Edge of Darkness

The Boss : "How would I get an out-of-gauge piece from Dublin..."

Here's me : "Yes?"

The Boss : "To Dublin?"

Here's me : "No no no NO NO NO. To where? It's not from Dublin to fucking Dublin, so from Dublin to where? To Felixestowe? To New York? Rotterdam? The North Pole? To Russia, maybe? To fucking Xing-Gang?!?"

There might well be spittle hanging from my mouth here. Enough is enough.

There is a tense stand-off. Our eyes meet. Mine are probably still swivelling slightly. Her own are a terrifying dead-calm. What is she thinking, in these seconds? What machinations is her brain conceiving, what terrible revenge? What shall she say, to punish my outburst and the sin of losing my fucking rag over being asked yet again a fucking nonsense question? I can't bear it. The seconds seem to stretch away into hours. Still we stare at each other, and her features betray no emotion; her eyes are the abyss Nietzsche spoke of, into which I have gazed for far too long, now gazing back at me.

The Boss, now smiling, breaks into song : "Xing-Gang-Ging, Gooly-Gooly-Gooly, Xing-Gang-Ging, Xing-Gang-Ging, Xing-Gang-Ging, Gooly-Gooly-Gooly, Xing-Gang-Ging, Xing-Gang-Ging, Xing-Gang-Ging!"


..and, now very happily singing this, she seemingly forgets all about the above exchange and turns back to her computer.

Say What?

The Boss : "Where is the Middle East, for imports?"

Here's me : "Uh, what?"

The Boss : "If you're importing to the Middle East, is that westbound or eastbound?"

Here's me : "From where?"

The Boss : "From the east. West. Eastbound imports?"

Here's me : "Stop. Wait. What's the question again?"

The Boss : "Where's the Middle East from here?"

Here's me : "East."

The Boss : "So if it's from the Middle East, where's here?"

Here's me : "What?"

The Boss : "So it's 27%?"

Here's me : "What?"

The Boss : "Do you not read your e-mails?"

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

The Boss : "Oh never mind. I haven't sent it yet."

What? 

You Don't Need A Map To Work Here (But It Helps)

The Boss : "How do I get to Lipsig?"

Here's me : "Leipzig?"

The Boss : "Yeah."

Here's me : "It's fairly central. It doesn't make much difference which port you go through, similar distance from either Hamburg or Rotterdam area."

The Boss : "Is Antwerp ok?"

Here's me : "Yeah.

The Boss : "Is Rotterdam ok?"

Here's me : "Yes. Antwerp or Rotterdam are fine."

The Boss : "Zeeburger?"

Here's me, wincing slightly : "Yes."

The Boss : "What, it's the same distance from all of them?"

Here's me, feeling my life slipping away : "Yes. Rotterdam, Antwerp, Zeebroooooge, they're all pretty close together."

The Boss : "I thought they were in different countries?"

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..."

Here's me : "STOP IT! STOP CALLING HIM RONAN BLOODY KEATING! WHY DO YOU KEEP CALLING HIM RONAN BLOODY KEATING?!? WHY?!?"

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?"

...it's the little things.

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!"

Incontinental

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..."

Flight of the Navvagatty

The Boss : "Where's Navva Gattys?" [my best guess at phonetic reproduction there]

Here's me : "How do you spell it?"

The Boss, with disdain and impatience : "As it sounds."

Here's me, with a total lack of self control :"Fuck! haha ha! I fucking doubt it!"

The Boss is looking through the biblical document that is Lloyd's Loading List, unable to find the port she seeks within it's pages. I spend a few minutes falling about laughing before asking again:

"No, really, how do you spell it?"

The Boss : "As it SOUNDS. N-A-V-I-G-A-T-E. "

I've turned a funny purple colour from suppressed laughter now. She's still trying to find it on the map.

Flat Earth Society

The Boss : "What would the Philippines come under?"

Here's me : "Asia."

The Boss : "For a marine insurance form though?"

Here's me : "South-East Asia."

