mydaysasawageslave.com

2007-04-13T08:17:00.000-07:00

mydaysasawageslave.com

another day in marketing purgatory...

mydaysasawageslave.com

2007-04-13T08:11:00.000-07:00

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it's an own brand christmas in my imaginary world

2006-12-21T04:46:00.000-08:00

mydaysasawageslave.com

it's no expense spared in the high class world of marketing and advertising this christmas...

Marketeers Slide Further Down the Evolutionary Chain Shock!

2006-12-01T06:45:00.000-08:00

mydaysasawageslave.com
This just in from the cube farm frontlines...

a mission brief made me vomit through my eyes

2006-11-16T08:00:00.000-08:00

mydaysasawageslave.com

I was thinking about doing some work. I had a pile of briefs in my 'to do' list which were getting dangerously close to their deadlines.

Angry Martin had been sending me loads of porn, heavy metal and football related emails which had had an adverse effect on my work rate.

As a result of having to account for every minute of my day in billable work in order to get paid, I was an expert at filling my day with imaginary duties and chores.

For every job that came in, I figured I could do it in half the time, giving me the other half to spend my time subversively idling. I won't even get anything constructive done in this time. That would be too 'protestant work ethic' for me. No I would be happy in the knowledge that I was doing nothing constructive for this time, thus denying my boss the full worth of his pound of flesh.

So in an effort to find something I could pad out the day with I picked up a brief at the top of the pile. I'd been avoiding it for 2 days now and figured it wasn't going to go away. Unfortunately I was signing my own death warrant.

The introduction went "Our product provides women who put personal relationships as a top priority, with a moment to take a step back and focus on what really matter. The coffee lover's coffee!'

Fuck! I snorted out loud. That was a serious pile of shit. How the hell can I take that seriously? It was saying 'Yes, we marketeers care a lot! and we really mean that!'

A mission brief made me vomit through my eyes

Now I lie every day for a living but that took the biscuit. It went on over 4 pages of ever worsening rubbish.

I lost heat by page 2 and noticed a new mail had come in from Angry Martin. Maybe I could start this job tomorrow?

I'm sure I could bluff my way through some bullshit an hour before deadline. You know a woman, aspiring young professional, late 20's / early 30's, stylish apartment, with her friends. Oh and drinking coffee of course!

Anyway, it says here in the subject of Angry Martin's email that someone can vomit through their eyes. I have to see that.

car parking rage is the new rock and roll

2006-10-19T05:49:00.000-07:00

I'm sitting waiting on the phone to ring with the news that my boss is in the process of being beaten senseless outside the office.

Some poor unfortunate had the temerity to park in his (Number 1's) favoured parking space this morning. In retaliation, he has blocked them in, so that they have to call him to get away. At which point he plans on menacing the hell out of them.

This is bread and butter to him. Kind of like a hobby. He loves menacing and bullying his underlings here, and by and large they all take it. When people get fed up with it, they just leave quietly. Or in pieces.

I personally hold every middle aged business man / suit / corporate lizard type responsible for this behavior. Way I see it is, chances are they are just like my Number 1 in their organisation, so if I can make them uncomfortable in any way, I'm striking a blow for all the wageslaves like me who have to deal with their bullying on a daily basis.

I will go out of my way to annoy or confront one of them in the course of my day. At the moment I am involved in an ongoing feud with someone else's Number 1 across the road. He is going mad over the fact I chain my bike to a railing near a spot he favors for parking his BMW.

He doesn't own the railing.

He doesn't own the street.

And he doesn't own me. Yet.

He only seems to turn up maybe once a week. In a hyper aggressive mood. Obviously offended at having to look at an eyesore he probably equates with being a communist or something, threatening to cut my bike off the railing.

Off course I love the fact that he is getting into such a rage. And anyway, his car would make a bigger target than my bike if he wants to go down that road.

So I'm sitting here hoping that when the other car's owner turns up, he is a grade A, Tony Soprana style, violent nutjob, who, maybe, has decided to pulverize the next person to criticize his parking.

I told this week's receptionist to give me a call when ever it 'kicks off'. This is one fight I'd pay to watch.

I worked with a media company on Ely Place a few years back where they switched courier companies. The old one's owner got drunk with some dodgy gangster 'friend' of his and came round to rough up my boss and his office. They locked the door and threatened him with a fire extinguisher.

I think he had to pay them off. A couple of the other wageslave desk-jockeys actually suggested "we go in there and give him a hand!"

I think they thought they were on that Flight 93 on 911, fighting back against a gang of Terrorists.

I was only there a couple of weeks at this stage, "Fuck that!" I said. "I don't know any of those guys in there. I'm not going to get killed 'cause it's part of my job."

The other guys saw sense.

One girl, Jean, tried to get involved but ended up in tears. The gangsters left and our boss sheepishly came out a few minutes later, ridiculously claiming he had scared them off!

Over the course of time the only regret of those desk-jockeys, was that they didn't go in there and put in the boot themselves, as one by one they were fucked over by the boss.

So I'm sitting here waiting for the phone call to say a large east European psychopath is killing my boss in a needless dispute over a car parking space.

In reality the driver of the offending car will probably be a pleasant and stressed pregnant woman, rushing to collect her kids or something. And Number 1 will have his fun at her expense. Like he always does.

Still here's hoping.

Training dogs to cover for you at work...

2006-10-05T07:06:00.000-07:00

Someone said you could get a bunch of monkeys to write the entire works of Shakespeare if you gave them enough time and a typewriter.

My Boss, Number 1, once said he'd much rather assign seat numbers than put names to the new faces that kept popping up around the place. That way everything could stay the same for him and the person in my seat would always be Number 29. And so on.

I was thinking of sending a dog into work in my place and see if anyone noticed.

Would he still be referred to as wageslave 29. Merely an operative filling a seat. My seat.

On the plus side from my employer's point of view, he would probably spend less time online than me. Or on the phone. Or drinking coffee. Or whinging.

The turnover would probably be high though, down to the whole dog years versus human and all that. He'd have been here 10 plus years already in place of my year and three quarters.

Then again the turnover's pretty high as it is. We lost another receptionist this week. She lasted maybe 3 months. What's that in dog years? A year and three quarters or something. Sometimes this job feels like it's going by in dog years.

Not that it's much different most other places. My mate johnbob21 says we're all like like Father Ted's on our various Craggy Island's where there is always an equivalent Father Jack type has-been, a Dougal type young idiot and you.

Recent interviews have confirmed this to me and along with my growing addiction to YouTube, I have found my motivation seriously lacking of late.

Think I'll revert to plan B and gradually send in a well trained pet in my place.

Maybe after a while he could swop job chairs with some other well trained pet in a job just like mine on another island, just like mine.

Someday.

mydaysasawageslave.com

2006-09-25T07:01:00.000-07:00

mydaysasawageslave.com

I am trying to be a better and more productive wageslave believe me i am.

But try as hard as i like, it's just not working. I can't drum up the enthusiasm for the job. Maybe it's the particular job but I fear it's work in general.

My boss (Number 1) took me and a couple of other design droids out for lunch on Friday. A kind of "checking in with the troops" (his comment and his inverted commas!) and a... "bit of morale boosting."

So I thought I'd be reasonable, give him a chance, take the free drink and food and see how it goes.

It was fuckin' awful! No two ways about it.

Every single facet of conversation of Number 1 led conversation is designed to push his social status.

He goes to Spain on holidays. Not that he would normally, but his wife's family, who are very wealthy, have an apartment there.

He occasionally goes "over to the west somewhere... (Mayo) to stay at a farmhouse B&B. The farmer and his wife, whilst being mad are surprisingly intelligent. Quite cultured and versed in the ways of the world. You could have a conversation with them!" Even I am a bit shocked that he seemed shocked at this.

