for her and take her side. Example? The Tard Lady had appalling handwriting, really really small, and people would complain regularly that it was unreadable. We went to her manager about this, and her response? "Don't wanna knock 'er confidence". I mean, how damaged must someone be for a handwriting quibble to have a chance of destroying their ego? What the? I wouldn't have minded if the manager just said she was actually a mong, or she'd been Madeleined by her dad once, but we just had to accept it.
So anyway, the day came when the manager was to leave, and 50 Year Old Virgin got very panicky - probably because her protector was gone and she might have to do some actual work and it would become obvious how much of a fuckup she was. On the day of leaving, she gave her manager a TON of presents, and a big card - I shat ye not - FILLED with her psychotically tiny scrawl. I had to go over and had a look as one of the other guys on the team saw it and was CREASING. Then she took a week off because she was "distressed" about the manager leaving, which just so happened to be at the same time my mate on her team booked a holiday so he had to come in and cover during this great emergency. Bitch.
I was so glad when I left that place. I've no idea if she's still there (last I heard she did indeed have to do some actual work and was Deacon-ishly incoherent from the sheer effort - this amuses me), but these kinds of people just seem to keep going without being killed, don't they? I could understand why she'd clearly never done it - her flaws were many and she looked like a right fist of munt - but I've still no idea how she managed to stay in that job that long.
(Tue 29th Jan 2008, 11:17, More)
The 50 Year Old Virgin
Right. First post an' all that, so here goes...
Earlier on in this decade I did a retard admin job in the South of Englad while I figured out what I wanted to do with my life. It being entry-level, we attracted our fair share of - how shall we say? - damaged goods. But none were as sad and fascinating as the 50 Year Old Virgin.
We had a team from a certain high-street bank supervising the data entry we did for them, sorting out problems, and somehow this woman had made it onto the team. How could we tell she'd not jumped the spunk shark? Well:
- She looked kinda like a tapeworm in a tweed jacket, with a face like Stuart Lubbock's arsehole.
- She lived with her mum. At 50. Oh yeah. Wouldn't let her go out on her own with guys, no shit. And the kicker:
- She LOVED Daniel O'Donnell. Could not make this up. Had a signed picture. Wrote him long, long letters. When he got married, she sent him a final correspondence saying "Now you're married, I don't think I should write you". Who'd admit to that? Loser. Also she claimed he named an album after something she wrote him. Was it that hit record "Darling, I sent you my dump"?
- To top it all off, she was a devout Christ-Lover.
I mean, these things just add up.
So going by this she should be a harmless rema. Oh no, she was a truly hateful shrew, on our case all day, every day. I guess to make up for her near-lifetime without guy-pork action, she had a chip on her shoulder against anyone who was younger and wanted to have a bit of a laugh. Her 'work' consisted of sucking up outrageously to her manager (who kinda deserves her own entry, but anyway) to the point of obsession - more on which later - and directing work from other branches to our department, even if it wasn't our job. Didn't do any of it herself, of course. She was disgracefully lacking in manners or social graces. I vividly remember going up to her with some work query, and her phone rings mid-sentence, and she picks it up quick as a, I dunno, fuckin' COUGAR while I'm literally in the middle of a syllable to talk on that instead, as if I wasn't there. Unbelievable.
Her speech patterns were stultifyingly repetitive, to the point where she just kept saying "That's Leeds" to a colleague for no reason, over and over, for five minutes when he asked her a question about a postcode (which funnily enough, wasn't even Leeds!). She was Spawn of Joey, and to cap it had a right Papa Lazarou swagger for some reason. We thought she might be autistic, but then autistic people are usually GOOD at something.
Work was her life - funny, because if she had to depend on her actual skills and do real work, she'd be out in 5 minutes - and she took every opportunity to grass up her colleagues (always the male ones, for some reason) for insultingly minor transgressions - one guy was disciplined for YAWNING in front of her. Because that meant he wasn't "into" the job, right? Obviously. She totally hounded the guy out of his job for stuff like this. Once I too was bollocked for "undermining" her because I was too busy to see to her billionth query that day (she used to come up to me, like, 5 zillion times a day to look up an account number, squint at it, then go away. Achieved nothing, but hey ho, saves her actually WORKING). Bought her cabbage-stink over to my corner too, which was pretty unwelcome.