The Boss : "Not Pakistan? Pakistan is a higher rate."

Here's me : "No, South-East Asia."

The Boss : "Or Sri Lanka. Sri Lanka's a higher rate too. Is Sri Lanka not in Asia?"

Here's me : "Yeah, it's probably higher for war risk, and yes, Sri Lanka is in Asia, but the Philippines are not in Sri Lanka. For insurance purposes the Philippines are classed as South-East Asia."

The Boss : "Would it be India? India's a different rate as well."

Here's me practically in tears : "No, India is about three thousand miles west of the Philippines."

The Boss : "Oh. Would it be West Indies then?"

Fuckin' hell, like. This woman has been working in shipping for TWENTY SEVEN YEARS.

Scarier yet, she's been managing to breathe unassisted for even longer. How?

La Cucaracha, La Cucharacha

The Boss : "Spell 'Karachi'"

Here's me : "K-A-R-A-C-H-I"

The Boss : "No, not 'Karachi', 'Karachi'."

Ah, we appear to have reached an impasse.

Here's me : "Whereabouts is it?"

The Boss : "South America."

Big place, y'know.

Here's me : "Give me a clue. I have no idea."

The Boss : "Karate?"

Here's me : "Carate? There's one in Costa Rica but it's not exactly a major destination, I doubt it's that. Any more clues?"

The Boss : "Where's Rio Grand-EE?"

Here's me : "Um... it's a river in Mexico?"

The Boss : "Not Mexico."

Here's me : "Probably lots of South American countries. Hang on..."

(googles it)

Here's me : "Yeah. At a glance, there's about fifty places called Rio Grande in South America. More info, pur-leeze."

The Boss : "Near Rio dee-Ja-Nero in Argentina."

Here's me : "Rio de Janeiro is in Brazil."

The Boss : "Near that."

Here's me : "Where?"

The Boss : "Near Rio Grand-EE. It sounds like Cucaracha."

Here's me : "Cockroach??"

The Boss : "What?

Here's me : "Never mind. Look, what's this all about?"

The Boss : "I was asked for a price to Cucaracha."

Here's me : "Cucaracha is Spanish for 'cockroach'. 'La Cucaracha, La Cucharacha'? You know?"

The Boss : "um... Kookaburra..."

Here's me "Oh sweet Jesus-fisting-Christ, what the hell are we talking about? Phone the customer back and ask them again. Please."

This was duly done. It turns out that Karachi / Karate / Cucharacha / Kookaburra actually referred to 'Zárate' in Argentina. Another half an hour of my life that I'll never get back.

The Republic of Wha?

The Boss : "Is Stoke-On-Trent a place or a country?"

Here's me : "Wha?"

Put A Cork In It

The Boss : "Is there any service from Ireland to Finland?"

Here's me : "Yeah, Finnlines have a vessel from Cork to Helsinki, via Walham."

The Boss : "In England?"

Here's me : "No, Walham is in Sweden."

The Boss : "From Dublin?"

Here's me : "No, from Cork."

The Boss : "Who goes from Cork?"

Here's me : "Finnlines."

The Boss : "I thought they went from Dublin?"

Here's me : "No, they definitely go from Cork."

The Boss : "So who goes from Dublin to Finland?"

Here's me : "Um... Nobody, as far as I know?"

The Boss : "But you said Finnlines did?"

Here's me : "Wha?"

Stupidity Welcomes Careful Drivers

Apologies for the lack of recent updates - it's been a hectic few weeks. The Boss has had a lot of time off, which first led to a lack of anything interesting to write about, and then The Boss returned and has been making my life hell ever since, and I haven't been able to get the head above water long enough to pen it down for you. There are a few anecdotes that occurred in the meantime that I shall share with you retrospectively as soon as the vein in the side of my head stops pounding like a piston in a diesel locomotive.

I thought I was maybe going to get a break today since The Boss is out on the road visiting a customer - no such luck, so far she's phoned me three times and she's only been gone for an hour. She's trying to find a particular location in the countryside and despite having been there previously numerous times is once again completely lost. She does have GPS but is basically too stupid to follow it's instructions, so instead phones me with such informations as "I'm at a Shell filling station... any idea where I go from here?".