Ned, our resident 'westie' laughs at this kind of thing in the way the gombeen Oirish characters in the Irish RM used to laugh at Peter Bowles.

A self confessed D4 (that's Dublin 4 an 'elite' Dublin postal code to the unitiated) Boy, he only goes to this one place outside his postal district on the recommendation of a builder friend of his.

He leaves that to hang in the air for a second before continuing... "He's not. like, a normal builder, he's very wealthy. Builds houses. Worth a fortune".

"Of course' I sigh.

As we prepare to leave he stops only to make the waitress squirm a bit more, asking her how much of a tip she felt she was worth.

I walked ahead of the others back toward the office. Over my shoulder, I can hear Number is on a role... "I've never been poor, have you? I mean I've never had to do without anything. Even when I was at university. I lived at home. I had a job. Money, a car. What's it like?" he asks pointedly of his remaining design droids.

The traffic drowns out any hope of a response and I put a bit of distance between myself and them. I pass the ambient black guy with a sandwich board on the bridge who is becoming more ambient and un-noticed everyday. In my head I'm singing 'The Port of Amsterdam', the Bowie version.

"there's a sailor who dies, full of beer, full of cries..."

I'm the first back into expensively designed cube farm that is work, when I see someone frantically scurrying about up at the back of the office. It's a familiar shape so I go a bit closer.

"Carol? is that you. You Ok?" Carol is the pregnant girl they bumped off a couple of weeks back.

She looked up at me looking totally stressed and confused before blurting out a sharp "No." Her eyes welling up before breaking into tears. Sobbing!

Jesus! I didn't know what to do.

"I can't believe they just just got rid of me like that... I just came in to collect my stuff. It's taken me a couple of weeks to be able to come back... and then they have some one else at my desk.

They told me they it was nothing to do with my pregnancy. They couldn't afford the position. But they've got someone else doing my job. Already! How long has she been here?"

"Er, a day or two after you left... maybe."

"Bastards!" she wailed.

"Yeah I know, they were really shit, the way they treated you. Look I'm really sorry about all that." I fumbled... "It was nothing to do with me. Or most of the people here really. Everyone was freaked out over it... they're just real fuckers.

You're better off out of it. You don't need to be around people like that."

"It's just that I thought Igor was a friend. I'd worked with him for years. He's been in my house for dinner! I invited him to my wedding! and then he does this... Wanker!"

At this stage a couple of the female wageslaves had come back from lunch. They rushed up to console the now distraught Carol with a hugs and sympathy. I was glad to be relieved. Truth was, that for the first time in my working wagelsave life, I felt thoroughly ashamed of myself. Ashamed that i had to stand and watch a grown woman cry over mistreatment. And ashamed that there was nothing I could do other than offer my sympathy.

The girls ushered her out before Number 1, Igor or any of the middle management drones made it back into the office.

I was back at my cubicle staring blankly at the screen for the rest of the afternoon. I had a print out stuck on my partition with the lyrics of the intro monologue from radiohead's OK computer... fitter, happier, more productive... a pig in a cage on antibiotics as Bowie played out my day in the port of Amsterdam.

"...Yeah, they've bargained their virtue
Their goodness all gone
For a few dirty coins
Well he just can't go on..."

indeed.

Women and children first: marketing from a wageslaves perspective

2006-08-24T09:13:00.000-07:00

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.

Hell is a cubicle farm with hidden cameras and self help marketing manuals

2006-08-10T08:09:00.000-07:00

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?"

Ivey Tilsley and black guys as 'ambient media'

2006-08-02T04:50:00.000-07:00

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.

Better living through apathy...

2006-07-14T06:19:00.000-07:00

It's a great day. It's sunny. Girls look good. I'm still listening to Rose Tattoo.

But I have to pass the next few hours in the company of my fellow wageslaves, pretending I'm interested in being here whilst making the company profit.

This morning's meeting was better than usual. 2 people handed in their notice. (Well one of them could have been fired and told to tell everyone she was leaving of her own accord. That happens all the time here too).

Then just before lunch Igor, the unmerciful henchman to our boss, No.1, sent out a really angry email. Full of capital letters, a totally alpha male thing to do. You could tell he was swearing when he wrote it. It went...

"FOR THE SECOND TIME IN A MONTH…………SOMEONE HAS LEFT A TAP RUNNING IN ONE OF THE BATHROOMS DOWNSTAIRS.

FOR THE SECOND TIME IN A MONTH…………THE KITCHEN HAS BEEN FLOODED AND SOMEONE ELSE HAS HAD TO CLEAN UP….

ENOUGH!! I DO NOT WANT TO HAVE TO SAY ANYMORE ABOUT THIS……….UNDERSTOOD??"

classic stuff.

It's subject line said "AND NOW I'M REALLY PISSED!!!!'

Like the tagline to a bad Rambo sequel or something.
Or an admission to pre-lunch drinking sessions. (ah they were the days!)

Now I agree that running flooding the toilets is kind of bad news and all, but when you think it was probably one of the marketing girls, leaving the tap running to drown out the sound of crying or bulimic heaving or something, you can't get too wound up about it.

So anyway, I've decided to progress further with my fantasy life.
Following the lead of the MD of a Dublin packaging design company I know of, who collects pictures of 'perfect' male body parts, I'm going to get myself a better body.

Online, without ever going to a gym or beach or whatever.

The new me will be fitter, happier, more productive. So to speak.

Only I'm not doing it cause I'm a seriously repressed married man (Bill?)

I'm doing to get a better life.

Better living through apathy.

Yeah!

A bit of Rose Tattoo and why I wish I was more like other people...

2006-07-13T04:59:00.000-07:00

So there I was listening to Rose Tattoo who I started to describe as a working man's, barroom version of AC/DC. Then i realised I was describing AC/DC. So I stopped trying to describe them.

Angry Anderson, their singer, was in the 3rd Mad Max film.

He also sang Kylie and Jason's wedding song in Neighbours.

I like them because they make me feel good about hating my job.

They're also a bit right wing at times but then again so is my sister.

In a totally unrelated jump I've also done a good bit of online research whilst stuck here in my cubicle which I felt I had to share.

I came across (not literally) a group of charming pakistani lads whilst looking for the Usual Suspects.

And then I found loads of really scary pictures of Americans that kind of reinforce why the world hates them.

But then I suppose there's something naively charming about these kind of pictures too, in that many Americans seem to accept things at face value and don't see the sinister subtext that I do. Or realise why people mightn't like them.

Anyway, I'm off to look for second hand postcards in charity shops on my way home today. I'm going to try and imagine what kind of better life I could have.

and listen to some more Rose Tattoo.

cubicle worker going postal

2006-07-06T05:39:00.000-07:00

mydaysasawageslave.com

While I'm on the subject of going postal, there's been this weird guy renting a cubby hole of a cubicle in the attic here for the last 2 months.

No one really knows who he is or what he does. I've passed him on the stairs a few times but after he ignored me the first couple of times, I stopped saying hello to him.

He just came in off the street and put down a month's cash up front on the office, so no one seemed to know anything about him or his background.

So anyway, last week a mate called in to one of the designers here and was all freaked out at the fact he had passed the guy in the attic on the stairs.

"what's that guy doing here? You do know he's a total psycho? Jesus, he works here now? Doing what?"

"Er, we don't really know." Tom the wageslave said. "He kind of stays in there all day with the door closed. You can hear the radio going all the time too."

"...yea the receptionist reckons he doesn't get any calls or mail or anything for his business either so we don't know. And apparently he's never let the cleaning ladies in either. He even changed the locks on his door." I added conspiratorially.

