Thursday, August 24, 2006
Women and children first: marketing from a wageslaves perspective
mydaysasawageslave.com
Thursday morning and already the testosterone was flying. A number of the alpha females were fighting to sit next to our Godboss (No. 1).
As usual, Trixiebelle, a particularly vicious little marketing droid, had managed to claim the seat immediately to the right of Number 1. She was laughing harder and louder than anyone else at nothing in particular.
Igor, the deformed yet deadly, stone cold henchman was the undisputed owner of the seat to the left of Number 1's throne. The remaining seats were anybodies.
I usually stood at these type of things due to the fact I was mostly late and always eager to be in a position to run should I have to.
At this stage the turnover was so high that there were nearly always a few faces I didn't know at the table. There were also a few notable absences.
Bren had taken to drinking before breakfast so he wasn't due to arrive in for a couple of hours yet. He had recently replaced kelvin, who had gone off to pursue a career in cocaine and East European teenage prostitutes.
The meeting crawled on in the usual boring manner for about 45 minutes. I counted to 200 and then backwards before trying to sleep with both eyes open. I tried to meditate and wondered if I could make myself come without touching myself. I mean if those old Indian bhramins could walk on fire and fly...
And then came the unusual bit. Igor took over the meeting and number 1 left the room. This was an untried formula. Maybe they were trying to catch us out. See if we'd notice, the way my Granny used to ask who said Mass to see if I 'd gone, when I hadn't.
"Well, I... WE. Have some news" Igor stammered. "I'm sure you've noticed Carol isn't here today. Well, we've had to let her go. She won't be coming back... er, any questions?"
We were kind of stunned by this. It came out of the blue as they hadn't culled anyone in a month.
"But she was pregnant. She was due to go out on maternity leave in a couple of months." one of the shocked marketing girls blurted out.
"I know that. But that had nothing to do with it. We made the decision fairly, based on purely financial and professional reasons". he countered.
"Yeah. Right!". The previously docile but now quite openly disgusted marketing wageslave responded.
"Look, if any of you think that we would get rid of someone, just because they were due to go out on maternity leave, well there's just no place for you here because you're calling us liars. And worse still you're calling our boss a liar". piped up Pip, a mid level marketing wageslave who obviously fancied himself a few rungs higher up the ladder.
And in a classic case of badly gauging the mood of his audience, Igor finished us off with... "But don't worry, Carol's replacement starts tomorrow".
We were given permission to leave.
Everyone was quit numb and down about this latest culling.
We all knew it was a ruthless place. More Boston than Berlin but this just seemed a bit too close to the bone. A Macjob. Next thing we'd be made wear numbered tags.
I made for the kitchen where a few other work refugees were hanging out bitching. They held their breath as the door opened but continued on once they saw it was me.
"What a fuckin' cunt though eh?" continued John19, one of the lower ranking design droids. "They'll be giving women monthly pregnancy tests next. You know he used to say he'd never hire a woman with kids 'cause they'd always put the kids before the job. Now he's getting rid of them before they even have the kids."
"Ah, he'll never get rid of them all though. Just the ones who won't flirt with him." added Peter, wageslave No. 5. " He always says that he only hires women with a first class degree and big tits. He wouldn't hire anyone who didn't have cleavage."
"Unless they were a guy." I said.
"...yeah, I suppose."
"What a shit! I'm definitely getting out of here." May, one of the sweeter but less successful, generic marketing girls blurted out when suddenly the door burst open and Number 1 bounced in full of mock laddish good humour.
In an effort to fill the silence and not look like we were bitching about him I went into a line of spiel.. "..so yea, anyway, I can never find my clothes in the morning. The pile for laundry just seemed to grow into the pile of clean stuff and become one big pile. It's a real mess. I think it's getting the better of me..."
Number 1 stopped to join in eager to be seen as 'one of the lads', "You should just do what we're going to do. Get in a Filipino!"