The process of giving directions over the phone to a total fucking idiot who can neither tell me where they actually are, left from right, or what direction they're facing in - painful, in the extreme. It went like this - and indeed is still ongoing, the last phone call came in while I was mid-paragraph there.

The Boss was supposed to have rates prepared for this customer before going in to see them, but naturally, has not done it, and instead asks me to do it on her way out the door. Shortly after that :

Phone Call #1 :

The Boss : "Can you make sure you get the rates through to me before I go into see the customer?"

Here's me : "Yes."

The Boss : "When will you do them?"

Here's me : "Now."

GPS : "AT THE NEXT EXIT, TURN LEFT"

The Boss : "Will you phone me with them?"

Here's me : "Yes."

GPS : "YOU HAVE MISSED YOUR JUNCTION. AT THE NEXT EXIT TURN LEFT."

The Boss : "When?"

Here's me : "As soon as you get off the phone and let me do them?"

We hang up and around 30 seconds pass before :

Phone Call # 2 :

The Boss : "I'm outside Shellbourne Filling Station. Any idea where Mullavilly Road is from there?"

Here's me : "Hang on... " [googles it] "... ok, you're on the Tandragee Road. What direction are you facing?"

GPS : "IN THREE HUNDRED YARDS TURN RIGHT"

The Boss : "Up."

GPS : "NOW TURN RIGHT"

Here's me : "If you're not actually using the GPS could you please TURN THE GODDAMN THING OFF. I mean what direction as in North or South."

The Boss : "I don't know how to turn it off. How am I supposed to know North from South? I don't have a compass with me you know!"

Here's me : "Well you left on this road, headed South, so unless you've turned around, you're still facing South. Have you turned around?"

The Boss : "I don't think so."

Here's me : "Ok, then presumably you are still facing South. keep going for about half a mile, you'll hit a cross-roads, turn right and that's the Mullavilly Road."

OK, that shoulda been that. We hang up again. I go and look for the information regarding the rates on The Bosses bomb-site of a desk. I'm still looking when :

Phone Call #3 :

The Boss : "Do you have the rates yet?"

Here's me : "No, I'm still trying to find the information on your desk. Any idea where it is?"

The Boss : "It's maybe.. in one of the files.. under..

... no. Maybe. Just take a look."

Here's me : [sigh] "OK."

The Boss : "I'm on the Armagh Road now, where do I go from here."

A pause while I load up Google Maps again.

Here's me : "You've gone about a mile too far - turn round and head back North, about a mile, Mulavilly Road is to the left of the crossroads."

The Boss : "You said it was on the right."

Here's me (clenched teeth again): "It was on the right, but now that have turned around, it will be on the left."

The Boss : "So it's definitely this way?"

Here's me, all plosives and tension : "Well. I don't know. What way. You are facing. So I. Cannot say. For sure."

The Boss : "Down."

Here's me : "Google Maps does not show me the angle of incline of the road, could you perhaps just tell me if you've turned the car around and are now heading back the way you came?"

The Boss : "I think so."

Here's me : "You think so? You don't know whether you've just turned the car around?"

The Boss : "It doesn't look familiar."

Here's me : "But you've been here like twenty times before!"

The Boss : "But I dont' recognise it."

Here's me : "OK, OK, OK. Can you see any landmark, street name, anything that I can use to figure out where you are?"

The Boss : "There's roadworks."

Here's me : "Neither does Google Maps show me roadworks."

The Boss : "Oh wait, here it is now, Mulavilly Road."

Here's me : "Thank fuck. OK, you're sorted?"

The Boss : "Yeah. Have you done the rate yet?"

Here's me : "NO!!!"

The Boss : "I told you I needed that before I went in to the customer!"

Here's me : "I'VE BEEN ON THE CHRISTING PHONE WITH YOU SINCE THE LAST TIME YOU ASKED ME THAT!"!