"Exactly. He's a fuckin' nut. I 'm telling you!" friend of Tom the wageslave continued. "I was around at a friend, Dave the Dealer's house a couple of years back and next thing this guy turns up at the door with a huge wad of cash, looking to buy drugs. Dave totally freaked out. Told us to hide in the bedroom until he could get rid of the guy. He gave the guy some lame excuses that he was out of stock and all. Gave him the last of his personal stash but wouldn't take any money of the guy.

Afterward we where all asking him what that was about. The guy we saw was this little well spoken fella. Not the kind of person who'd usually unsettle an old school dealer like Dave.

Then Dave told us that a few months before, he met the guy on the street with a friend. They were chatting away, when the guy took a phone call. He got real agitated and finished the call. Next thing he looked around, picked up a rock off the side of the road, walked over to some old lady he'd never met before and smashed her in the head.

The boys were totally stunned. The guy just starts laughing, asking them did they see that. They just ran off. Left her there bleeding. Dave reckons the guy is some psycho rich kid who hates his parents. A bad news, cold fucker. He had been avoiding him 'till that night.

And I'm telling you, that's the same fucker you got upstairs in the attic!"

We all went quiet for a while. Looking around shiftily, kind of freaked out until Niall, a wageslave from accounts, broke the silence... "So this friend of yours, Dave the Dealer... he's sells drugs then does he?"

Nice, I thought, I'm going to die.

At work.

How depressing.

George Costanza; A god among wageslaves

2006-07-06T05:37:00.000-07:00

mydaysasawageslave.com

this week I learnt something.

I learnt that security is essential if the wheels of industry are to continue rolling.

I learnt that I should be more expressive and creative for the company.

I learnt that I should be more loyal to my company

I learnt that I must think of myself as a 6 letter word beginning with 'W' and ending with 'R'.

I work in marketing and this is my story.

The week got off to a bad start. I skipped the 8.30am Monday morning meeting with a sense of purpose, using the George Costanza method of avoiding contact with fellow workers.

George (out of Seinfeld) is a God among wageslaves. Whenever someone looks like they may be on to the fact you are slacking off or even hopelessly out of your depth, just bang the table in frustration, mutter to yourself and curse the lack of hours in the day to do your work. It's usually guaranteed to keep away busy bodies who fear and respect such aggressive levels of work related dedication. Or maybe they fear you'll be going postal any minute.

So when everyone comes out of their meeting, I make sure sure I am seen slaving over a desk ranting to myself. People usually presume I have been too busy to attend. As opposed to just having woken up.

I learnt that someone else was leaving too.

so there you go.

Panic in the streets of Dublin...

2006-05-29T06:02:00.000-07:00

mydaysasawageslave.com

In the '80's there was panic in the streets of Dublin, Dundee, Humberside...

and Dublin was an honoree 'grim up north' provincial town.

There was fuck all money to be had here so everyone headed off to London and New York to work on building sites.

So for a few months I was a had a go at labouring. I learnt fast to pick up a brush and carry it around all day. If anyone walked by I'd start sweeping, otherwise, just try and hide out in far corners of the site passing the day getting stoned. It beat working.

I used to get the sack quite a lot, usually whenever I was asked to do a bit of heavy lifting work. I'd whinge about having a hernia and the like but there was always an eager 'Westie' fresh off the boat with a red neck, waiting to take your place, who'd lift bags of cement for fun.

So I'd be paid off early that day and back home in bed by lunchtime.

They used to pick a labourer to be in charge of all the other labourers so the foreman wouldn't have to bother his arse getting to know us and could just deal with him directly. He was usually the most vocal of the 'Westies'.

He was called the Ganger.

A good Ganger knew he was one of the lads, was glad of the extra few quid and wanting an easy life would keep things running smoothly. Dealing with any issues that came up. Covering for you if you had to piss off for a bit / sign on / sleep off a hangover etc.

Because of this you would also do that bit extra if he was getting grief and had to get something finished by the end of the day and all that.

A bad Ganger was like an uncle Tom. Called anyone who wasn't a labourer Boss to their face and wanker to their back. Would bully and cajole younger fellas who never knew him as an equal and get them to do his job for him.

He would break off conversation mid sentence whenever a foreman or suit would come on site, to be seen to loudly reprimand or give sound advice on how a job should be done correctly. Even if you had been doing it to his specific orders.

He was the bosses 'gombeen' man when the boss was in earshot. The loudest fucker on the site. But in the pub or canteen he was 'one of the lads'.

In short he was a cunt.

Dublin is now like London in the 80's.

Now I am having a go at being a 'creative' in an agency. I thought it would beat working.

But it feels like I am back on the sites and the Ganger is alive and well. He is now in marketing. And design. And probably every other white collar wageslave, cubicle hell that passes for a job out there nowadays.

And I am surrounded by them.

One of these days I expect i'll be paid off and home in bed by lunchtime.

Wonder if the same thing happened in Dundee and Humberside?

the marketing chainsaw massacre: part 12

2006-02-16T03:15:00.000-08:00

mydaysasawageslave.com

Had managed to swing a few days off and was back at my cubicle with a serious case of 'work-shock.' My plan was to hide out in my earphones and avoid all human contact.

But first up was the morning meeting.

There was a huge hissy fit over a missed meeting, with hair tossing and lots of "I'm not putting you down, but..." put downs.

It was all acne, spots, half bitten nails and rash breakouts. A couple of alpha females were fighting for the affections of our boss. The dark satanic majesty that is Number 1.

One of them, a particularly ambitious little coke fiend called Trixiebelle, was suggesting how another more senior colleague could improve her working methods. Having just finished reading another self help, marketing guru book recommended her by Number 1, the new-speak was flying left right and centre.

I had no idea what they were saying. Terms like "trained in facilitating creativity." were being tossed off all over the place.

Someone actually said "we'll have to sit down after this meeting and arrange another meeting to talk about why we can't do this meeting next week."

They were facing off, pointing and pouting down the opposition and the testosterone was flying around the room.

Yup, the girls were in fine form today.

I was bored shitless but judging by his grin, it was like porn to Number 1.

We eventually got out and I escaped into my earphones and a world of Heavy Metal and emails.

The day dragged on until around 5 o'clock. Number 1 floats over to my supervisor, Kelvin and me. We are in the middle of talking to one of the less aggressive rentokit Marketing girls.

After hovering around leering at her for a few seconds, whilst waiting awkwardly for an opportunity to interrupt, he finally blurts out...

"You know I could just punch you in the face and rip that top of you. You'd be all covered in blood and shit and then I'd have my evil way with you right there! Ha Ha Ha!"

Silence.

It was one of those creepy tumbleweed moments. We didn't know where to look.

"What did you just say?" rentokit marketing girl gasped in disbelief.

and not getting the cue that he was being really creepy, Number 1 just went on to repeat himself.

"I Said, Hur! Hur! Did you hear this guys... that I could just punch her in the face and rip that top of. She'd be all covered in blood and... and then I could do whatever I wanted to her. Right there! Ha Ha Ha! What do ya reckon guys. Sounds good huh?" he leered at us conspiratorially.

There was a further few seconds of silence before wageslave 66 in the cube opposite me exhaled in disbelief "Jesus, you are so strange!"

The other wageslaves looked too stunned to even laugh nervously.

Rentokit marketing girl was laugh very nervously. Kind of close to a panic attack nervously.
They didn't teach her this shit at marketing school.

Number 1 looked to myself and Kelvin for support. "What? What's wrong? Did I say something wrong?"

Kelvin, thinking about that expensive new apartment and credit card bill he had to fund, flustered and shrugged, laughing an embarrassingly false laugh.

