Monday, 7 December 2009

I Don't Like Mondays

I fucking hate Mondays. I really do. I hate Mondays so much it actually ruins Sundays for me because I spend the entire day pre-emptively hating Monday. This massive tsunami of loathing often causes me to get drunk on a Sunday evening thereby making my Monday morning this crawling horror of an affair, as I stagger into work feeling a pint of hammered dog snot.

Even worse, at this time of year the streets are festooned with an endless parade of gormless twats hell-bent on buying every piece of useless shit their tiny little monkey-hands can carry.

I hate Mondays and I hate Christmas and right now I hate my life and I want to die.

Along with the lurching parade of utter ass-hats trying to break my ankles with ballistic pram-pushing or grimly determined maniacs trying remove some skin from my head with the corners of their ridiculously sized umbrellas (someone is going to end up needing surgery to remove their umbrella from their intestinal tract round here, any day now), as the mass frenzy of consumerism blinds everyone to their fellow human beings, my passage through the streets of the city is further hindered by no fewer than seventy seperate attempts per minute to part me from my money. I was crossing the road earlier today and this grinning fuckwit leapt out in front of me, shook a collection jar in my face and barked "Suicide please?" at me. I came very close to saying "Yes please, how much?".

And I forgot my ipod, in my frantic dash to drag my aching frame out of the house; one of the few coping strategies for my general daily penance in here is to listen to blisteringly loud rawk as I stomp around the city like a small angry furry bullet. But today, no, there is no relief for me, as I heap suffering upon myself with some sort of masochistic frenzy.

Yes, in case it's not clear, I really do quite dislike Mondays.

The Boss : "Have you done Ronan Keating?"

Consider if you will the possible implications of this sentence.

Here's me, dully, not even questioning, just stating it : "Ronan fucking Keating."

The Boss : "Kielty."

Here's me, in a bit of a delirious haze, shaking my head sadly : "Ronan fucking Keating."

The Boss : "Gary Kielty."

Here's me : "What?"

The Boss : "Have you done him?"

Here's me : "Have I done him? What do you mean have I 'done' him? What?"

The Boss : "Have you done his rate to Setubal."

Here's me : "Yes."

The Boss : "No you didn't."

Here's me : "I bloody did. I copied you in on the e-mail."

The Boss : "You did Lisbon."

Here's me : "Ah. Yeah. There was no service into Setubal itself, it goes into Lisbon at the moment. It's pretty much the same place, they're just opposite sides of the river."

The Boss : "If Ronan Keating asked for Setubal you should..."

And some tiny part of my brain snaps.

"Stop! Fucking stop already! Stop with this Ronan Keating shit! His names not even fucking Keating! KIELTY! KI-EL-TY! GARY FUCKING KIEL-FUCKING-TY! And I haven't given him a rate to Setubal because there's no fucking boat going to fucking Setubal! It goes to Lisbon! Setubal is practically in fucking Lisbon! Look at the fucking map!"

The Boss is utterly unruffled by my fit of pique.

"Not necessarily."

I am sort of bulging in the eyes now, possibly panting slightly, certainly red in the face.

"What the fuck do you mean 'not necessarily'?"

The Boss : "It isn't always."

Here's me : "What, so Setubal is right next door to Lisbon Mondays through Fridays but then buggers off to the Algarve for the weekends, what the fuck are you saying?!?"

The Boss : "Ronan Keating says..."


The Boss, with uncharacteristic perception and calm : "Do you have a hangover?"

I stop, take a deep breath and compose myself.

Here's me : "Yes. Yes I do."

The Boss : "I thought you did."

The Boss holds up a tenner.

"Go to the shop and get bacon sandwiches."

So sensible and reasonable is this suggestion that I am utterly taken aback; totally and utterly derailed.

I have now had a bacon sandwich and the urge to beat myself to death with the telephone receiver has subsided. Somewhat, anyway. It's the little things in life that make or break us.

The Boss, staring at the map : "Is Lisboa near Lisbon?"'s the little things.


  1. A wonderful Monday morning post, thankyou.

    Having recently caught up with your tales of indentured service, something struck me. I suspect that The Boss is only semi-literate. Her constant malapropisms and inability to pronounce even slightly unfamiliar words, suggest that she is trying to memorise as much information as possible as a coping strategy against having a very slow reading speed (trying but not succeeding). She may even avoid reading, as much as possible.

