All over the news today: a report on discrimination in the workplace has found that women with young children fare worst of all when it comes to employment.
Not in my workplace they don't - mothers with young children milk it for all it's worth, pardon the pun. Wee Johnny only has to sneeze and they're taking five days off because 'the child's not well'. In fact, there's women in my workplace who, having managed to be absent for most of the year because of their brats, then get their promotion boards. Who are they, Paul fucking Daniels? How can you prove your suitability for work at the next grade when you're never there to do the work at your current grade? I can hear toes treading lightly among the management.
Anyway...
As far as I'm concerned, having children is a lifestyle choice. If you can't afford kids, don't have them. It's as simple as that. Hearing women complaining about work and kids is a bit like me buying a top-of-the-range Beemer and then grumbling because I can't keep up the payments. Either be a mother or an employee. Don't try and be both. I resent paying taxes to keep up other people's kids when I, as a single, childless man, get fuck all tax breaks from the government for not being a drain on the state. And before some smart arse says, 'The taxes from today's kids will pay for your pension', answer me the question why I pay national insurance contributions now if it is not going towards MY pension.
Wednesday, 28 February 2007
Monday, 26 February 2007
Piracy is communism
I got a glimpse of this on the BBC's website, a story of how a Bit Torrent site is planning to introduce a pay section to download films, music, etc. The story goes on to state that it (the Bit Torrent site) acknowledges that it will have a hard task convincing those who currently get all the movies, TV shows and music they want without paying.
Fucking right they will.
I think that the ease with which I can go on to the internet and download entertainment, especially music, is fantastic and the record companies deserve all their lost profits. When the cassette tape became popular in the late 70s/early 80s, the record bosses re-released most of their back catalogues on the new format and charged punters full price for an album that may have been, say, 15 years old. Then they did exactly the same when compact discs were launched. Add to this the fact that the record companies have been artificially inflating the price of CDs in Europe for years, and it does them no PR favours to be complaining of punters illegally downloading material when they have been ripping these same punters off for God knows how long. It stinks to high heaven the way that these companies are stamping their feets and huffing because they can't get their own childish way.
I will continue to download music as I have done for the last five years because I'm only getting back what I shouldn't have paid the cunts. If the record companies don't like it, I really don't give a fuck, and neither do millions of other people.
Fucking right they will.
I think that the ease with which I can go on to the internet and download entertainment, especially music, is fantastic and the record companies deserve all their lost profits. When the cassette tape became popular in the late 70s/early 80s, the record bosses re-released most of their back catalogues on the new format and charged punters full price for an album that may have been, say, 15 years old. Then they did exactly the same when compact discs were launched. Add to this the fact that the record companies have been artificially inflating the price of CDs in Europe for years, and it does them no PR favours to be complaining of punters illegally downloading material when they have been ripping these same punters off for God knows how long. It stinks to high heaven the way that these companies are stamping their feets and huffing because they can't get their own childish way.
I will continue to download music as I have done for the last five years because I'm only getting back what I shouldn't have paid the cunts. If the record companies don't like it, I really don't give a fuck, and neither do millions of other people.
Sunday, 25 February 2007
Overstaying a welcome
Let's pretend.
Let's pretend you invited people round to your house for tea. Let's pretend that these people then proceeded to rearrange your furniture, criticised your choice of curtains or carpets and asked you to change the TV channel because they didn't like the programme that was on, despite the fact that you had been watching it. Then, because you forgot to offer them Jaffa Cakes or put sugar in their tea, they called you all the fuckers under the sun and threatened to smash your windows and burn your house down.
What would you do?
Yes, the same as I would. Your would stick your boot right into their bracket, tell them to fuck off and don't come back.
Why are the simplest things in life so difficult to do?
Friday, 23 February 2007
RSF Rent A Protest
I had the misfortune of hearing the first ten minutes of the Pat Kenny Show after the news on RTÉ this morning and, wouldn't you know it, the topic was about THAT match at Croke tomorrow. The vice-president of Republican Sinn Féin, Des Dalton (who sounds like a Wild West outlaw) was on complaining about the match and how it was a disgrace that God Save The Queen will be played, blah, blah, blah.