All I could think about was American Psycho and the scene where Patrick Bateman tells some girl he is into 'Murders and executions' before revising it to 'Mergers and acquisitions.'

"That's real serial killer talk." I said.

Number 1 was intrigued. "Really? You think that's bad?

You should hear what Igor says to me sometimes during meetings.

We're sitting in my office looking at all the girls through the glass and he'd just say, out of the blue. Like Beavis and Butthead. Hur! Hur! See that girl there, I'd love to cut her head off and shag her through the neck. With, like, blood and guts flying everywhere. Ha! Ha!

Real sick shit like that. He's much worse than me."

"Jeez, why doesn't that surprise me. The creepy accountant guy with serial killer fantasies. Bet the girls love him." I replied.

Number 1 just laughed. He didn't care. He was God in this world that he had created.

"Now anyway, Shoo! Girlie!" he gesticulated to rentokit marketing girl. "Kelvin, will you come into my office. I have something I need to talk to you about. Now."

And he was gone.

Kelvin looked apologetically at rentokit marketing girl and shrugged, before pulling at bits of his hair. He seems to be developing this nervous tick lately. He'll probably start to lose clumps of it soon.

"Erm, I suppose I'll just talk to you then." She said to me looking kind of stunned.

"Go on then and you'd better sit down too "

She'll probably be gone to a new job in a month or two, I'd imagine. That is if Number 1 and his right hand man Igor don't get to her first.

Back in 'Nam... I think I made a mistake coming here Grandma.

2006-01-30T08:34:00.000-08:00

mydaysasawageslave.com

I was just asked to sign a card for someone I don't think I've ever heard off and I know I've certainly never met (whilst sober anyway).

When I enquired as to why I should sign it and who was the girl, I was told she did work here and it was her birthday.

Due to the high turnover / bodycount here our boss Number 1 has decided we should all have higher morale. Birthday cards are part of the new regime but apparently only for the sales and accounts people.

The so called creatives / designers can all fuck off it seems, seeing as how we are always bitching anyway.

Then as I was chatting about this to one of the sales guys, he told me he was leaving next week but was told by Number 1 not to tell anyone until he told us at our weekly meeting on Friday.

And so things just rumble along here in a semi chaotic manner.

It's like that great scene from Apocalypse Now when Martin Sheen is going up river and comes across the base where everyone is shooting wildly, running around doing crazy drugs and loosing the head.

No one knows what's going on and they just want to stay alive.

He can't find anyone who seems to be in charge until finally he finds some murderous lunatic who knows who's in control but doesn't really care if anyone else does. Chilling. On so many levels.

I'm noticing that all my analogies for this wageslavery they call work seem to be Vietnam movies. What's that about?

Although I heard on the radio this morning that a guy was holding up traffic walking down the M50 in a shirt and tie with a rifle and a briefcase ala 'Falling Down'. How excellent.

Then just as I thought things couldn't get worse i received news that Harvey Nichol's are flogging a children's book called "This Little Piggy went to Prada".

Really. Check out their website at http://www.harveynichols.com/files/images/FOOD_NEWS_Piggy1.jpg if you don't beleive me.

Described as... "a humorous, gloriously shallow little tome of nursery rhymes designed for the Blahnik and Birkin brigade - yummy mummies (and daddies perhaps) with a penchant for the better things in life (with the right label attached of course)."

Thing is, I know people who will buy this book. Seriously.

They ARE taking over the world.

Maybe that guy on the M50 had the right idea.

they are taking over the world; part 102

2006-01-24T06:04:00.000-08:00

mydaysasawageslave.com

taken from an American 'news' site today...

"Tilley joined the Army because of her desire to work with animals. “I joined for the job, I’ve always loved animals and this just seemed like the right place for me to be,” she explained.

In her off-duty time, Tilley spends much of her time working with her church, Orange Park Assembly of God, as a youth leader. “I typically put in about 12-15 hours at my church each week; I also enjoy writing and acting,” she said."

Another morning of web based 'research' led me to this little beauty.
It would be funny if it weren't so scary.

How does someone who wants to work with animals jump to the conclusion that the army is the best way to go about it.

And what else would this caring, young killing machine do in her spare time but hang around a church. For 15 hours a week.

I wish I could do something as pointless as that for 15 hours a week. Like drinking. Or masturbation maybe. Be about as much use.

You know if I was a mad muslim insurgent being tortured or shot at by 'Tilley', I'm sure I'd take comfort in the fact that she loves animals and our good Lord J.C.

God loves America. Or so they tell us.

God help us all.

they are taking over the world; part 102

2006-01-24T06:03:00.000-08:00

they are taking over the world; part 101

2006-01-23T03:54:00.000-08:00

mydaysasawageslave.com

A New Low...

I was trawling the web looking for cheap thrills and/or inspiration lately when I came across this ad in the process of my 'research'.

He is being offered for hire by a promotional company. This is surely a new nadir in wanky nu-marketing speak "Sales Entertainer"!!!!!

What could possibly be entertaining about this scenario. 'Martin', if that is his real name and not just his hooker name, looks like your average middle aged, old school, sales man. Have these people never heard of David Brent or 'The Office'?

In my opinion, 'Martin' is not a 'Professional Sales Entertainer'.

Sitting through his routine looks more like torture than entertainment to me.
Like something you'd have to do for work.

This man MUST be hunted down NOW! Lets chip in and hire him to do his pitch in an underground garage somewhere away from other people.

'Martin' is a sales man for hire.

Bruce Forsyth is an entertainer.

In the words of one of those new age, self help, business guru types that my boss pays a fortune to come over and patronise his staff...

"You're a 6 letter word, beginning with 'W' and ending in 'R"

... and it's not 'winner'.

I feel a rant coming on.

why i love my boss... part 655

2005-12-16T07:22:00.000-08:00

another friday... another morning meeting.

I've managed to skip the last 2 weeks worth of these things, through a mixture of feigning a busy workload (a la George Costanza) and taking days off.

Apparently, my absence is beginning to draw unwanted attention so I figured I'd better make the effort today.

8.40 and I'm running late. I don't have time to grab a coffee to keep me awake, so I just have to sit there and look alert. And interested in marketing.

8.42 - I'm beginning to fall asleep.

8.45 - I wish I hadn't drank that bottle of cheep red wine last night.
That late night jumbo bag of Cheesi-Nachos didn't help either

8.55 - I'm sweating and I feel I need to vomit.

The droning continues and then...

9.15 - people around me are beginning to rustle their papers and diaries.

I perk up instantly because it looks like we might be getting out but just as I get to my feet my boss, Number One, speaks.

"One last thing... as you all may or amy not know, we were pitching to a major bank this week. And well, I won the account! Well that is, we won the account."

...pause.

"No, you know what? I won the account! I know a lot of people worked on it and obviously a few of you design chaps had to do all that design work and so on but I feel that if I hadn't been there we wouldn't have won the account".

As if on cue, there was a mass of nervous shifting in seats as ranks of pushy marketing girls internally spontaneously combusted and designers grimaced at having a week of their lives written off to stress and late nights at work with such ease.

I thought of David Brent's classic monologue in 'The Office' on the merits of team work.

No 'i' in 'team' indeed!

The room looked at Number One, waiting, hoping for a punchline.

"I could tell that they were very impressed by MY input. So I think that entitles me to a round of applause...

Don't you?" He menaced.

Smithers led the way with a short, school marm-ish clap and like sheep we all followed, slowly at first, until, encouraged by Igor's darting glares hoping to catch someone not clapping, it grew to a loud, standing ovation.

Number One sat back on his thrown, basking in the adulation.