It's great. My mate has one. They'll like, do all your cooking and cleaning and stuff. And look after the kids too. They're made for that kind of shit. They love it. And they're really cheap too.
And then I was thinking, that if you ever come home drunk and the wife is off at her mother's with the sprogs, or whatever, you could go, Hey Svetlana! Come here and give me my dinner. And give me a blow job while I'm waiting! Ha! Ha!"
There was an uncomfortable silence, as we all looked to avoid eye contact. Hoping the floor would swallow us or the sky would fall in on his head or something, when May looked up with a sweet smile.
"Svetlana?"
"Huh?" he murmered.
"Svetlana? I thought you said she was going to be a 'Filipino'. You won't get many Filipino's called Svetlana. You'd want to get her name right."
"Filipinos, Poles, whatever. You know what I mean."
We did. And that was the scary part.
Thursday morning and already the testosterone was flying. A number of the alpha females were fighting to sit next to our Godboss (No. 1).
As usual, Trixiebelle, a particularly vicious little marketing droid, had managed to claim the seat immediately to the right of Number 1. She was laughing harder and louder than anyone else at nothing in particular.
Igor, the deformed yet deadly, stone cold henchman was the undisputed owner of the seat to the left of Number 1's throne. The remaining seats were anybodies.
I usually stood at these type of things due to the fact I was mostly late and always eager to be in a position to run should I have to.
At this stage the turnover was so high that there were nearly always a few faces I didn't know at the table. There were also a few notable absences.
Bren had taken to drinking before breakfast so he wasn't due to arrive in for a couple of hours yet. He had recently replaced kelvin, who had gone off to pursue a career in cocaine and East European teenage prostitutes.
The meeting crawled on in the usual boring manner for about 45 minutes. I counted to 200 and then backwards before trying to sleep with both eyes open. I tried to meditate and wondered if I could make myself come without touching myself. I mean if those old Indian bhramins could walk on fire and fly...
And then came the unusual bit. Igor took over the meeting and number 1 left the room. This was an untried formula. Maybe they were trying to catch us out. See if we'd notice, the way my Granny used to ask who said Mass to see if I 'd gone, when I hadn't.
"Well, I... WE. Have some news" Igor stammered. "I'm sure you've noticed Carol isn't here today. Well, we've had to let her go. She won't be coming back... er, any questions?"
We were kind of stunned by this. It came out of the blue as they hadn't culled anyone in a month.
"But she was pregnant. She was due to go out on maternity leave in a couple of months." one of the shocked marketing girls blurted out.
"I know that. But that had nothing to do with it. We made the decision fairly, based on purely financial and professional reasons". he countered.
"Yeah. Right!". The previously docile but now quite openly disgusted marketing wageslave responded.
"Look, if any of you think that we would get rid of someone, just because they were due to go out on maternity leave, well there's just no place for you here because you're calling us liars. And worse still you're calling our boss a liar". piped up Pip, a mid level marketing wageslave who obviously fancied himself a few rungs higher up the ladder.
And in a classic case of badly gauging the mood of his audience, Igor finished us off with... "But don't worry, Carol's replacement starts tomorrow".
We were given permission to leave.
Everyone was quit numb and down about this latest culling.
We all knew it was a ruthless place. More Boston than Berlin but this just seemed a bit too close to the bone. A Macjob. Next thing we'd be made wear numbered tags.
I made for the kitchen where a few other work refugees were hanging out bitching. They held their breath as the door opened but continued on once they saw it was me.
"What a fuckin' cunt though eh?" continued John19, one of the lower ranking design droids. "They'll be giving women monthly pregnancy tests next. You know he used to say he'd never hire a woman with kids 'cause they'd always put the kids before the job. Now he's getting rid of them before they even have the kids."
"Ah, he'll never get rid of them all though. Just the ones who won't flirt with him." added Peter, wageslave No. 5. " He always says that he only hires women with a first class degree and big tits. He wouldn't hire anyone who didn't have cleavage."
"Unless they were a guy." I said.
"...yeah, I suppose."