Does this prick not have anything else to worry about? The health service is a shambles, high politics is corrupt as it's ever been, you need to be Richard Branson to buy a house and all RSF can do is moan at the fact that a song about a German granny and her in-bred offspring will on the loudspeaker at Croker. Obviously RSF are very adept at reading the pulse of the nation.
Cast your mind back about 18 months or so to the Love Ulster rally in Dublin. While I have no truck with the right-wing, drug dealing, pimping, racist loyalist scum that wrap themselves in a Union Flag (and I would personally love to see Willie Frazer in a wooden suit), the blame for the riots on that day lies solely with RSF and their Celtic jersey-wearing hangers on. If they, and the media (that includes the wankers that work at the Sunday Indo) had paid no attention to the Love Ulster rally whatsoever then we wouldn't have had a pitch battle riot in the nation's capital and RSF could have had the moral high ground. But no, they had to snatch defeat from the jaws of victory and hand Frazer and his sectarian fuckwits the kind of publicity coup they could only dream of. RSF let this country down badly that day, and now they're planning to do the same with 25,000 England Rugby fans tomorrow. I have no doubt that our guests will be well behaved and will expect to be treated in the same manner as Irish fans are abroad, and that includes playing their national anthem. While the rest of Ireland is moving on, RSF still think it's 1916.
So please Des, do us all a favour, and fuck up.
Does this prick not have anything else to worry about? The health service is a shambles, high politics is corrupt as it's ever been, you need to be Richard Branson to buy a house and all RSF can do is moan at the fact that a song about a German granny and her in-bred offspring will on the loudspeaker at Croker. Obviously RSF are very adept at reading the pulse of the nation.
Cast your mind back about 18 months or so to the Love Ulster rally in Dublin. While I have no truck with the right-wing, drug dealing, pimping, racist loyalist scum that wrap themselves in a Union Flag (and I would personally love to see Willie Frazer in a wooden suit), the blame for the riots on that day lies solely with RSF and their Celtic jersey-wearing hangers on. If they, and the media (that includes the wankers that work at the Sunday Indo) had paid no attention to the Love Ulster rally whatsoever then we wouldn't have had a pitch battle riot in the nation's capital and RSF could have had the moral high ground. But no, they had to snatch defeat from the jaws of victory and hand Frazer and his sectarian fuckwits the kind of publicity coup they could only dream of. RSF let this country down badly that day, and now they're planning to do the same with 25,000 England Rugby fans tomorrow. I have no doubt that our guests will be well behaved and will expect to be treated in the same manner as Irish fans are abroad, and that includes playing their national anthem. While the rest of Ireland is moving on, RSF still think it's 1916.
So please Des, do us all a favour, and fuck up.
Thursday, 22 February 2007
Die, you fuckers
For those who don't know what an 'ASBO' is, it's an Anti Social Behavioural Order. Far from being a deterrent, it is worn as a badge of honour by scumbags such as those pictured. My own deterrent would consist of a 9mm to the back of the head. It is a proven fact that 100% of those who receive capital punishment don't re-offend.
...and I would shoot this wee cunt first.
Wednesday, 21 February 2007
McDowell is a stupid cunt
For someone who is supposed to be the second-in-command of the country, Tánaiste Michael McDowell doesn't seem to have a fucking clue what is going on.
A few days ago he stated that the Mahon Tribunal would cost €1 billion. No it wouldn't, retorted the head of the Tribunal, it would cost only €300 million. I think Alan Mahon is in a much better position to judge the cost of his enquiry than the interfering bastard love-child of Maggie Thatcher and Karl Rove. Now McDowell is contradicting Dublin City Council's plans to build an incinerator at Poolbeg. Yes, this dickhead gets a salary of €222,000 a year for this sort of shite.
So what the fuck is happening? Either McDowell hasn't a baldy notion what the government of which he is a senior member is doing, or he is stoking up fears in advance of the election. The only fear the public has, Michael, is that you will still be in the same job in six months time. You gotta give Mary Harney some credit, at least she did an ok job at keeping Fianna Fáil in check, despite the fact that if she gets any bigger she will need her own time zone.
My money goes on a repeat of 1992, an FF/Labour coalition. The PDs won't have enough deputies to go back into government, and Rabbitte will jump at the chance of becoming Tánaiste. Forget about the Mullingar Strategy, Fine Gael, and all those weasel words about Fianna Fáil and B-B-Bertie's generous mates over the term of the present Dáil. Labour will be up for it, like a whore on heat.