I looked around the room at this scene of madness, threw back my head and laughed the laugh of the damned.

Six letter word beginning with "w" ending with "r"

2005-11-25T05:22:00.000-08:00

...so I had taken to playing Marketing Bingo in an attempt to seem more interested in what my fellow employees had to say during meetings.

I had just been told at my latest quarterly review that I'm "...either really good at handling the stress of the job or that I don't give a fuck!"

My supervisor, Kelvin, couldn't decide which and so opting on the side of caution decided not to give me a raise and told me that I "should be seen to be more emotive and bothered by what you're doing at work. I want to come back in here in 3 months time and to have seen that you care about the company. Talk more about work. Be involved."

He was right though.

I didn't give a fuck.

But in the interests of getting a raise and trying to be more like everyone else I work with, I decided that from now on I was going to look more interested in my job.

I was going to be happy.

New Attitude - Day 1:
I was straight in at the deep end.

It was a team meeting this morning. But first, I had to endure a conversation about rugby between a couple of the marketing yaya's whilst waiting on the kettle to boil, without resorting to sarcasm, bitterness or goading.

It seems that everyone in the white collar world of new ireland Inc. has to like rugby nowadays. Call me old school but I've just never lived on a road where kids played rugby.

Soccer, football, swimming, tennis, boxing, running... whatever. But rugby always seemed something the posh kids in the boarding schools did.

That and lots of horseplay in the communal showers. Towel slapping, bullying and buggery. That sort of thing.

Anyway, by the time a couple of female yaya's had eagerly joined in the conversation, I was choking on my new found work smile. I had to get out of the kitchen.

Thankfully Igor, the finance guy and Number 1's henchman, came in and scowled at us all. He didn't like to see people gathering in groups. I think he thought it made the place look untidy.

Still, I never thought I'd be glad to go to a team meeting but it gave me the chance to escape the clutches of the rugby yaya's.

The meeting got off to a blinding start.

Marketing Bingo, is a game I heard about on the web. Usually played by bored wageslaves who have to listen to loads of shite being talked, whilst nodding and smiling like a baboon. That pretty much summed up my workday, every day.

Every time a cliche or lie is uttered, you tick off your bingo card.

Outside the box. Check.

Innovative ideas. Check.

Strategy led. Check.

ABC1. Check.

Laugh at the bosses joke. Check.

2 minutes in and I was halfway through my card.

I was looking very pleased with myself and for once, I was waiting attentively on every word being bounced around the room. If I could keep this facade up for another couple of months, who knows where I could be? A raise. A promotion even. Yeah, I was pretty sure now I had this work thing sorted. My grin was getting bigger by the second. Every time a new cliche was spewed out, my ticks became more elaborate and the funny thing was that THEY probably presumed that I was taking notes, thus looking even more conscientious!

HA! The wankers! What did they know!

I can't have been lost to my madness for more than a couple of minutes when I noticed the wageslave next to me, looking over with a mixture of worry and fear.

I followed her eyes down to the bingo sheet in my open desk diary.

The fear hit me with a gulp as I realised that I had been scribbling 'wanker' repeatedly all over the sheet. It had started about halfway through the bingo session, scribbled in place of a tick, then just carried on off the page. Everywhere.
Nothing but 'wankers' scrawled over every bit of white space.

I didn't want to look up in case anyone else had noticed so I just sat there, frozen in an embarrassed silence. If I cover up the sheet I'd only be drawing attention to it so I figured fuck it, leave it open and hope for the best?

The sales wageslaves droned on, followed by the accounts wageslaves.

...and then we were finally given permission to leave the table.

I bolted for the door, before being nabbed by the boss, Number 1.

"You all right there?" he enquired.

I didn't know what he was referring to so I just grinned non commitedly.

"I just noticed you looked a bit on edge there in the meeting. Everything alright?"

"er, yeah. fine." I shrugged.

"A job getting to you huh?"

"Yea, something like that." I nodded sagely.

"That's what I like to see in my employees. Work related stress. If you're working too hard you must be making me lots of money.

Keep up the good work."

...and of he went. Smiling to himself. My boss. Number 1.

Wanker.

Work is Hell: Part 666

2005-10-10T06:05:00.000-07:00

"The Cleaner did it".

How was I to know that a seemingly innocent remark could have such a disastrous consequence?

It all began last week. As I was leaving on Monday evening I popped into the kitchen to leave back my coffee cup and noticed a box of fudge brownies on the counter. There was no one around to ask, so I presumed they were left unopened from a meeting earlier on, probably attended by marketing girls with eating disorders or diets to maintain.

I opened the pack and helped myself. It was real luxury stuff. The kind you would only buy if someone else was paying. The chocolate practically melted away in my mouth leaving lumps of fudgy sugar. Hmmm.

One was never going to be enough so I grabbed another couple for the journey home.

As I made for the door I passed the cleaning lady in the hallway. A nice little woman. Slightly Oriental I think, with a really soft spoken voice. She would ghost about the place every evening, silently cleaning her way through the office with a smile on her face.

"Hiya!" I said.

She smiled and nodded back at me and then I was gone.

The next day I was sitting around, contemplating making another cup of coffee in between downloading the latest episode of Lost.

The phone rang. It was Phyllis, our office manager. "You didn't open that box of brownies in the kitchen last night did you?"

"Er, no. The cleaner must have done it." I said before starting to laugh. "But really, why do you want to know? Is there a problem?"

She was already talking to someone else before she hung up the phone. I just shrugged and wondered at how mean minded and petty this place was.

Anyway, it was 11 o clock and I knew I'd have to start working pretty soon, so I made for the kitchen.

As I went through reception, I could hear the end of a shouting match. Our boss, Number One, stormed through the door past me in a rage. I had to jump back from the door swinging at my face. He glared at me for a second, probably weighing up whether he should hit me or not, before deciding against it and thundering up the stairs.

I went through to reception to see a red faced Phyllis. Annie, the receptionist, had run into the toilets in tears.

"What was that about?" I asked.

"You don't want to know." she said. "Best left unsaid."

I shrugged and made for the kitchen. There was always some kind of intrigue going on in here. Every time you walked into a room there was a group of people bitching about something, so you got used to not asking questions. Keeping your head down and watching your back.

Yesterday, I was on my way out the door at the end of another day's drudgery, when I passed a new cleaning lady on the stairs.

She beamed a friendly smile at my greeting, before continuing up the stairs with her bin-liners.

I took a double take at her from the bottom of the stairs. She was definitely new. Now I thought about it I hadn't noticed the usual cleaning lady around these last few days.

"Yes. She's new you know". came a voice in smug confirmation from my side.

Smithers had come out of his room into the hallway. Wrapped in ironic Burberrys and Pink. "Apparently the last one was caught stealing or something." he went on.

"What? What do you mean stealing?" I asked.

"I dunno. Stealing. Who cares? Nothing important. Biscuits or something. She probably wanted to feed her family or something. You know those chinkees..." he trailed off chillingly.

I felt sick.

From nowhere a marketing girl piped up... "Yea, apparently the boss went mad last week. She had opened one of his packets of brownies or something before a meeting with his accountant. He blamed the receptionist first. Lost the head with her. She hasn't been back since."

I was feeling worse now.

"Funny thing was though, that they didn't even eat the brownies in the end. Phylis says they left them all on the plate. It was more the point of it. He always likes to open the pack. Everyone knows that."

I didn't.

"Rules are Rules." she chirped gleefully.

I staggered out the door in shock, leaving them to continue with their speculative gossiping session. This place was insane. I had probably caused that poor woman's sacking. I was gutted. It was like living in the old East Block under the Stazi. I was never going to speak to anyone at work again. It just wasn't safe.

