Not The Best Job In The World

Now THAT was a long lunch break...

notthebestjob — Mon, 16 Apr 2012 21:00:10 GMT

Two years and three months to be exact. Eh, who cares? I'll stay a bit later tonight to make up for it.

Let the good times begin again.

Starting a new job is always a little bit nerve-y. There's the vague feeling that you may have lied a lot on your CV and/or interview and now your new employer will probably find out. Couple that with the knowledge that your first two weeks will be spent 'settling in', basically meaning you have to keep yourself awake for the next 80 hours without using Google, and it's no wonder your palms are a bit sweaty and your bum is a bit clenchy.

Once again, dear reader, I am here to ease your discomfort. Relax in the knowledge that I have been in your shitty office situation before you, probably a lot drunker and coarser as well. There is nothing to fear.

Your first day on the job will consist of exactly the following, in exactly this order:

1) You will, for the first and only time, be 15 minutes early. This attempt to garner bonus credit points with your boss will be ruined, when you get stuck queuing at reception behind some guy from the call centre who has forgotten a) his pass, b) his boss' name, c) his brain and d) his belt. You will spend 20 minutes wondering why his trousers have to sit below his arse and how such a pillock managed to work out how to open a door.
2) Your new boss will buy you a coffee whilst you chat. This is not to be friendly, but to show you that they own you. You will talk, your drink will slowly chill, you will talk, your mouth will dry, you will throw said full, cold, coffee away.
3) You will be led in to a very small, windowless room where Gavin from security will point to a camera attached to the top of the door. You will attempt to sit down and look up at the same time. Gavin will pretend to take the photo after you have smoothed your hair and smiled, but he will really take it when you adjust your bra strap, thinking it is over.
4) You will be taken to the stationery department and walked past all the executive notebooks and Parker pens. You will be handed a blunt pencil.
5) You will meet the other members of your team. One of them will be called Stuart. One of them will have an occupational health and safety chair. One of them will be introduced as the team 'comedian'.
6) You will be given a post-it note with your user ID and password and shown to your computer to 'log in'. This will not occur. You may as well have been given a note with the word c**t on it and asked to log in to a banana.
7) You will spend the rest of the day talking to the IT 'helpdesk'.
8) Your new photo ID will arrive. You will wonder why they have put your name next to the picture of a bearded lady trying to cop a feel of herself.
9) You will, towards the end of the day, master the skill of yawning without opening your mouth.

But sure enough, 480 long, long minutes after you first arrived, you will be leaving again for the day. It's a sweet moment. Sure, you'll never get those 480 minutes of your life back again, and yes, you will have to do it again tomorrow and the next day and the next day and the next day and the next day and the next day and the...

But that's enough for now. Join me again when we'll meet a few of your shiny new colleagues and learn to do other things without opening our mouths.

Remember, it'll be ok. I'm back.

Monkey Required - Must Love Grunt Work

notthebestjob — Wed, 19 May 2010 15:39:39 GMT

If you have ever found yourself in the position of looking for a job then this post is for you. If you have never had that particular inate joy, then you can skip this post and listen to the music in your head for ten minutes or so.

Job hunting is a tricky mistress. At first you think she's easy, after all, you've done her before and she seemed to enjoy it. Then it strikes you, like a cold dagger through the chest, that perhaps you were a little drunk last time and that's why she seemed so pretty. Perhaps you were high on some earlier euphoric job leaving spree that a little gin was left behind in your system making the whole event both pleasurable and only a little tearful.

Or maybe, as the dagger twists harder, maybe you really aren't employable at all and the job hunting wench is really just toying with you before she goes back to Pete down the road to stir him out of an Oprah and Dr Phil induced coma. Suddenly you look at your CV in a cold sweat. What are these words you have written under the heading 'Skills'? You don't know what any of them mean let alone have the ability to perform any of them on command. Terror grips harder. How on earth are you expected to accept a paycheck from a brand new, eager employer when you are really not sure what your job title actually means? And more importantly, how can you sleep at your desk like you used to when you have no allies to wake you at crucial moments?