As for McDowell? He will lose his seat. History will repeat itself. He won it in 1987, lost it in 1989, won it in 1992, lost it in 1997, won it in 2002. He's due to lose it again, and I can't wait to see his face when he's packed off back to Ranaleigh with a huge 'fuck off' from the electorate.
A few days ago he stated that the Mahon Tribunal would cost €1 billion. No it wouldn't, retorted the head of the Tribunal, it would cost only €300 million. I think Alan Mahon is in a much better position to judge the cost of his enquiry than the interfering bastard love-child of Maggie Thatcher and Karl Rove. Now McDowell is contradicting Dublin City Council's plans to build an incinerator at Poolbeg. Yes, this dickhead gets a salary of €222,000 a year for this sort of shite.
So what the fuck is happening? Either McDowell hasn't a baldy notion what the government of which he is a senior member is doing, or he is stoking up fears in advance of the election. The only fear the public has, Michael, is that you will still be in the same job in six months time. You gotta give Mary Harney some credit, at least she did an ok job at keeping Fianna Fáil in check, despite the fact that if she gets any bigger she will need her own time zone.
My money goes on a repeat of 1992, an FF/Labour coalition. The PDs won't have enough deputies to go back into government, and Rabbitte will jump at the chance of becoming Tánaiste. Forget about the Mullingar Strategy, Fine Gael, and all those weasel words about Fianna Fáil and B-B-Bertie's generous mates over the term of the present Dáil. Labour will be up for it, like a whore on heat.
As for McDowell? He will lose his seat. History will repeat itself. He won it in 1987, lost it in 1989, won it in 1992, lost it in 1997, won it in 2002. He's due to lose it again, and I can't wait to see his face when he's packed off back to Ranaleigh with a huge 'fuck off' from the electorate.
Tuesday, 20 February 2007
Our Oriental Friends
I like Chinese people. I like them because they're pleasant, hard-working sods who are the fourth emergency service the length and breadth of Ireland (Phone Numbers: Fire/Ambulance/Police/Local Chinkers) and despite the odd internal Triad decapitation execution job, they cause no bother. So I was pleased to see that a Chinese woman, Anna Lo, is fighting the Assembly election for the Alliance Party in South Belfast. She should take a leaf out of Gerry's book and get her supporters to vote early and vote often. Let's face it, if you were a polling station clerk would you know any different if the same Chinese people each voted two or three times in the same day? No, neither would I. Fianna Fáil will be doing it next, just you wait and see.
... and I bet you didn't know that I used to go out with a Chinese girl when I was at university? Strange but true. The relationship didn't last long though - I asked her for a 69 and she told me to cook it myself.
... and I bet you didn't know that I used to go out with a Chinese girl when I was at university? Strange but true. The relationship didn't last long though - I asked her for a 69 and she told me to cook it myself.
Monday, 19 February 2007
Men and Women
Why does my employer have a 'women's officer' and not a 'men's officer'?
Now I know that women like to talk to other women about when the painters are in and all that carry on, and that's fair enough. But do they really need a dedicated officer in work for that sort of thing? Can they not just phone up one of their mates like they usually do? If I have an embarrassing problem with my hoop or my jap's eye, I don't have a men's officer to go to and waste half the day whinging about it - I'll get drunk and stoned, and then think about going to the hospital or something when I've sobered up.
Discrimination, that's what it is. I can feel a claim coming on...
Now I know that women like to talk to other women about when the painters are in and all that carry on, and that's fair enough. But do they really need a dedicated officer in work for that sort of thing? Can they not just phone up one of their mates like they usually do? If I have an embarrassing problem with my hoop or my jap's eye, I don't have a men's officer to go to and waste half the day whinging about it - I'll get drunk and stoned, and then think about going to the hospital or something when I've sobered up.
Discrimination, that's what it is. I can feel a claim coming on...
Sunday, 18 February 2007
Safety in the skies
I'm due to go on the big flying tin to Blighty this week, and once again my mind is turned to the issue of safety in our skies, especially when you have the country overrun with the crazy cunts of Islam. Now I know there's not much chance of Abdul Ahmed al-Madfucker blowing up a flight to or from Belfast, but hey, maybe they hate Guinness and soda bread for being 'un-halal' and the black gold of the devil.