I needed a drink.

Vietmarketing... some people call it hell. I call it work.

2005-10-03T05:00:00.000-07:00

The body count is rising. And how!

Today the whispers floating around the office the last couple of weeks were confirmed.

NUMBER ONE informed us that we were losing another three people this month. "Moving on to bigger and better things." he joked through gritted teeth.

Eoin was leaving next week, Heather at the end off the month and Gayle was leaving today.

Or I think that's what he called her, as I realised that I had never even noticed her before now. Or if I did, I had probably presumed that she was visiting someone else who worked here. Or a client or something.

Apparently she had been with the company for seven months too! but what did I know? The turnover was so high here, that it was easy to miss someone.

I started to think about those Vietnam movies from the '80's like Platoon. Where the 'runts' were viewed as cannon fodder by the 'vets'. I was looking around the room at faces, trying to figure who would be the veterans and who would be the runts in this platoon.

Of course it goes without saying that our boss, NUMBER ONE, has to be 'Barnes' the Tom Berenger character.

I suppose I fancied myself as a bit of the Charlie Sheen character crossed with the charisma of Elias (the Willem Dafoe guy) minus the bit where he gets killed of course.

Truth was, I probably had more in common with the black guy who whinged all the time and only survived by hiding under all the dead bodies in his foxhole!

That guy from 'Scrubs' (John C. McGinley I think), could be half the people here. Spineless and sycophantic. Cowardly and treacherous. Essential qualities when it comes to surviving a Marketing company. Or Vietnam.

Our head PR guy, Smithers probably gets the role, although Igor, the accounts guy would give him a good run for his money as the bad guy's sidekick, although I se him more as the Vietcong guy in the Deer Hunter who made De NIro and Walken play Russian Roulette.

Pretty much everyone else here was a 'runt'. Most of the marketing girls were like the Johnny Depp character. You know they're in the film / company somewhere but you can't quite place them until they're about to walk on and get their comeuppance.

According to that Paul Hardcastle song, the average age in 'Nam was 19. Wonder what the average age in Vietmarketing is?

I'd say it's 28. Or 32 even. I was 36. That had to make me a Vet' then. Or dead meat.

'You're the seventh longest serving member of staff now you know!' came a whisper from over my right shoulder.

The hair rose up on the back of my neck at this.

I looked around the room at my platoon. The faces were fresh. Fearful even. The runts were always the more attentive in these meetings. Eager to impress Number 1.

The few battle hardened vets looked back at me through blank eyes. taking in the downtime before they went out to slay the enemy. Smithers took notes. Number 66 was writing and retracing the word 'NO' so hard onto his notepad that he had scored through all the pages. Trinnie (Number 4) was smiling through me with gimlet eyes.

Fuck! he was right. How the hell did that happen?

Number 27 had hit me with a sucker punch. Sharp as ever, he took on the role of my conscience in this place. To the point where I wondered if he really existed at all. Maybe he is a figment of my imagination like Tyler Durden (Brad Pitt) in 'Fight Club'. Created to help me cope with the stress of working this dead end job.

I looked back at him grinning smuggly. Even though this made him the 6th longest serving member. It didn't matter. He knew it would be causing me more pain than him so it was all worth it in his eyes.

The rest of the meeting flew by. I was in a bit of a cold sweat.

Every time someone left we had to drop €10 into a going away present kitty. Call me small minded but at this rate I was going to be down about €360 a year. Net! I couldn't afford this. If I opted out of paying into the kitty I would become extremely unpopular. Then again everyone seems to hate everyone else in here anyway.

Everyone started to shuffle their papers and get up. Meeting over. Number 1 had given us permission to leave.

I made for the door hoping to avoid eye contact with Number 1. Like a bad dream, I did exactly the opposite.

"Er, Peter? Right?" He boomed.

"Yeah?"

"...so you've been around for a while now."

"Nine months."

"Really? That Long? ...we should catch up sometime."

"Er. Yeah. Sure."

"Do you play golf?"

"No."

"Rr-ight." he paused, "...let me get back to you on that."

"Ok." I replied, relieved.

I slipped out the door quickly. Number 27 was leaning against the wall in the hallway grinning knowingly. Or at least I hoped he was!

a toilet break costs your boss money.

2005-09-16T08:55:00.000-07:00

I went 2 days last week without going to the toilet once.

I didn't think about it until I was getting ready to leave my plot. one of the other guys I like to call Wageslave 5, was whining about how "this toilet issue was becoming a real bastard!"
"What toilet issue." i said.

"there IS no toilet!" he retorted, "why, where have you been going then?"

"I haven't been going anywhere. Why how long have they been out of action?"

"Since yesterday. All day."

"Oh, I didn't know. No one told me."

"Didn't you get the email from Philis?" he quizzed.

"Oh I don't usually read them. they're never really for me. You know all that company announcements type of stuff."

He looked knowingly over at wageslave 13, Kelvin our supervisor, for approval, shaking his head in disbelief. "Well they are out of action. Since yesterday... and it's a real bastard!"
"Right. That is bad." I nodded.

He seemed happy with this and headed for the door. "Anyway, I'm dying for a slash and I've a match to play tonight so I'll see you girls tomorrow. " Wageslave 13 following close behind.

I love to get a good bitch and moan in, especially at the companies expense but wageslaves 5 and 13 are not the kind of people you bitch to. They might do a lot of moaning themselves but it's usually about some co-worker or other not pulling their weight. Doing their bit for the company and the like. That the company might ever be at fault is never considered. To question the motives or validity of any company decree was tantamount to blasphemy. So I had learnt to keep quiet around these guys.

Although, if truth be known, I was actually in shock that I had gone 2 days with having a piss. This was really freaking me out.

I sat there as everyone around me was leaving (aside from the usual desk magnets who seem to live here almost unnoticed, avoiding bad marriages or lonely house shares with strangers). My mind was racing over the past 2 days, trying to recall a visit to the toilet. There had to have been one. I think I went yesterday morning before I left the house.

I know I had drank a good bit of black tea and coffee lately. Maybe I had prostrate cancer or something! Now I was sweating.

I went on to the internet to look it up.

I shouldn't have bothered.

Now I'm really freaked out.

I scrolled through my emails. Any with an office address usually get ignored. If it's important they'll call me on the phone. I checked one of those from Philis (Wageslave 12) dated yesterday. Yes, she had indeed flagged us to the fact that the toilets were not working. In among all those notices about how it was the boss' birthday / anniversary / wife's birthday or latest dictate on clothing, cleanliness, noise, company loyalty or timekeeping, was one headed 'Company Toilets...' it went on to say that they 'will be out of action until further notice.' it was signed 'Office Manager' although Philis was essentially The Master's voice made flesh.

Number 1 wouldn't deign to lower himself to addressing us on such trivialities and so he used his 'Office Manager' to act as intermediary. In between making him cups of tea and reminding him what presents she had bought on his behalf for various members of his family.

I was suddenly overcome with the sudden urge to take a piss. It was like the floodgates had burst on a dam and I knew I wouldn't make it through the 20 minute journey home. I needed to go and I needed it now.

I packed up my stuff and made for the hall. The room was quiet but for the cleaners buzzing around.

I passed Wageslave 66 sitting staring into his monitor. He turned to look up at me with a blank smile. I noticed that he had his finger pressing on the 'a' button on his keyboard, the screen filling up with line after line of a flashing digital scream. In my 6 months there I had never said more than 3 words to the guy. I hoped he was just unaware of his mistake. It was either that or he was seriously crashing. I'd have to watch out there in case he goes postal someday. Make sure I'm not in that day.