"What a shit! I'm definitely getting out of here." May, one of the sweeter but less successful, generic marketing girls blurted out when suddenly the door burst open and Number 1 bounced in full of mock laddish good humour.
In an effort to fill the silence and not look like we were bitching about him I went into a line of spiel.. "..so yea, anyway, I can never find my clothes in the morning. The pile for laundry just seemed to grow into the pile of clean stuff and become one big pile. It's a real mess. I think it's getting the better of me..."
Number 1 stopped to join in eager to be seen as 'one of the lads', "You should just do what we're going to do. Get in a Filipino!"
It's great. My mate has one. They'll like, do all your cooking and cleaning and stuff. And look after the kids too. They're made for that kind of shit. They love it. And they're really cheap too.
And then I was thinking, that if you ever come home drunk and the wife is off at her mother's with the sprogs, or whatever, you could go, Hey Svetlana! Come here and give me my dinner. And give me a blow job while I'm waiting! Ha! Ha!"
There was an uncomfortable silence, as we all looked to avoid eye contact. Hoping the floor would swallow us or the sky would fall in on his head or something, when May looked up with a sweet smile.
"Svetlana?"
"Huh?" he murmered.
"Svetlana? I thought you said she was going to be a 'Filipino'. You won't get many Filipino's called Svetlana. You'd want to get her name right."
"Filipinos, Poles, whatever. You know what I mean."
We did. And that was the scary part.
Thursday, August 10, 2006
Hell is a cubicle farm with hidden cameras and self help marketing manuals
mydaysasawageslave.com
The large red face looming in front of me belonged to my boss.
His mouth was moving up and down. Very. Pronounced. And. Very. Dramatically.
What with the spittle flying out of his mouth and him turning beetroot, I imagined he was probably quite angry.
Up until then I had been totally tuned out, headphones on, in a world of my own. My head was full of the New York Dolls so I'd missed the build up to this latest blow out.
So I turned the volume down on Rock and Roll and turned the volume up on reality.
"...don't know how many times I've had to tell you people.
The air conditioning is set at just the right temperature. No one is to mess with it.
If people start messing with things... well... it, it'll all just go to hell!"
"Too late. We're already there, I thought."
No. 1 (my boss) was on a role now. "Who's messing with the temperature? I know someone's been messing with this." He turned to glare at wageslave 44, or Ned as his fellow wageslaves called him. "Right! I can't trust you any more. You've no idea... no one is to mess with the air conditioning any more. Do you understand?"
Ned nodded meekly. Compliant in his own fear.
No. 1 stormed out of the office. Hitting the door with his fully formed middle aged spread at full force. Five seconds later, the door erupts open again as he storms back into the room, noisily stomping over to his glass office, which sits like a watchtower at the top of our open plan cubicle farm, to collect something or other. And then he was off again, pausing only to stare psychotically at the back of Ned's head.
"Fuck! what was that about?" I asked.
"Jesus, do you think he has cameras in here?" Ned whispered. "I mean, why else do you think he was picking on me? It could have been any of us."
He was right. There was a heat wave outside this last month. Hottest July in 20 odd years. But it's been freezing in here. So bad that people have taken to wearing jackets inside and taking them off when they go outside. A couple of people have gone down with colds and they spread like wildfire in these cubicle farms, so we're all worried.
But no one dares turn off the air conditioning blowing in the incessant stream of freezing cold air. Personally, I was looking forward to winter. He'd probably turn it down by then.
I approached him about it once. In the early days of the heat wave. Inspired by seeing one of the other wageslaves reduced to taking out a jumper and jacket from his bag when he came in that morning.
He was having none of it though and told me that he couldn't please everyone.
I told him that I HAD talked to everyone and they were all freezing cold but were too afraid to say it to him.
He laughed and told me to leave it with him.
I did and he, in turn, just left it at that.
Maybe David Icke was right and he was one of THEM. A lizard.
Which led me to the conclusion that Ned was probably right.