Slowly you come to the conclusion that perhaps leaving your last job and telling every employee individually and with great relish to go f**k themselves was not your best move. Especially as you know if you returned you'd be sat next to Pete who you're pretty sure you spent ten minutes detailing exactly what an assholic sh*t he really was. Yes, this option seems to follow directly behind 'stab self in eye' on your list of life's goals.

So you turn, sobbing, to job adverts and recruitment agents. Feeling dirty and ashamed you stumble through. You read advert after advert, convincing yourself more and more that you horribly unqualified for the position you have been claiming to do for the last ten years. Jobs in your field no longer exist in the generic form. Instead, jobs require the nichest (nichiest?) of candidates. Job descriptions now read 'candidate must be experienced in IWUD/OOL/FER/GVVAS obtained from course run in Lanarkshire in February 1997'.

You call recruitment agents but hang up in tears when they ask you to list your main responsibilities in your last role. 'Sleeping' and 'drinking' don't seem like the right answers any more. You long to go back to the warm bosom of your previous employer, where drinking wasn't just expected, it was encouraged and laughter was the basis on which the company was fonded.

Why did I ever leave, you think, why? Especially Pete, what a great guy. Why did I leave, why??!!

And then, and only then, when hope is almost all lost. When you are nothing but a crying, snivelling ball under the table, you remember. You remember why you left your last job. You remember why you hated it and why you called Pete a kn*b on more than one occasion.

And only then can the sweet joy of job hunting truly begin.

Extra! Extra! Read All About It!

notthebestjob — Tue, 16 Mar 2010 12:56:51 GMT

Sometimes, just sometimes, something so wonderful happens in the workplace that it makes the evening news. And by evening news I of course mean the Pittsburgh Pantsdown Express or the subscriber friendly Tamworth Titilating Times. I am an avid follower of both broadsheets. In fact, an article about incidents in the office is always going to make my scrapbook, so what better way to pass another hump day with my dear readers than to share with you some of the best news articles I have found regarding the workplace:

And in what some might call a segue, but which I believe is perfectly justified, I have just watched the film Julie & Julia (or Julia & Julie, I wasn't really paying attention) where, if you haven't seen it, Julie blogs a lot. About stuff. And shit. And then, seemingly two days after starting her blog, her readers begin sending her things in the mail. And by things I mean gifts! Not, like, bombs or suspicious powders. Actual gifts! These are people she has never met or had a conversation with that didn't end in 'Thx!!!!!'

So why is that not a segue you say? Well, it got me thinking, how have I never received gifts in the mail from my hordes of fans? Could it be that there aren't as many as I think? Or could it be the fact somebody sending something in the mail to me when they have no reasonable way of knowing my address without stalking me is a good enough reason that I haven't received gifts? And the reason why I am able to sleep at night without wondering whether that strange noise under that bed is the sound of BlogBoy88 breathing?

Yes, I am happy I have never received gifts from my readers.

If, however, you have a burning desire to communicate with me in some blog-relevant fashion, then please feel free to point me in the direction of other workplace related news incidents that I can add to my scrapbook. Who doesn't love glitter?

Seriously, who doesn't?

Dear Colleague...

notthebestjob — Tue, 02 Mar 2010 11:47:17 GMT

It may or may not come as much of a surprise to learn that I have left several jobs over the course of my lifetime. And what is the first thing that springs to mind when you hear talk of quitting a job? That’s right, the leaving card. And by leaving card, I do not mean a card from HR with the word ‘leave’ written on it, probably in someone’s blood. No, I mean the card that generally has very sad looking teddy bears on the front. These bears are most likely holding up protest placards that say something along the lines of ‘we’ll miss you’ or ‘please don’t go’ because, you know, even though bears can’t speak, per se, they still feel the pain of your departure. And they made placards to show you.