The hallway and stairs were empty and my mind was racing. Why where the toilets out of use anyway? What was wrong with them? Broken cistern? Blockage? Leak? I would do a piss regardless. No one would know it was me. Who cares if there's no flush? Although an overflowing or leaking toilet would be worse again. But fuck it. Who's to know it was me?

Shit! The door's locked. What's the story? then suddenly I hear the toilet flush. Not wanting to bump into anyone in this state I jump up a couple of stairs around the corner toward the storage cupboard.

Next thing I see Number 1 hulking away from me down the hallway laughing out loud to himself.
It's a freaky moment. I didn't know he was in the building. Once he was out of site, I nipped into the vacant toilet. He must have done a dump because the stench was almost overpowering but I couldn't wait any longer. I was letting loose as soon as I got my fly open. Splashing like a mad bastard dog marking his territory. Sweet relief!

When I had finally finished up I found everything flushed perfectly fine. I waited for the leak or whatever and it never came. So what exactly was the problem? Seemed fine to me.

Next day we got a circular around midday telling us we could use the toilets again. It occurred to me that there had been no one in to fix the toilets. Number 1 had rung Collette just moments before she had alerted us to the good news about them.

What a fucking freak!

Still, I was just glad to be back pissing regularly again. Now if only I could get over this constipation thing I've been having since I stared here I'd be happy.

my boss is a lizard

2005-09-02T19:24:00.000-07:00

mydaysasawageslave.com

I am now convinced that my boss (Number 1) is a lizard.

I'm not talking reptile house 4 legged things here. I'm talking David Icke Illuminati alien shape shifter in human form type lizard.

Apart from the fact that he is an all round 360 degree evil bastard, there is always the uneasy feeling that his personality is that of someone impersonating someone else. Like that guy out of The Talented Mr Ripley. Or to be precise, an Alien shape shifting lizard impersonating a human. He is good at it but never quite right. He doesn't make a convincing human.

The proof has been staring me in the face for a while now. Cold gimlet eyes. No humour, (laughing at other people's pain doesn't really count as humour in my book) and a hatred of both daylight and heat.

My work space temperature is strictly controlled to be at freezing at all times. Even in the height of summer, it is still cold here in work. You can go outside and feel the heat rising with the hem lines and libidos but step into our building and it's fucking freezing. Fans, air conditioners, lighting, the lot. All designed to cause maximum discomfort to humans.

We had taken to winging about it quite a lot lately, putting pressure on our supervisor, Number 13 (an unlucky number as there has been 3 number 13's in the last 9 months). He agreed that something should be done about it, just not necessarily by him. As a result we had taken to turning up the heating whenever Number 1 was out of the office.

Throughout the day Number 1 storms around the place, moving from room to room avoiding any contact with direct sunlight, followed closely by his acolytes, Smithers and Igor.

As he enters a room he stops, pausing momentarily to sense the temperature. It's hard at these moments to tell if he is sniffing the level of heat in the room or the scent of fear in his humans (employees). At this point, everyone is avoiding eye contact. Some hardy fool has dared to turn off the fan blowing ice cold air into the room. The temperature is now bare-able if you wear a jacket.

But as we know, cold blooded creatures spurn the heat. Number 1 darts a look at us all cowering behind our monitors. Smithers, draped in Burberry scarf with matching designer blue pinstripe shirt and marketing jeans, looks on smugly like he knows someone is 'going to get it now'.

Igor, Number 1's faithful accounts flunky, merely looks on dispassionately. We are not people to him. We are costs. Overheads. Waste even. Given the permission to do so, Igor would kill any one of us without a thought. It is the way of his kind.

'Who's been messing with the temperature?' barked Number 1.

Silence.

'Oohhh!' mocked Smithers in his campest voice '... someone's been naughty.'

'It's set at a constant level. If you people mess with it, everything goes to hell. You know I don't like it when it gets hot. Leave it alone. I've got it on the right setting now.' continued Number 1.

We all looked to Number 13, our supervisor, who went puice. Obviously now wasn't the time to say anything remotely critical of Number 1, as he nodded in sober agreement.

One of the girls, Number 23, sneezed. Number 1 glared at her. She was dead meat now.

'Is that OK!' he barked at Number 13.

'Er, yeah. Grand. Fine.' he mumbled.

And then he was gone. Followed like a faithful hajib wearing Muslim bride by Igor.

Smithers stopped to address us all archly 'Now. That's telling youse.' Before scurrying off after Number 1 into another colder, darker room.

There are no walls in our building. Number 1 likes to see us all at all times. It's a classic prison layout.

Thing is, that through the glass, I'm sure I saw him lash out his tongue a good 3 feet away from the window to kill a fly that was hovering there.

Like a lizard.

Mullets, Moustaches & Satan. It's all good.

2005-09-02T17:34:00.003-07:00

Today I actually had to do a full days work.

As a matter of principle I like to spend at last 2 hours a day doing nothing that will make my boss (Number 1) any money.

It's in my 'rules for a wageslave' that this journal will only be written during working hours.

I see it as a way of clawing back a bit of my life and therefore I fool myself that I get a better hourly rate of pay than I actually do, seeing as I only work 20 odd hours a week as opposed to 40. My hero is the guy from Fight Club (not Brad Pitt's Tyler Durden but the Ed Norton guy), who manages to get his boss fired and a years salary for doing nothing. Hmmm. One day.

Having to do a full 8 hours work really kills me but today in the middle of my working hell I managed to steal this photo from Number 1's office. I enlisted the help of a fellow wageslave. I call him Number 29. He's going to go postal any day now I know it and I must say I am encouraging him to do it.

Anyway, here he is in all his Satanic splendour. He is on the left, shaking hands with the moustachioued mullet, who I can only presume is another blue blooded lizardy PD type.

He is the enemy.

And remember, photos never lie.

freedom for all wageslaves

how to look like you're working whilst web surfing and eating stodge with a hangover

2005-08-26T06:12:00.000-07:00

I continue to dig my own grave. It's like I can't help myself.

After a particularly rowdy midweek drinking session I couldn't manage to drag myself into work on time.

I did manage to text ahead to one of the other wageslaves and say I was running late and cover for me but unfortunately, I was confronted by my boss (Number 1) within touching distance from my desk.

I had managed to make it through reception without being seen and couldn't believe my luck as I realised he was on the phone with his back to me.

"Glad you could make it!" boomed THAT voice from his ever open office door. He looked through me before glaring knowingly at his watch.

"Don't mention it." I blurted out with a huge grin. I turned to my chair, threw down my bag and decided that what I really needed was a good, strong cup of coffee. Lunch time was only 2 hours away but it was going to be a long 2 hours. Especially with that freak boring holes into the back of my head.

Thank God for hangovers. I fear no one when I have a hangover. After lunch though I'll probably get paranoid but until then I'm going to be too busy thinking about eating stodge to be afraid of the sack.

Now I've just got to look like I'm working for the next 3 hours.

no talking in class

2005-08-23T05:42:00.000-07:00

I am sitting in a room where people go to the 'UK' for meetings and say 'Alrighty' or 'Righty' when agreeing with each other.

The meeting is already on 5 to 10 minutes by the time I slink in the door and push my way into a spare wall space, all the seats having been taken by the various layers of lower and middle management, prefect's in past lives surely?

I turn to discreetly ask the girl next to me had I "missed anything of note? Anyone else hand in their notice yet?"

Her snigger momentarily distracted Number 1 in mid flow on the merits of contacting old school friends who may be in positions of influence in the world of commerce. Golf being his preferred method for bonding and bringing in potential revenue streams for 'the company'.