The Boss : "You should have said."

I literally just let the phone fall away from my ear and clatter to the desk. For all I know she's still talking away to me down there.

One More Thing...

The Boss : "Where's Colombia?"

Here's me : "...South America."

The Boss : "Where's the port?"

Here's me : "Cartagena, usually."

The Boss : "Is that Sri Lanka?"

Here's me : "Whut? No, hang on. Are you looking for Colombo, as opposed to Colombia?"

The Boss : "Yeah."

Here's me : "Ah right. Yeah, Colombo is the port."

The Boss : "In Colombia?"

Here's me : "gguuuuuuuuuuhhhh are you asking me about Colombia, which is in South America, or Sri Lanka, which has a port called Colombo, but which is in south-east-Asia?"

The Boss : "Colombia."

Here's me : "Carta..."

The Boss : "Or Sri Lanka."

The Road to Hell Runs Over The Bridge To Nowhere (I Assure You)

The Boss : "How much would a trailer weigh?"

Here's me : (sigh) "What size of trailer?"

The Boss : "One big enough to load a dump truck on."

Here's me : (sigh) "What size of dump truck?"

The Boss : "Volvo, twenty-four tonne dump truck."

Here's me : "Would need to be a forty foot low-loader, probably weighs about eight tonnes, give or take."

The Boss : "Not two tonnes?"

Here's me : "No way. Six tonnes, absolute minimum. But more like eight. Maybe as much as ten."

The Boss : "I think it's only two."

Here's me : "No way. It's not possible."

The Boss : "Nothing's impossible."

This is where it gets interesting.

Here's me : "Assuredly, some things are. And this is. You couldn't make a trailer strong enough to hold twenty-four tonnes that weighed only two tonnes itself. The materials to make it from don't exist. It's impossible."

The Boss : "Nothing's impossible. Sure they're building that trans-Atlantic bridge."

You have my full attention.

Here's me : "Are they? Are they now?"

The Boss : "Yeah, it was on the news last week."

Here's me : "Amazing. Tell me more. Omit nothing."

'Rictus' is an appropriate description of my face right now.

The Boss : "They're building a bridge from the UK to the States."

Here's me : "Are they? Are they really?"

I'm sort of chuckling a little, not in a healthy way, not in a way you'd like to hear on a dark night.

The Boss : "It was on the news. From Ireland to New York or something."

OK, I can bear it no longer.

Here's me : "I assure you. 'They' are not."

The Boss : "It was on the news last week."

Here's me : "It was a wind-up or something, I assure you. They are not building a bridge across the Atlantic. Because that. would. be. impossible."

The Boss : "Nothing's impossible. Sure they built the Channel Tunnel."

Here's me : "The Channel Tunnel is about thirty miles long. The Atlantic is about four thousand miles wide. Think about it."

The Boss : "Nothing's impossible these days."

Oh, take it from me, some things surely are, I assure you.

Mushroomhead

Totally out of the blue.

The Boss : "They're all hitting a ret.. a rest."

Here's me : "Wha?"

The Boss : "They're hitting a fuel restoration charge."

Here's me : "Who?"

The Boss : "All of them."

Here's me : "?"

The Boss : "To mushrooms"*

How much more lost than lost can I get right now?

The Boss : "To Muscat. "

Here's me : "Muscat? Oman?"

The Boss : "Musk, Moscow. Musko... Rotterdam."

This is a staggering level of bewilderfication, even for in here. I am totally clueless as to what might be taking place and the disjointed manner in which The Boss is talking is right now very reminiscent of GWB at his absolute worst.

Here's me : "Look, what are you actually talking about?"

The Boss : "Fuel surcharge. On Rotterdam."

Here's me : "What about it?"

The Boss : "From Rotterdam."

Here's me : "Wha?"

I swear I am so close to actual tears right now.

The Boss : "Is there one?"

Here's me : "I.. what?"

The Boss : "Is there a fuel surcharge from Rotterdam to Russia?"