Having received several leaving cards and associated gifts over the years, I would say that I am an expert in deciphering them. In fact, I sometimes leave a job just to see what my colleagues will write in the card.

If you have just received one of these cards, don’t spring straight to opening it. So much can be learnt from not even opening it. For starters, is the envelope sealed? If not, you can pretty much guarantee there are not many signatures inside and as such, your colleagues don’t like you. How so? You ask. Well, think about it. They have left it unsealed in the hope that at the last second a group of people will appear eager to wish you well in the written form. They won’t. No-one likes you remember. If you receive an unsealed leaving card, calmly rip it in half and call the person who gave it to you a bitch. Perhaps slap them for good measure. You’re leaving remember? Do it with a bang.

If the envelope is sealed, and you have ripped into it eagerly, dabbing away a few pre-emptive tears, stop to look at the picture on the front. This is more of an indication of what your colleagues think of you then what they write inside. If, for example, it is a picture of a puppy, kitten, bear holding a placard, a flower looking sad or in fact any of the animals-dressed-as-humans genre, then this means your colleagues don’t know shit about you. “How could anyone find this offensive?” they would have thought as they picked it out. Who? I’ll tell you who. Animals dressed as humans? Are you fucking kidding me?! There is nothing I despise more. I once received a card with a dog dressed as a golf player. I kicked the colleague who gave it to me in the groin. Fool.

And, really, when you think it through, why would a group of bears who have never met you, go to the effort of making placards to tell you that they’ll miss you? Without opposable thumbs?! It just doesn’t make sense.

So the picture on the front passes muster (in other words, it shows someone drinking heavily which is how you spent most of your time at that particular job just to get through the horrible, horrible days). On to what has been written. Without a shadow of a doubt you will find all of the following in your leaving card:

1. A message from someone you don’t know and never spoke to. They are usually called Coleen or Noelene or one of the –ene ilk. It will generally read something simple like ‘All the best, Darlene’.

2. A ‘funny’ message from someone you vaguely knew. They will generally talk up the one time your paths actually crossed. ‘Remembering that pen you dropped in the lift! LOL! Have a great time at your new job!!!!’

3. A borderline sexually offensive message from an old boy who still remembers typing pools and twinsets. ‘You sure knew how to get a guy ‘up’ in the morning. Arthur’

4. The obligatory ‘Nice tits. Dave’

5. The vaguely uncomfortable message from someone you have had your suspicions about being in your garden with night vision goggles. ‘It won’t be the same without you. I may have to leave too. Forever. Chris’

6. Someone who hasn’t a clue what they are signing ‘Happy Birthday! Tina’

And finally, as a potential drinking game, you can do a shot every time someone uses the word ‘best’.

Don’t get me wrong, I love all the leaving cards I have received over the years and have kept them all. Sometimes, when I’m on my own and feeling down, I’ll take one out and read over it. It always makes me feel better to think that once, someone wished me the best. That I meant something to someone.

And if that’s not enough, there’s always Chris watching from the garden.

You Make Me Sick, Now Leave

notthebestjob — Wed, 06 Jan 2010 09:11:09 GMT

Ah sick leave. The nemesis of management "executives" (read, team leaders) everywhere.

Picture the scene, it's a Monday, it's early. Team Leader is already at his or her desk, polishing their brown nose. Their phone rings. It's an external number. They sigh, they know what's coming.

"Hello, Team Leader here."

"*cough*"

"Hello? Is someone there?"

A pitiful voice makes a croaking sound. "Is it daytime? Is it Monday? Team Leader, is that you?"

"Who is this?"

"It's Dave. I think. I'm so very, very sick." The voice is becoming weaker. "I don't think I'll be able to make it in today."

"Really Dave? Don't you have that big report due?"

"Yes *cough* I know. I... I guess I could come in. I hate to disappoint everyone. *wheeze* If only my leg hadn't fallen off."

And so on.