His glare was psychotic. He looked through us with a contempt that only a bully who has never been challenged or had a fight in his life would consider. He was headmaster to our naughty pupils. He was omnipotent. He was Number 1.

After a measured pause, he continued.

Apparently there was a slush fund available to finance these little outings.

One of the familiars from his inner circle had apparently led the way in this area over the weekend and so pleased was Number 1 by this show of ingenious brown nosing that from now it was to become official company policy by diktat.

His flunky, who I call Smithers after guy in The Simpsons, was beaming with pride. I noticed that he had somehow managed to co-ordinate the same pink polo shirt as Number 1 (having already mastered the same haircut the week previous. I had taken to wearing black again.

As the topic went on to marketing institute Power Breakfast's and the like, my mind drifted off to MY old school friends.

I wondered if I could round up a few of them would we have access to this slush fund?

I know a few of them are in prison (although I think they're out now). Most of them are probably builders and engineers, musicians, drunks and unemployed.

I couldn't think on anyone who would be deemed suitable for a round of golf and a chat about marketing over some Chablis.

I was glad.

Another part of me left today.

But I'm still a wageslave stuck in marketing hell.

Help.

Bring me the head of Barbara Bel Geddes

2005-08-19T02:45:00.000-07:00

Today got off to a strange start. A friend of many years sent me an email to tell me that Barbara Bel Geddes (Miss Ellie out of Dallas) had just died.

As I read through the mail it occurred to me that he was part of a Barbara Bel Geddes web ring. Before I got a chance to ask, his email went on to clarify that 'yes, he was on the mailing list'.

I took this as a clear admission that he was indeed gay. A sort of coming out of the email closet if you will.

Nowadays it's kind of trendy to be bi-curious, camp or at the very least, have a token gay friend.

According to my research, all the marketing girls here (alright the 4 that I bothered to ask), have stated that they think gay men make better friends than straight men. Almost as good as best girl friends in fact.

Sample reasons given included better fashion sense. Interest in shoes. A love of 'girly' films and actresses. Cleanliness and generally more sensitive to a girl's needs.

When pushed, it turns out that only one of the girls actually knew a gay man and that he was her brother, which I think should automatically rule him out as a 'gay man friend'.

I have a 'gay man friend'. He is small, round and bald yet very hairy in a nose, ears and back kind of way. He usually wears the classic white collar desk jockey uniform of slacks and shirt. Jeans and jumper at weekends. Similar to bank clerks and call center employees the world over.

In regards to a love of girly' films, I know that he did go to see Titanic but hated it. He thought Leonardo Di Caprio was a ride though and went off on a crude tangent about what he would do to him if he had him drunk and / or immobilised in his flat late one hypothetical night.

He prefers 'The Soprano's' to 'Sex and the City', which he doesn't get, it being "too girly".

When in the company of women he is inclined to gloss over with a disinterested detachment. Whenever I've brought this up, he merely replies that he just doesn't "get Women. They're too ... I dunno, girly". I think it's because he has no intention of ever shagging them. In any hypothetical scenario.

To tell you the truth, he's just as shallow, self centred and sex obsessed as most of my other friends, which makes him great craic in my book.

It would also suggest that most of the marketing girls I work with don't know what they're talking about.

But i suspected that anyway.

mydaysasawageslave: 4 people 1 haircut

2005-08-12T05:07:00.000-07:00

I'd taken to missing my monday morning team meeting lately but it was beginning to attract a few comments.

In a tragic effort to avoid being outed as a chronic slacker, I figured I'd better attend this weeks little get-together.

If you can remember morning assembly from your school days, you'll have an idea as to how these meetings went. Headmaster (Number 1) waffles on about stuff, while we (his pupils) sit and variously accept his praise or criticism depending on his mood. In all my time as a wageslave here I hadn't said more than 2 words, (when asked was there anything strange or new in my department that I wanted to share with the rest of the company, I would invariably answer 'No').

This weeks meeting was as mind numbingly boring as all the others.

Half an hour of day dreaming, drooling and drawing murderous cartoons in my notepad, whilst a variety of wageslaves vied with each other for Number 1's affections this week. Laughing louder or longer at his jokes. Looking increasingly pensive at his misgivings or nodding approvingly as he espoused his views on world domination in the field of marketing and sales promotion.

In doing my caricatures I realised that the people who weren't women were beginning to look the same to me. It was as if I had drawn 4 cartoons of the same guy on my note pad, even though I had actually drawn 4 different people. The only differentiation being the large dagger going through the head of one of them. (funny but I always finish my drawings of Number 1 with a large dagger going through his skull! What does that say?!)

In the way they say owners begin to look like their dogs, I'm pretty sure now that Numbers 1's begin to look like their wageslaves. (or vice versa).

It's a given that the people who aren't women in the company begin to assimilate in terms of their dress code, that classic office casual look of straight jeans, tucked in light blue stripey shirt and slip on shoes but it would appear to have moved up to the next level of evolution. Four guys, one haircut.

To cap it all, it would appear that they are all developing the same bald patch. It's like some kind of weird cult around here. I hear that women's periods start to align if they spend a lot of time together but I had never heard of the male equivalent. Although, technically I refer to these guys as the people who aren't women in the company, seeing as how the field of sales promotion isn't exactly renowned for producing the most manly of men if you know what I mean.

I was getting freaked out and I knew I had to get out before I too, was assimilated, Borg style, into the fold. Get out of the company but more importantly right now, get out of the meeting.

I waited for a lull in the conversation before getting up to make my excuses, at which point I noticed a few other desperate souls spark to life at the prospect of getting out of the room.

I muttered something about "...leaving now if that's OK. Work to do..." Number 1 looked at me aghast. In my panic to get out I had forgotten the company's golden rule -You can't do anything without Number 1's permission first. And in a sad desperate act of compulsive disorderal behavior, he had to give me permission to leave the room before I got to the door. My hand was on the handle when I heard him say.
"er... hold on." I stopped to look back at him and the roomful of matching hairlines. "OK you can go then." he blurted out. Panicked at the thought that he had momentarily been caught of guard.

The door hadn't time to swing closed before a deluge of wageslaves were pouring through the door after me. Jumping at the chance to escape.

I made straight to the bathroom and a mirror. I had to reassure myself in regards to my hairline.
Yup it was sufficiently different. I was still human. Unassimilated.

But I had something new to worry about.

I had to escape soon.

mydaysasawageslave.com: August 2005

2005-08-12T05:04:00.000-07:00

mydaysasawageslave.com: August 2005

2005-08-05T08:19:00.000-07:00

Late today. Well 12 minutes late to be precise. The production line was held up from doing whatever it is that it does. The work is second only in importance to looking like you are working. Stay busy. Be at that desk. Put in the hours. Always be available for work related activity. And most importantly, be enthusiastic.

Your owner's and fellow wageslaves dislike nothing more than someone who displays unapproved emotions such as cynicism, depression, irritation, flippancy or willful independence.

Being late hints at a lack of commitment to the company.

Look around you. Those who do well as wageslaves are always at their desk or have their mobile glued to their ears, spouting a mantra of work related new speak to a client. There is a feeling with these people that if you snuck back in to the office at night they would still be there. If after a nights heavy drinking, you left the early house and went straight to work, they would already be there, at their desk. Smiling. Happy. Working.

The deadwood, on the other hand. Will be seen to be late. They may put in as many hours as the model wageslaves but they don't broadcast it. Their owners probably aren't aware of it and on the one day they decide to come in early they catch you coming in late. After that you carry the mark of Cain. Worse still they may once have walked past you as you were busy on the phone making arrangements to meet a non work related friend.

Taking personal calls is almost as frowned upon as being late.

I am now officially a dead man walking. It is just a matter of time.