    This may sound harsh, but it is more common than you might think - an estimated 1 in 5 UK adults, for instance, have less than the desired reading skill. People in this unfortunate situation often feel ashamed and will go to extreme lengths to hide it from others.

    Perhaps you could have some adult literacy leaflets sent to her at the office, or email her a link to something like

    You know, a friendly gesture...

    Of course this won't help with her many other problems.

  2. You're a more patient man the I, silent koala. I think her head would have been placed through her monitor by now if I were in the same position (having now read every entry). ;)

    For your blistering rawk needs, may I suggest the new Devin Townsend Project album, "Addicted". That should put a smile on yer face.

    Search YouTube for first single "Bend It Like Bender" to get the idea.

  3. I think a big part of the problem is an ongoing and endlessly failed attempt to "multitask". I may have to write something about this actually.

    Muttley, by amazing coincidence the blisteringness for the last few days has been courtesy of SYL's "City" album which I just got the re-master of last week, so the above is prob'ly right up mine alley. Cheers.

  4. I know how you feel. I didn't go to work today because I just couldn't face the boss asking me, "Sooo, what's THE PLAN?" again. He asks me pretty much every day and I don't know what he is talking about - I am an admin assistant and I do a bit of web research in the afternoons, so I really don't know what I am supposed to be devising a plan for.
    On the occasions when I have tried to get him to clarify, he says something impossibly vague, woolly and impenetrable. It's happened so many times that I've just started fobbing him off and telling him that "I'm working on it" - which is a bad strategy because it means I've tacitly implied that I know what the fuck he is going on about.
    And I don't.

  5. This resonates. I suspect your boss may be talking about The Big Push.

  6. Yes. That is exactly what it's like - except I tend to stare at my monitor with my teeth gritted instead of asking him what the fuck he's talking about. Your boss and mine have definitely been on the same marketing and management courses.

  7. Have you ever considered that it might all be an intentional attempt to drive you batshit mental? The perception that she'd pushed you to the edge suggests an awareness of the situation ... the attempt to pull you back from the edge with a bacon butty may just be an attempt to save you for more fun later. Is she really a cat? Cats are undeniably evil creatures that like to play cruelly with other furry mammals, but this might be the first case of feline-on-marsupial violence!

  8. On a similar note to Shilling, I'm going to weigh in and suggest that maybe The Boss is dyslexic - it'd explain the weird word-swappings and difficulties with reading aloud, maybe.

    Also, I got here from SYB too (where I lurk but very very rarely comment) - read your whole blog in one sitting - it's brilliant and you should be published!

  9. I bet your boss thinks the human race is composed mostly of really stressed out people who get frustrated and confused very easily!

    Rather like that quip that The Queen labours under the misconception that the world smells of fresh paint.

  10. But you did share a bacon sandwich moment. That has to mean something. The Boss knows that you are being driven slowly mental, but cannot function without you. That, alarmingly, is progress. Best of.

  11. The bacon sandwich moment is indeed significant. Has The Boss bred? Or is she perhaps living out her waning maternal instincts on an unruly surrogate son?

    I mean this with Christian Love, but I do hope you don't resolve your mutual disconnection any time soon. It would fuck up a top blog.

  12. reading your post's are like reading my life aloud. I have spent weeks emailing my boss to correct the spelling of my name he reply's with request to help him build a replica of the snow man for christmas with me being his boy in stripy pajama's assistant. Today he asked if I wanted my name corrected on the seating plan as 'he has noticed' it is spelt incorrectly, I 'accidently' stood on his foot as I passed him in the break area causeing him to spill his tea down his new shirt. It was a childish thing to do but he's younger then me so I don't care.

  13. I've been reading you for a while now, so I think it fitting to call you my furry marsupial friend, even though you're nothing of the sort. I've also read a few attempts to diagnose your boss, which are great... I mean, at some points I've actually felt sorry for her, and if it weren't for her blundering arrogance and general hilarity, I'd feel sorry for her more.

    ...but seriously, has she had a stroke or something? She has aphasia to the max. Obviously, I can't possibly guess at what kind of aphasia, but it's really amusing to read it. She's totally selecting words with similar meaning or sound when she can't remember them - hence "Ronan Keating".

    She can't understand what you say, but she's equally unable to understand what she's saying, which often means that filter circuits kick in to interpret it. That's why she can't repeat things said to her. Everything points to some kind of damage, and it doesn't help that apparently she's always been an iTard.

    By the way, for music therapy, I can't recommend Them Crooked Vultures enough. Except for the fact that their gig tickets cost over $100.