Part of me right now wants to drive my fist right through the monitor in front of me. Right goddamn through it, y'hear me?

Here's me : "I really don't know. Possibly. Would you like me to find out?"

The Boss : "Noooooooo....... just find out where Moskva is."

Here's me : "Moscow."

The Boss : "It's in Moscow?"

Here's me : "No, it is Moscow."

The Boss : "But where's Moskva?"

(deep breath, count to ten slowly)

Here's me : "Moskva is Moscow. It's what the Russians call Moscow."

The Boss : "Why?"

Here's me : "-"

The Boss : "Anyway. What do you want for lunch?"

This last is frankly more terrifying than all of the rest of this deformed and deranged conversation, mostly because it's now 2 pm and we had lunch about half an hour ago.
* The Boss had mushroom soup. I'm starting to understand how this works, a little. If I pretend I've taken a heavy dose of LSD it all makes a certain amount of sense.

Down With This Sort of Thing

The Boss : "Where's Honkey-joke?"

Here's me : "Er... dunno, what's the punchline?"

The Boss : "Honky-jokey?"

Here's me : "Um... Honkajoki? Finland?"

The Boss : "No, it's in Denmark. I thought you knew everything."

That's a blood-boiler right there. I hear that phrase a couple of times a week, any time I don't know the answer to some nonsense question. It appears that I give the impression of being A Smartarse. This is probably because I am usually right. No, no shit, I am. I have a habit of not opening my mouth at all until I think and/or seek information, and of not just saying the first random-asspiss-thought that comes to mind, which means that in here, I'm quite often correct. This is plainly causing a lot of irritation. Perhaps I should blurt out inanities more often, in order to be accepted or something.

So anyway I go and read what's on The Boss's screen and it's "Havkajak", which is indeed in Denmark. I don't know for certain how it's pronounced but if it's enunciated "Honkey-Jokey" I'll actually fry and eat my own member.

No Idea

The Boss : "Purfleet would be easier to get to than Dublin wouldn't it?"

Here's me : "Welll..... from where?"

The Boss : "From Purfleet."

An intake of breath so sharp I almost hurt myself.

Here's me : "Well, yeah, Purfleet to Purfleet is definitely easier than Purfleet to Dublin."

The Boss : "No, Purfleet to Dublin. No, Hull. Dublin to Hull. That would be easier than Dublin wouldn't it?"


Just keep breathing, young Koala, no matter how badly you want to stop.

The Fresh Prince of Saucy Minx

The Boss : “Who would I get a rate from Bel Air to Minx with?”

Here’s me: “What??”

“From Bel Air to Minx”

Here’s me: “Where? to Where?!?”

“Bel Air-ez.”

Here’s me: “Bel Air, like in the Fresh Prince, or are you thinking Buenos Aires, as in Argentina?"

“Belairuss”.

Here’s me: “OK. Belarus. BellaROOS. Belarus to where?”

“Minx”

Here’s me: “You mean Minsk??”

“Yeah, Minsk”

Here’s me: “Minsk is in Belarus!”.

“No, Dormagen?”

At some points, such limited understanding as I thought I had breaks down completely, and all I can really do is stare dead ahead and hold my breath until the vein in my head stops throbbing.

Here’s me: “Please. Start again. In full.”

“Who would I get a rate from Dormagen, Germany, to Minsk, Belarus with?”

Here’s me: “OK, ok. Dormagen to Minsk, gotcha. A rate for what?”

We are making progress.

“A schedule"

No we are not.

Here's me: "You... ah... you want a rate for schedule? Eh..."

"No, a schedule from Minsk to Belarus".

Breathe, motherfucker, breathe.

Here's me: "Are you asking me for a schedule from Dormagen to Minsk?? Is that what you're asking me??"

"Yes."

Praise fucking be.

Here's me: "AHA! Ok. A schedule! From Dormagen to Minsk! Great - now, a schedule for what, exactly, from Dormagen to Minsk??"

"Sailings"


Here’s me: “Theres… no… water.. in.. between… them….”