The deal unravels

So Jim Allister has left the DUP over Ian and Gerry's love-in. How noble. It would have been more noble if he actually resigned his Euro MEP seat too, because let's face it, he's only there because he was the DUP candidate, and he knows he'll be bollixed in any future contest. And now David Simpson, the man who ousted David Trimble as the MP for Upper Bann, says he has reservations about the deal and effectively wants a quarantine period before the Shinners can hold office.

What fucking planet are these people on? Here we have the two great enemies sitting down to break bread, and up pipes Jim and Davey to say 'no taigs in government'. I'm not happy about Paisley becoming first minister, given Third Force and Ulster Resistance, but I'm prepared to tolerate it, especially if it means that cunt Hain fucks off back to Blighty. What the betting that some ragtag bunch of tattooed loyalists take Simpson's words to further action?

Allister, Simpson and the likes of Geraldine Taylor and that other wanker Gerry McGeough have fuck all to offer this country. Taylor and McGeough were told to stick their brand of politics up their hoop at the Assembly election. I pray it won't be too long before Allister and Simpson are given the same message.

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.

Grotesque, Unbelievable, Bizarre and Unprecedented

I must have been a complete bastard in a previous life because, unfortunately, I work for the Northern Ireland Civil Service, which is a bit like being back at school, except there's no Christian Brothers checking to see if you're 'wearing clean underwear'. So that makes the Oh Great Bronzed One, Northern Ireland Secretary (and for Wales, and for wherever the fuck else he feels like being in charge of this week) Peter Hain, my ultimate boss.

Now, Peter is a man of ambition. When Tony Blair pisses off to the lecture circuit and the House of Lords later this year, he'll take 'Two Shags' John Prescott with him; so when Gordon Brown takes over, he'll need a new deputy doormat, and our Pete wants to be the one that spunks his trunks when Gord says to him: 'Nip next door to the Spar and get me 20 Regal and the Daily Mirror, there's a good lad'.

So, in playing to the Old Labour gallery for support, our Pete decided to stick the boot into the whizz-kids in the City of London, criticising their £25 million bonuses. You won't get any complaints from me on that one. However, Hain goes on to say that 'Most people find it pretty grotesque that a couple of dozen City executives can share a billion pounds of bonuses between them'.

I'll tell you something else that most people, especially in our own Occupied Six Counties/This Here Pravince* (*delete as appropriate) find grotesque, Pete. They find the fact that you can pay your own employees just a fraction above the minimum wage 'grotesque'. They find the fact that someone doing the same job in the Welsh Office is paid more than someone in Northern Ireland 'grotesque'. They find the fact that you have given your top dogs in the NICS an £8000 backpay while ordinary Joe Soap gets a couple of hundred quid 'grotesque'. AND they find 'grotesque' the fact that you use that all that saved lolly to fund your sadist weekend naked mud-pit wrestling sessions with Carol Vorderman, Iris Robinson and Pat Butcher from Eastenders taking it in turns to pierce your bangle with a strap-on while wanking you off into Ronan Keating's gob. (OK, so I made the last bit up, but hey, it could explain why he looks so brown).

Let someone in London worry about the bonuses in the City. My only concern is my own backyard Pete, and you're not paying me a decent wage. So take your finger out of your fucking hole and do something about it.

Education, education, education

Get a squint at this -

Yes folks, the mad fuckers of the religion of peace strike again. Not content with blowing up planes and squeezing every last drop from the hard-pushed taxpayer, this balloon insists on taking on a County Council to court to allow them to let his daughter wear the full niqab in class. For the benefit of those who don't know (or don't give a fuck), the niqab covers all of the face and this girl's teachers have asked that she not wear it because they won't have a facial indication of whether or not she understands what she is being taught. Seems fair enough to me. But no, her oul lad is determined to waste your money and mine in taking this through one of the highest courts in the land.

With me being a tolerant sort of fella and all that, I think that I have the solution that will lead to a win-win situation for all concerned, including me.

1) This man can pack his bags, and those of his indoctrinated brat, and fuck off back to Pakistan where he came from. In his home country, I am quite sure that his daughter can be educated to the highest standards for their chosen cult, sorry, 'religion';

2) Buckinghamshire County Council would not have to spend taxpayers' money on funding this mother of all court battles, which means I'll probably have a few quid more (not much more - thanks Peter Hain, you cunt) to buy a few bottles of Magners on Friday night and get stoned whilst listening to the Fratellis.