So, to assure my piece of mind whilst flying over the Irish Sea I have decided to implement my own safety measure. A bacon sandwich in my hand luggage. Yes, the humble bacon sarnie is enough to throw even the most mentally unstable carpet-kisser into a complete blinder. Must be something to do with the pork. I might even bring a packet of Denny's sausages too, in case there's a few of them. Then, while our would-be hijacker is cowering from the raw banger, I'll get up and stick my size 10 boot full force right into his bollix, and then his throat. He'll meet his virgins in heaven a bit sooner than expected. Cunt.
Muslims. I fucking hate them.
So, to assure my piece of mind whilst flying over the Irish Sea I have decided to implement my own safety measure. A bacon sandwich in my hand luggage. Yes, the humble bacon sarnie is enough to throw even the most mentally unstable carpet-kisser into a complete blinder. Must be something to do with the pork. I might even bring a packet of Denny's sausages too, in case there's a few of them. Then, while our would-be hijacker is cowering from the raw banger, I'll get up and stick my size 10 boot full force right into his bollix, and then his throat. He'll meet his virgins in heaven a bit sooner than expected. Cunt.
Muslims. I fucking hate them.
Saturday, 17 February 2007
Black Hacks Rule
My car is a piece of shit. It needs loads of work done to it, costing hundreds of pounds, and will be off the road for about two weeks. So I'm gonna have to rely on West Belfast's very own transport system, the humble black taxi.
For those who don't know, the black hacks go up and down the area like buses, all day long, and are reasonably cheap. They're quite an experience, a bit like riding in a rickshaw in China I would imagine. Five people, who don't know each other, squashed into a confined space for their journey. It's a bit like Big Brother on wheels. The black taxi drivers are a breed of their own, the men often going bare-chested on hot days (the only part of them that gets a tan is the forearm, which is perpetually bent out the window), and you can always be sure to hear David Dunseith on Radio Ulster's Talkback when travelling in the early afternoon. Drivers have their own spoken and sign languages, which is a curious mix of pigeon Gaelic and Belfast slang but are amongst the hardest working people in the city.
I love the black hacks.
... that is until I get my car back on the road again. Then when I'm stuck behind one, or one pulls out in front of me without indicating, I'll be back to calling them all the fuckers of the day.
For those who don't know, the black hacks go up and down the area like buses, all day long, and are reasonably cheap. They're quite an experience, a bit like riding in a rickshaw in China I would imagine. Five people, who don't know each other, squashed into a confined space for their journey. It's a bit like Big Brother on wheels. The black taxi drivers are a breed of their own, the men often going bare-chested on hot days (the only part of them that gets a tan is the forearm, which is perpetually bent out the window), and you can always be sure to hear David Dunseith on Radio Ulster's Talkback when travelling in the early afternoon. Drivers have their own spoken and sign languages, which is a curious mix of pigeon Gaelic and Belfast slang but are amongst the hardest working people in the city.
I love the black hacks.
... that is until I get my car back on the road again. Then when I'm stuck behind one, or one pulls out in front of me without indicating, I'll be back to calling them all the fuckers of the day.
Thursday, 15 February 2007
Things you may not know about me...
Following on from Brian's challenge over at Rantings Diversified, I now have the pleasure of revealing to you six things that you did not know about the Voice of Treason.
1) I was arrested for being drunk and disorderly when I was 17.
2) I went through school without ever receiving a detention. Would you spend an hour in a classroom on your own with a Christian Brother?
3) I have every album ever made by the Australian band INXS.
4) Cómo Brian, hablo un poco español tambien. Pero no demasiado. Gringos!
5) I can tip my nose with my tongue. Who says I'm not popular with the ladies?
6) I once worked at a car wash. The boss don't mind sometimes if ya act the fool.
And while poetry has never been my strong point, here's an addition to Jefferson's ditty...
'There was a wee man from Leeds,
who swallowed a packet of seeds,
after an hour his cock was a flower,
and his balls were covered in weeds.'
1) I was arrested for being drunk and disorderly when I was 17.
2) I went through school without ever receiving a detention. Would you spend an hour in a classroom on your own with a Christian Brother?
3) I have every album ever made by the Australian band INXS.
