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?
Monday, 12 February 2007
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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