"He has a load of cameras outside doesn't he?" said wageslave 39. "And he has one on the stairs, so..." she tailed off, looking around suspiciously. "Na, I'm just being paranoid.
...aren't I?"
The large red face looming in front of me belonged to my boss.
His mouth was moving up and down. Very. Pronounced. And. Very. Dramatically.
What with the spittle flying out of his mouth and him turning beetroot, I imagined he was probably quite angry.
Up until then I had been totally tuned out, headphones on, in a world of my own. My head was full of the New York Dolls so I'd missed the build up to this latest blow out.
So I turned the volume down on Rock and Roll and turned the volume up on reality.
"...don't know how many times I've had to tell you people.
The air conditioning is set at just the right temperature. No one is to mess with it.
If people start messing with things... well... it, it'll all just go to hell!"
"Too late. We're already there, I thought."
No. 1 (my boss) was on a role now. "Who's messing with the temperature? I know someone's been messing with this." He turned to glare at wageslave 44, or Ned as his fellow wageslaves called him. "Right! I can't trust you any more. You've no idea... no one is to mess with the air conditioning any more. Do you understand?"
Ned nodded meekly. Compliant in his own fear.
No. 1 stormed out of the office. Hitting the door with his fully formed middle aged spread at full force. Five seconds later, the door erupts open again as he storms back into the room, noisily stomping over to his glass office, which sits like a watchtower at the top of our open plan cubicle farm, to collect something or other. And then he was off again, pausing only to stare psychotically at the back of Ned's head.
"Fuck! what was that about?" I asked.
"Jesus, do you think he has cameras in here?" Ned whispered. "I mean, why else do you think he was picking on me? It could have been any of us."
He was right. There was a heat wave outside this last month. Hottest July in 20 odd years. But it's been freezing in here. So bad that people have taken to wearing jackets inside and taking them off when they go outside. A couple of people have gone down with colds and they spread like wildfire in these cubicle farms, so we're all worried.
But no one dares turn off the air conditioning blowing in the incessant stream of freezing cold air. Personally, I was looking forward to winter. He'd probably turn it down by then.
I approached him about it once. In the early days of the heat wave. Inspired by seeing one of the other wageslaves reduced to taking out a jumper and jacket from his bag when he came in that morning.
He was having none of it though and told me that he couldn't please everyone.
I told him that I HAD talked to everyone and they were all freezing cold but were too afraid to say it to him.
He laughed and told me to leave it with him.
I did and he, in turn, just left it at that.
Maybe David Icke was right and he was one of THEM. A lizard.
Which led me to the conclusion that Ned was probably right.
"He has a load of cameras outside doesn't he?" said wageslave 39. "And he has one on the stairs, so..." she tailed off, looking around suspiciously. "Na, I'm just being paranoid.
...aren't I?"
Wednesday, August 02, 2006
Ivey Tilsley and black guys as 'ambient media'
mydaysasawageslave.com
I'm having breakfast and i hear on the radio that some guy was thrown into a crowded cell in Mountjoy with a bunch of nutters.
He said they'd probably kill him. And they did.
I get into my low to medium powered desk job and see that one of the rent-o-kit marketing girls has a book prominently displayed on her desk, that is actually called 'Don't argue with the Boss. How to keep your boss happy and 55 other tips to doing well at work'.
Short of writing I am submissive and will sleep with you if asked I figure our boss (No.1) was pretty happy when he saw that.
But it was too early for a rant so I went into the kitchen in search of strong coffee and chocolate.
Another rent-o-kit marketing type had a package from Amazon.
"What's that?" I asked. "anything nice?"
"No, not really."
"Go on what is it. A good read for the beach? DVD? What?"
"You wouldn't like it."
"Try me."
"It's a book about working better within your company... kind of gives you tips on how to look more... you know, successful. And... er, confident. That kind of thing."
"Really?"
"uh huh."
Fuck! that's a real conversation killer, I thought to myself.