4) Cómo Brian, hablo un poco español tambien. Pero no demasiado. Gringos!
5) I can tip my nose with my tongue. Who says I'm not popular with the ladies?
6) I once worked at a car wash. The boss don't mind sometimes if ya act the fool.
And while poetry has never been my strong point, here's an addition to Jefferson's ditty...
'There was a wee man from Leeds,
who swallowed a packet of seeds,
after an hour his cock was a flower,
and his balls were covered in weeds.'
Wednesday, 14 February 2007
Happiness is...
Just seen this on the BBC's website: Why are Dutch children so happy?
Ummm... the age of consent is twelve and marijuana is legal.
Ummm... the age of consent is twelve and marijuana is legal.
Robbie goes to rehab
I didn't know there were rehab centres designed to cure you of being an annoying, talentless cunt. Somebody tell Pete Doherty and Amy Winehouse, quickly.
Tuesday, 13 February 2007
Love is in the air
My mucker Big Pat has just came home from a humping tour of Liverpool. Now Big Pat is a bit of an internet slut. Seriously. He goes on to the chatrooms, sweet-talks the ladies, gets their phone number, melts the panties off them with his thick Belfast brogue, and before you know it he's been on the Easy Jet website and has his next conquest booked. 'Pussy-baiting from the comfort of your own home', as he so articulately refers to his activities. 'Isn't technology wonderful?'
So I picked him up from the airport last night, and asked him how he got on. 'Very well', he replied, 'but one of the birds I went over to see spoiled the moment'.
'What happened?' I enquired.
'Well, she stripped off her clothes, and it ended up she was wearing knickers with the middle part missing', he said.
'I think you'll find they're called crotchless panties', I advised.
'Anyway', he continued, 'she pointed to her blurt and asked if I wanted to lick it. No fucking way am I going near that, said I. Just look what it's done to your knickers!'
Stupid cunt.
So I picked him up from the airport last night, and asked him how he got on. 'Very well', he replied, 'but one of the birds I went over to see spoiled the moment'.
'What happened?' I enquired.
'Well, she stripped off her clothes, and it ended up she was wearing knickers with the middle part missing', he said.
'I think you'll find they're called crotchless panties', I advised.
'Anyway', he continued, 'she pointed to her blurt and asked if I wanted to lick it. No fucking way am I going near that, said I. Just look what it's done to your knickers!'
Stupid cunt.
Monday, 12 February 2007
About time too
I'm glad to see that the British Government plans to stop the benefits of those who cannot speak English as 'it is an impediment to finding work'.
About time too. How in the name of John Hume's arsehole are you supposed to find work if you can't speak the language of the land? I mean, if I went off to Berlin or Tokyo and couldn't speak a word of German or Japanese, do you think they would say, 'No problem Mr. Treason, come on in and we'll pay you to sit on your arse and watch 'The Jeremy Kyle Show' all day long. Hell, we'll even give you a house too, and money to get shitfaced on Magners'. My fucking hoop they would. I'd either end up on the next flying tin back to Dublin, or as a contestant on one of those mad gook TV game shows.
The Social Security people spend about £4.5m a year on interpreters at benefit offices, and they say that money would be better spent teaching English to claimants. No. It would be better spent rounding these people up and deporting them. Especially if they're Muslims, whom, as you know, I hate with all my heart and I would gladly execute every last one of the cunts, giving them a slow and lingering death.
If they haven't paid into the pot, they shouldn't be paid out of it. Simple really.
And another thing... what's all this carry-on about Tory leader David Cameron having smoked a spliff when he was 15? So fucking what? I would be more concerned at the fact that he was fucked up the arse at school. He went to Eton, and we all know those public schoolboys are fond of blowing their load up the dirt track. The Christian Brothers didn't happen to set the school up, did they?
About time too. How in the name of John Hume's arsehole are you supposed to find work if you can't speak the language of the land? I mean, if I went off to Berlin or Tokyo and couldn't speak a word of German or Japanese, do you think they would say, 'No problem Mr. Treason, come on in and we'll pay you to sit on your arse and watch 'The Jeremy Kyle Show' all day long. Hell, we'll even give you a house too, and money to get shitfaced on Magners'. My fucking hoop they would. I'd either end up on the next flying tin back to Dublin, or as a contestant on one of those mad gook TV game shows.