So, to the suckup thing. As well as the aformentioned O'Donnell, she had an unhealthy obsession with this manager. And said manager would take it, and then mock her behind her back (nice). Despite this, the manager would always stand up for her and take her side. Example? The Tard Lady had appalling handwriting, really really small, and people would complain regularly that it was unreadable. We went to her manager about this, and her response? "Don't wanna knock 'er confidence". I mean, how damaged must someone be for a handwriting quibble to have a chance of destroying their ego? What the? I wouldn't have minded if the manager just said she was actually a mong, or she'd been Madeleined by her dad once, but we just had to accept it.
So anyway, the day came when the manager was to leave, and 50 Year Old Virgin got very panicky - probably because her protector was gone and she might have to do some actual work and it would become obvious how much of a fuckup she was. On the day of leaving, she gave her manager a TON of presents, and a big card - I shat ye not - FILLED with her psychotically tiny scrawl. I had to go over and had a look as one of the other guys on the team saw it and was CREASING. Then she took a week off because she was "distressed" about the manager leaving, which just so happened to be at the same time my mate on her team booked a holiday so he had to come in and cover during this great emergency. Bitch.
I was so glad when I left that place. I've no idea if she's still there (last I heard she did indeed have to do some actual work and was Deacon-ishly incoherent from the sheer effort - this amuses me), but these kinds of people just seem to keep going without being killed, don't they? I could understand why she'd clearly never done it - her flaws were many and she looked like a right fist of munt - but I've still no idea how she managed to stay in that job that long.
(Tue 29th Jan 2008, 11:17, More)
» School Days
Wossis, bananas?
In secondary school, our form teacher's room was one of those "mobile" classroom dealies. A pretty old and decrepit one that was forever being broken into and a heater thingy on the outside encrusted with crumbs and mucus.
Anyway, the break-ins. These would happen a lot, usually graffiti ("Mr Falsename Sucks Cocks!!!" "I chased the dragon" etc) and crap stationary theft but one Monday we all came in and everything seemed shipshape, save for a funny smell. Some air freshener was sprayed around and the matter forgotten.
Wednesday, and the smell had vengefully returned. Seeking to get to the bottom of the matter, Teacher Guy looked around the room, and in the drawers of his desk.
In one drawer was a carrier bag.
"Wossis, bananas?" He muttered, immortally.
Then, "Wurgh!" as he realised and threw the literal sack o' shit on the carpet, where it spilled a little. Man, that's some hatred. And boredom.
Then he followed up his shock with some awesome Shakespearian melodrama. "The bastards! They shit in my mobile!". I like to think he yelled this on his knees with a hand clawing the air, but y'know, it was a good decade ago.
(Sun 1st Feb 2009, 23:11, More)
Wossis, bananas?
In secondary school, our form teacher's room was one of those "mobile" classroom dealies. A pretty old and decrepit one that was forever being broken into and a heater thingy on the outside encrusted with crumbs and mucus.
Anyway, the break-ins. These would happen a lot, usually graffiti ("Mr Falsename Sucks Cocks!!!" "I chased the dragon" etc) and crap stationary theft but one Monday we all came in and everything seemed shipshape, save for a funny smell. Some air freshener was sprayed around and the matter forgotten.
Wednesday, and the smell had vengefully returned. Seeking to get to the bottom of the matter, Teacher Guy looked around the room, and in the drawers of his desk.
In one drawer was a carrier bag.
"Wossis, bananas?" He muttered, immortally.
Then, "Wurgh!" as he realised and threw the literal sack o' shit on the carpet, where it spilled a little. Man, that's some hatred. And boredom.
Then he followed up his shock with some awesome Shakespearian melodrama. "The bastards! They shit in my mobile!". I like to think he yelled this on his knees with a hand clawing the air, but y'know, it was a good decade ago.
(Sun 1st Feb 2009, 23:11, More)