All I could muster was "Ok. Anyway, where's that coffee."
There was a time when women used to read books and fill problem pages about how to please their husbands and boyfriends. Seems they've given up on that idea and decided they're better off keeping their bosses happy.
I blame Heather Locklear out of Melrose Place.
I went back in with my coffee when I overheard a particularly wealthy but horsey faced girl ask one of the lower runged rent-o-kit marketing girls "Do you know how to shop in Argos?"
I nearly spat into my coffee with laughter at the way she made it sound a total insult.
If Posh Spice was too posh to push, Bebe Belvedere-Brown was too posh to shop in Argos.
The lowly placed (and salaried) rent-o-kit marketing girl explained patiently how someone would buy something through a catalogue, without the help of a sales assistant or personal shopper, to someone long used to dining out on daddies money.
It was a truly memorable moment.
After faffing around with my emails for a while I found a reason to pop out and get some supplies on Baggot Street.
On my way I passed a bored looking black guy sitting on a chair holding a sandwich board advertising an executive gym to all the stressed out young executives rushing by.
I think they call him 'ambient media' these days.
there was something about it that made me feel uncomfortable though. It and the events of my morning so far. It all felt like I was seeing a film about a very strange and alien place play out in front of me.
It was so bad I was intrigued. Like bad science fiction.
When I went back to the office I put a picture of a champaign swilling Ivey Tilsley (Lyn Perry) on the server and no one knows who she is.
They probably think she's my mum or porn, or something.
Classy.
I'm having breakfast and i hear on the radio that some guy was thrown into a crowded cell in Mountjoy with a bunch of nutters.
He said they'd probably kill him. And they did.
I get into my low to medium powered desk job and see that one of the rent-o-kit marketing girls has a book prominently displayed on her desk, that is actually called 'Don't argue with the Boss. How to keep your boss happy and 55 other tips to doing well at work'.
Short of writing I am submissive and will sleep with you if asked I figure our boss (No.1) was pretty happy when he saw that.
But it was too early for a rant so I went into the kitchen in search of strong coffee and chocolate.
Another rent-o-kit marketing type had a package from Amazon.
"What's that?" I asked. "anything nice?"
"No, not really."
"Go on what is it. A good read for the beach? DVD? What?"
"You wouldn't like it."
"Try me."
"It's a book about working better within your company... kind of gives you tips on how to look more... you know, successful. And... er, confident. That kind of thing."
"Really?"
"uh huh."
Fuck! that's a real conversation killer, I thought to myself.
All I could muster was "Ok. Anyway, where's that coffee."
There was a time when women used to read books and fill problem pages about how to please their husbands and boyfriends. Seems they've given up on that idea and decided they're better off keeping their bosses happy.
I blame Heather Locklear out of Melrose Place.
I went back in with my coffee when I overheard a particularly wealthy but horsey faced girl ask one of the lower runged rent-o-kit marketing girls "Do you know how to shop in Argos?"
I nearly spat into my coffee with laughter at the way she made it sound a total insult.
If Posh Spice was too posh to push, Bebe Belvedere-Brown was too posh to shop in Argos.
The lowly placed (and salaried) rent-o-kit marketing girl explained patiently how someone would buy something through a catalogue, without the help of a sales assistant or personal shopper, to someone long used to dining out on daddies money.
It was a truly memorable moment.
After faffing around with my emails for a while I found a reason to pop out and get some supplies on Baggot Street.
On my way I passed a bored looking black guy sitting on a chair holding a sandwich board advertising an executive gym to all the stressed out young executives rushing by.
I think they call him 'ambient media' these days.
there was something about it that made me feel uncomfortable though. It and the events of my morning so far. It all felt like I was seeing a film about a very strange and alien place play out in front of me.
It was so bad I was intrigued. Like bad science fiction.
When I went back to the office I put a picture of a champaign swilling Ivey Tilsley (Lyn Perry) on the server and no one knows who she is.
They probably think she's my mum or porn, or something.
Classy.