The Social Security people spend about £4.5m a year on interpreters at benefit offices, and they say that money would be better spent teaching English to claimants. No. It would be better spent rounding these people up and deporting them. Especially if they're Muslims, whom, as you know, I hate with all my heart and I would gladly execute every last one of the cunts, giving them a slow and lingering death.
If they haven't paid into the pot, they shouldn't be paid out of it. Simple really.
And another thing... what's all this carry-on about Tory leader David Cameron having smoked a spliff when he was 15? So fucking what? I would be more concerned at the fact that he was fucked up the arse at school. He went to Eton, and we all know those public schoolboys are fond of blowing their load up the dirt track. The Christian Brothers didn't happen to set the school up, did they?
Sunday, 11 February 2007
A Sense of National Pride
'Historic'.
'A break with tradition'.
'Unprecedented'.
'Giving Ireland a sense of national pride'.
Nothing to do with THAT match in Croker today - these are some of the quotes used to celebrate the fact that there was no gangland murders in Dublin last night.
'A break with tradition'.
'Unprecedented'.
'Giving Ireland a sense of national pride'.
Nothing to do with THAT match in Croker today - these are some of the quotes used to celebrate the fact that there was no gangland murders in Dublin last night.
Friday, 9 February 2007
In short supply...
First they were bumping off prostitutes, now they're bumping off turkeys...
you just can't get a gobble in Suffolk anymore.
What's in a name?
Sitting in Big Pat's last night having our pre-weekend toke and watching some shite programme on UTV. On this particular show, there was a pub called 'The Spread Eagle'.
'If you owned a pub', he asked, 'what would you call it?'
That one caught me. All the usual shite runs through your head, like the King's Head, the Queen's Blurt, whatever. Then it came to me.
'The Dirty Muckle', I said. Think about it. Saying to your mates, 'Right, I'll meet you in the Dirty Muckle about eight', or, 'the two of us were down in the Dirty Muckle earlier'. You'd have no end of craic.
Of course, if it was near the seaside, I'd call it 'The Fishy Quim'.
I love stoned conversations.
'If you owned a pub', he asked, 'what would you call it?'
That one caught me. All the usual shite runs through your head, like the King's Head, the Queen's Blurt, whatever. Then it came to me.
'The Dirty Muckle', I said. Think about it. Saying to your mates, 'Right, I'll meet you in the Dirty Muckle about eight', or, 'the two of us were down in the Dirty Muckle earlier'. You'd have no end of craic.
Of course, if it was near the seaside, I'd call it 'The Fishy Quim'.
I love stoned conversations.
Wednesday, 7 February 2007
Stick your 'developmental opportunity' up your hole
Always willing as I am to better myself, and to escape the cunt-infested farce that I currently work in, I decided a few weeks ago to apply for an internal 'developmental opportunity' that came up. I sent off the application, and after the Christmas holidays I received my invitation to attend their testing session at Wellington Park Hotel.
Now, I hasten to add to that this was not a promotion, it was a sideways move. An IT Technican job at Stormont Castle. I would be staying at the same grade. So off I went to the test.
When I got to the hotel, there was literally a couple of hundred people there. 'Not good', I thought. With tests over five days, around 2000 people would be tested. For 20 fucking jobs.
When I opened the test paper, I expected to be asked questions on aspects of IT, like protocols, network topologies, that sort of thing. Stuff that I'm qualified in. Oh no. What I sat was a glorified IQ test that Stephen Hawkings would have had trouble finishing. I left the room that day feeling demoralised and deflated.
I got the 'wise up and fuck off' letter today, which was what I had been expecting. With no disrespect to those who were successful, you can bet your bollix that those who will get the jobs will know fuck all squared about IT, which makes me think the whole thing is a stitch-up designed to give a veener of legitimacy (ie, Equal Opportunies and Fair Employment compliance) to a process in which who was getting what job was decided long before the competition was even advertised. Think I'm bitter? Cynical? Fucking right I am, and I'll tell you why.
