Friday, 27 November 2009

I Mean What.The.Fuck

The Boss : "Give me Ken's email."

Here's me : "Ken who?"

The Boss : "Ken... key.. Keating."

Here's me : "Who is Ken Keating?"

Is this shit getting as old for you, the reader, as it is for me?

The Boss : "Ronan Keating."

Here's me : "Ronan fucking Keating is the fucking singer from fucking Boyzone. Please. Sort your head out."

The Boss : "Gary Kielty."

Here's me : "Fuck. My. Life."

The Boss : "Read me out his e-mail?"

Here's me : "What, I mean fucking what??"

The Boss : "Read me out Gary Kielty's e-mail."

Here's me, probably spitting : "What? What? I don't even have an e-mail from Gary Kielty! Who the fuck is Gary Fucking Kielty?"

The Boss : "I'll forward it to you."

Just what the fuck. What the fuck. What the fucking fuck.

So, I Can Leave At 9.20 Today?

There are few things as likely to strike dread into the heart of the average office worker as walking into the office of a morning to see The Boss rummaging around at your desk. This was the sight that greeted me this morning.

Here's me : "Something I can help you with?"

The Boss : "I can't find your Russian rate."

Here's me : "What Russian rate?"

The Boss : "To Alexandria."

Here's me : "Probably because Alexandria is in Egypt?"

The Boss : "No, a rate for Alexander."

Here's me : "What rate for Alexander?"

The Boss : "Peter."

Here's me : "Wha? Who is Peter?"

The Boss : "St. Petersburg."

Here's me, broken already at the start of the working day : "It's in the file. Under 'St. Petersburg', oddly enough."

The Boss, frantic : "Well I need to send it to Alexander! And I promised I'd have it through before the end of the day! Now get it sorted! If he doesn't get it by the end of the day we're in trouble!"

Here's me : "Please. Get a hold of yourself. It is ten past nine. I think I can probably fax that piece of paper before five thirty this evening, in fact, almost certainly, I am going to manage to do that."

The Boss : "But the day's already half over!"

Thursday, 26 November 2009

Ah, God.

I swear. It's got to the stage when from twenty feet away, I can hear her take a breath in a certain manner that suggests that she's just about to speak, and in this microsecond, my very fucking soul cringes.

Dick! Mary! Jim! Jesus!

The Boss : "Phone Richard."

Here's me : "Richard who?"

The Boss, disgusted : "You had a meeting with her last month, do you not pay attention to anything?"

Here's me, a bit slow today : "I had a meeting with a woman called Richard last month?"

The Boss : "Richard Mary."

Here's me : "I had a meeting with a woman called Richard Mary last month? I'm sure I would have remembered this..."

The Boss, hostile : "Fax Mary!"

Here's me : "Fax yourself! What the fax are you talking about?"

The Boss : "There's an e-mail here from Mary for you."*

* The Boss still hasn't grasped the notion that when an e-mail is sent, to both of us, I can see it too - there are many of these, we have a general e-mail address for the office, and she insists upon telling me about each and every one of them. It's a tangent, yes, but I'm just getting it off my chest, ok?

Invent Your Own Witty Title For This One, I Can't Be Arsed

Ah, yes. I'm sorry for the wait. It's all been grinding me down somewhat, but I do have a few tales of mirth for you all, and this one is rather special. I'd apologise in advance for the language contained herein but I was having a shitty day when it happened and I had a rancid fuckrag of a day today, so anyway -

The Boss had to travel over to our head office there, which I imagine was a barrel of fucking laughs for everyone involved. It's never easy, as you must know by now. It commenced when The Boss was trying to book flights. I mean, bear in mind, the company is paying for these, so within reasonable margins, who really gives a shit? But no. The simple act of booking a return domestic flight was, of course, a total headfuck. Instead of just doing the obvious and booking a return flight with one of the airlines that flew to her destination, from either of the two airports in and around this city, which are twenty miles apart - remember this, it might be important - she decided it was important to shop around between low cost airlines for the best part of a day, while complaining about how complicated it all was. Your standard fully-functioning human being can book a domestic return flight in around six minutes, I'm fairly sure, but not The Boss. Oh no. I mean, I did offer to do this for her, but no, I am not to be trusted with such important tasks.

The Boss : "I think I've finally decided."

Here's me, with my head in my hands after a full eight hours of this shit : "Oh, magic."

The Boss : "I'm going to fly out with Easyjet, and back with Ryan Kernoghan."

Here's me : "Who the fuck is Ryan Kernoghan?"

The Boss : "Kernoghan."

Here's me, weakly : "What?"

The Boss : "Ryanair."

Here's me : sigh

The Boss : "It works out eight pound cheaper."

Here's me, more or less demented : "That's fucking great. Fucking great. Really. I'm sure the company will be glad that you spent the entire fucking day fucking around to save them eight fucking quid. Fuck this 'time is money' bullshit, eh?"

The Boss, oblivious : "Only thing is it says you should check in online."

Here's me : "Well.. yeah?"

The Boss : "I don't like that."