The department that I work in has a very high turnover of staff. Which is no big surprise, because the senior management are about as much use as tits on a nun. The wrong people are filling the wrong jobs, and it shows, because you have cunts working in IT sections that know nothing about computers and people with severe personality disorders in charge of staff. The Chief Executive is a complete and utter wanker, and his fluffers that works directly beneath him come up with hare-brained like moving masses of people from building to building every couple of months solely to make it look like they're 'doing' something. They waste thousands of pounds a year on monthly glossy in-house magazines and hiring Samaritians-type counselling firms to listen to staff whinging, while most people in the department have to take on another part-time job solely to keep their heads above water because they are not paid a decent wage. Promotions are decided on whether you join your senior managers in the bar on a Friday night. Nepotism occurs on such a scale that it makes Fianna Fáil look like a child's fucking picnic party.
Never, EVER, get a job in the Northern Ireland Civil Service.
Now, I hasten to add to that this was not a promotion, it was a sideways move. An IT Technican job at Stormont Castle. I would be staying at the same grade. So off I went to the test.
When I got to the hotel, there was literally a couple of hundred people there. 'Not good', I thought. With tests over five days, around 2000 people would be tested. For 20 fucking jobs.
When I opened the test paper, I expected to be asked questions on aspects of IT, like protocols, network topologies, that sort of thing. Stuff that I'm qualified in. Oh no. What I sat was a glorified IQ test that Stephen Hawkings would have had trouble finishing. I left the room that day feeling demoralised and deflated.
I got the 'wise up and fuck off' letter today, which was what I had been expecting. With no disrespect to those who were successful, you can bet your bollix that those who will get the jobs will know fuck all squared about IT, which makes me think the whole thing is a stitch-up designed to give a veener of legitimacy (ie, Equal Opportunies and Fair Employment compliance) to a process in which who was getting what job was decided long before the competition was even advertised. Think I'm bitter? Cynical? Fucking right I am, and I'll tell you why.
The department that I work in has a very high turnover of staff. Which is no big surprise, because the senior management are about as much use as tits on a nun. The wrong people are filling the wrong jobs, and it shows, because you have cunts working in IT sections that know nothing about computers and people with severe personality disorders in charge of staff. The Chief Executive is a complete and utter wanker, and his fluffers that works directly beneath him come up with hare-brained like moving masses of people from building to building every couple of months solely to make it look like they're 'doing' something. They waste thousands of pounds a year on monthly glossy in-house magazines and hiring Samaritians-type counselling firms to listen to staff whinging, while most people in the department have to take on another part-time job solely to keep their heads above water because they are not paid a decent wage. Promotions are decided on whether you join your senior managers in the bar on a Friday night. Nepotism occurs on such a scale that it makes Fianna Fáil look like a child's fucking picnic party.
Never, EVER, get a job in the Northern Ireland Civil Service.
Tuesday, 6 February 2007
Charity begins at home
Walking down Belfast's Great Victoria Street today (which is probably the windiest, and the busiest, street in Ireland) during my lunch hour, and all of a sudden I see them. Loads of the fuckers. The professional charity headlockers. They are probably the most annoying dickheads in the world, after Westlife of course.
You know who I mean. The young 'uns who work for Oxfam or Save the Children, who carry clipboards and wear those fluorescent bodywarmer type things, and who Joe Public generally dread to see when they're late getting back to work.
'Hello there, have you ever thought of...'
'No. Fuck off.'
'But you don't even know what...'
'Yes I do, you're gonna ask me to sign up for your charity'.
'Well sir, we ask a small donation...'
'Listen my friend. I'm on the lowest rung of the ladder in the Civil Service. People on the dole earn more than me. I'm lucky if I have my bus fare to work everyday. Where the fuck am I supposed to get the money to give you £15 a month?'
But then I thought I could kill two birds with one stone. When I'm stopped by them now, I sign up for a donation, giving the name of the head honcho in my department (yes, with a little digging, I got his home address) and asking them to send me out the direct debit forms. Not only does that cock get loads of junk mail from every Tom, Dick and Harry, but the melters that stop me in the street don't get their their commission either, because no payment has been settled.
Life is much sweeter when you're devious.
You know who I mean. The young 'uns who work for Oxfam or Save the Children, who carry clipboards and wear those fluorescent bodywarmer type things, and who Joe Public generally dread to see when they're late getting back to work.
'Hello there, have you ever thought of...'
'No. Fuck off.'
'But you don't even know what...'
'Yes I do, you're gonna ask me to sign up for your charity'.
'Well sir, we ask a small donation...'
'Listen my friend. I'm on the lowest rung of the ladder in the Civil Service. People on the dole earn more than me. I'm lucky if I have my bus fare to work everyday. Where the fuck am I supposed to get the money to give you £15 a month?'
But then I thought I could kill two birds with one stone. When I'm stopped by them now, I sign up for a donation, giving the name of the head honcho in my department (yes, with a little digging, I got his home address) and asking them to send me out the direct debit forms. Not only does that cock get loads of junk mail from every Tom, Dick and Harry, but the melters that stop me in the street don't get their their commission either, because no payment has been settled.
Life is much sweeter when you're devious.
Monday, 5 February 2007
Dead Ringers, 1
North Belfast MP Nigel Dodds (seen here in rare moment of humour) and cartoon hero Homer Simpson. Separated at birth?
Sunday, 4 February 2007
Football Crazy
What is it about this particular game that makes otherwise sensible and rational people turn into fucking wingnuts?
Now the Voice of Treason is not a lover of the beautiful game. Never has been. So you can imagine how fucked off I get when the two guys that work on my floor start. All they ever do is talk about football. The premiership is their only conversation. Now I appreciate that they have a passion for the game. That's fair enough. My passion is to slaughter all the wee spidey fuckers in Ireland by poisoning the water that makes Buckfast and Old English cider, but I don't go on about it 24/7. So please, you football-mad melters, do me a favour and fuck up.
Then there's Italian soccer. It's getting interesting. The object of the game is not to put the ball behind the net, but to see how many peelers you can decapitate with a box of fireworks. This new 'Sicily-rules' game will be all the rage in Ballymurphy soon, you mark my words. It reminded me of a few years ago in North Belfast when every time there was a Old Firm game there were pitch battle riots in the middle of the streets. One set of cider-tached wasters (in green and white) getting stuck into another set of cider-tached wasters (in blue). They're probably the best of mates when they go to Corporation St dole office next day to sign on.
'Right Smickers, Saltic and Rangers is playing on Sunday, rite? Have the bricks and the petrol bombs waiting, cos 'em peelers is getting too crafty nigh, the fuckers'.
Give me a nice civilised game like Gaelic Football. In this discipline, the players do the fighting on the pitch, not the supporters. I wouldn't like to mention any names of course. Like Dublin. Or Tyrone.
Now the Voice of Treason is not a lover of the beautiful game. Never has been. So you can imagine how fucked off I get when the two guys that work on my floor start. All they ever do is talk about football. The premiership is their only conversation. Now I appreciate that they have a passion for the game. That's fair enough. My passion is to slaughter all the wee spidey fuckers in Ireland by poisoning the water that makes Buckfast and Old English cider, but I don't go on about it 24/7. So please, you football-mad melters, do me a favour and fuck up.
Then there's Italian soccer. It's getting interesting. The object of the game is not to put the ball behind the net, but to see how many peelers you can decapitate with a box of fireworks. This new 'Sicily-rules' game will be all the rage in Ballymurphy soon, you mark my words. It reminded me of a few years ago in North Belfast when every time there was a Old Firm game there were pitch battle riots in the middle of the streets. One set of cider-tached wasters (in green and white) getting stuck into another set of cider-tached wasters (in blue). They're probably the best of mates when they go to Corporation St dole office next day to sign on.
'Right Smickers, Saltic and Rangers is playing on Sunday, rite? Have the bricks and the petrol bombs waiting, cos 'em peelers is getting too crafty nigh, the fuckers'.
Give me a nice civilised game like Gaelic Football. In this discipline, the players do the fighting on the pitch, not the supporters. I wouldn't like to mention any names of course. Like Dublin. Or Tyrone.
Saturday, 3 February 2007
Drink!!!!
No post yesterday, was a bit tied up... ended up as the meat in a Gráinne Seoige/Sharon Ní Bheoláin sandwich.
I promised myself at 1 this afternoon that I was never, ever drinking again... here am I, at 8, on my way out to help the managing director of Magners build that exclusive villa and hareem in Monaco.
I promised myself at 1 this afternoon that I was never, ever drinking again... here am I, at 8, on my way out to help the managing director of Magners build that exclusive villa and hareem in Monaco.
Thursday, 1 February 2007
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