Oh sweet suffering fuck.

Here's me : "WHY?"

The Boss : "I don't like giving out information over the internet."

Here's me : "You've already booked the bloody flight over the bloody internet. Confirming that you're going to be turning up is hardly going to lead to the feds finally tracking you down or whatever the hell it is you're worried about this time, is it?"

The Boss, as so often happens, changes tack at this point.

"What if you couldn't check in online?"

Here's me : "In this day and age, who the hell can't check in online?"

You must appreciate, at this stage my head is about three inches from the desk, I'm speaking in slurred tones and probably drooling slightly.

The Boss : "Old people. People with no computers."

Here's me : "OK. OK. I'm prepared to believe such people may exist. Tell me, please, exactly how the fuck such people would manage to book flights online?"

The Boss : "They could have got someone else to book it for them."

Here's me : "Well if they got someone else to book the flights then why wouldn't they just get that person to check them in too oh fuck never mind tell you what have a nice flight, eh?"

So anyway. The Boss went, and quietly, privately, there was much rejoicing. I entered the office and sat down with my coffee, looking forward to a day of relative sanity.

Around 14 minutes after doing so, the peace was shattered by a call from The Boss.

The Boss, indignant, outraged : "They're charging me fifteen pounds to check in!"

Here's me : "Yes. There is a charge for not checking in online."

The Boss : "Well what would happen if I didn't have fifteen pound?"

Here's me : "My day would get much worse."

The Boss : "What?"

Here's me : "I don't know. Do you have fifteen pounds?"

The Boss : "Yes."


So, she did whatever it was she had to do over in England, and I enjoyed a brief respite from the madness. As I was almost certain would happen, the next phone call from Her Madness came in around ten minutes after her return flight was due to land.

The Boss : "Is there a bus from Dublin to Dublin?"

Here's me : "I'm sorry, what?"

The Boss : "Is there a bus from Dublin to Dublin?"

Here's me : "OK, I heard it correctly. Er, are you sure you're asking the right question?"

The Boss is getting irritable now.

The Boss : "Don't be smart with me. I just want to know if I can get a bus from Dublin to Dublin."

Here's me, very slowly : "OooooKaayyyy... you would need to tell me from what part of Dublin, tooooooo what other part of Dublin, mmmmmmmmmkay?"

The Boss is now outright angry.

"Just tell me if I can get a bus from Dublin to Dublin and stop being cheeky."

Take a deep breath and try not to put your head through the monitor young Koala.

Here's me, little lights going on in my head : "Where are you?"

The Boss : "At the airport."

Here's me : "Which airport?"

The Boss : "The City Airport."

Here's me : "And where do you want to go?"

The Boss, after a pause : "The airport."

I'm starting to understand, but I'll be buggered backwards with a brown bread roll if you think I'm going to make life easy for her at this stage : "You're at the airport. You do not need a bus. You are at your destination. No further transport is required."

The Boss : "No, the other airport."

Here's me : "The International Airport?"

The Boss, who is now very small, while I am the very, very big Koala, oh yes : "yes"

Here's me : "Just to confirm, do you need to get a bus from the City Airport to the International Airport?"

The Boss : "yes"

Here's me, oiled, glistening : "Can you not just drive there?"

The Boss : "no"

Here's me : "Is your car at the other airport?"

The Boss : "yes"

Here's me : "Did you, in fact, book your return flight back to the wrong airport?"


Less the fifteen pound check in fee and the tenner for the bus, o'course.

Send help, immediately, I'm losing my fucking mind in here.

Wednesday, 4 November 2009

The Day Draweth Near

Chanced across this on an unoccupied desk in the office. The Boss has scribbled on a pad which lies on the desk - it reads : "Every day it's getting closer going faster than a RoRo"

If I hear or see the words "Helter Skelter" in here, I'm going to the job centre, k?

Tuesday, 3 November 2009


I've just collected the post from reception and handed it to The Boss. It's worth mentioning, as a complete aside, that The Boss does not trust me to open the mail by myself. I mean, I can see why. Obviously.


The Boss, head down in the post : "Head office are getting very stingy with the haulage."

Here's me : "Uh, what?"

The Boss : "There's no haulage on this."

Here's me : "On what?"

The Boss : "This stamp."

Here's me : "Uh, you lost me round about 'head office'?"

The Boss : "There's no haulage on this envelope."

Here's me : "Are you telling me there's no postage on the envelope?"

The Boss : "That's what I said."

I need another holiday already.


Well, I'm back after a relaxing few days off, and can report that The Boss still has an airlock in the brain chamber.

The Boss : "What would Florida come under?"

I'm tempted to say 'Georgia' but it's a bit early in the day for this shit.

Here's me : "In what sense?"

The Boss : "Would it be East Coast Service?"

Here's me : "Well it's hardly bloody West Coast is it?"

The Boss : "No, but I mean would it be on the East Coast Service or the South America Service?"

Here's me, goggling slightly : "South America? Florida? Are you fucking serious?"

The Boss : "Well it is in the south..."