Team Leader is distinctly unimpressed and writes 'liar' next to Dave's name on their notebook. And poor one-legged Dave hops back to bed and wheezes himself to death.

It's a common story across the nation. Sick leave is costing this country, apparently, $18 billion a year. How this is calculated I do not know. I found the statistic on a frighteningly authoritative website that I dare not disagree with. Interestingly, it also stated that 56% of employees claim to take sick leave for reasons other than illness. My disgust for these people is so thick I could bottle it. Imagine taking your poor employer for a ride like that, whatever would possess these people...

Well, funnily enough... Let's take Dave's side for a change. The poor fellow has just lost a leg and is aiming for a Guinness World record at wheezing. Yet Team Leader doesn't believe him. Why is this? How can you ensure that your sick leave is not counted by your 'superiors' as a lie.

Rule 1) Don't sound pathetic if you don't need to. You are not a soccer player. If you get taken down by a clip to the ankle, don't fall to the ground and grab your face, ok? If you have anything other than a sore throat, don't put on a feeble voice. It's the same thing.
Rule 2) If you are vomiting so hard you think your toes just landed in the toilet bowl, call your boss then. The sound of you violently hurling will ensure you are not labelled a liar. I did it once. It was most satisfying.
Rule 3) Diarrhoea. If you have it, say it. No-one argues with that.
Rule 4) Similarly, women's issues. And no, not 'but my shoes didn't match my top'. I'm talking uterus, womb and anything else that sounds like the next thing you'll hear is the dial tone.
Rule 5) Don't go to the beach. Your boss is already there.

Of course, you could be one of the 7,402,301 employees who took a day off for alcohol-related reasons, or one of the 3.8 million who took a day off because you're obese or finally, one of the 500 million employees who took a day off due to depression. My advice to you, in this order is: don't drink on a Tuesday night, stop at 3 pies and quit your job if it's so bad.

Or, you could be the person at my company who has taken 105 sick days this year (conveniently, every Monday & Tuesday) and not been fired, yet the rest of us have to face Team Leader's disbelief at our leg-dropping disorder because of you.

To you I have one thing to say: I have Swine Flu and I just licked your phone. Get a real illness you wimp.

'Tis the Season to be Shoddy

notthebestjob — Sat, 05 Dec 2009 02:55:00 GMT

The work Christmas party. Does that phrase fill you with joy or thoughts of cringeworthy moments from Christmas parties past? Are you the kind of co-worker who looks forward to a night out with your work 'homies'? Or are you more likely to be heading home thinking 'I wouldn't hang out with those f**kers if you paid me'?

I believe a work Christmas party should be experienced at least once. Even if you are not a big party-goer, there is much leverage to be had from attending and discovering tantilising titbits about your colleagues for later use. For example:

Colleague A: Dave, I was hoping you could complete this process workflow analysis by COB today?
Dave: And I was hoping to be able to remove the image of you smacking your naked arse at last year's Christmas party from my mind, but turns out I can't. I doubt completing that process workflow will help.
Colleague A: Quite right Dave. I'll do it.

If, on the other hand, you prefer to attend a Christmas party and make up for the lack of bonus by drinking the equivalent value in wine, then perhaps the following tips could come in handy:

1) If a colleague is adament about taking your photo repeatedly through the night and you do not want photographic evidence of your transgressions, offer to take a picture of them and when you are handed their camera, smash it to pieces.
2) If you have found Jill from processing repugnant for the other 364 days of the year, it is unlikely you will have uncontrolled lust for her at the Christmas party. A bottle of Merlot does not make her Kate Moss, it just makes her blurry.
3) If you find yourself on the dancefloor, do not grind your hips at or on anybody who has the word 'Chief' in their title.
4) It may seem like a great time to tell Shane that he is an incoherent arse and everybody thinks so, but the image of you waving your finger vageuly in his face and starting every sentence with 'and another thing..' is unlikely to have him quaking in his boots.
5) Don't dance. Seriously. No, I mean it.

Perhaps you are in the very small percentile in your office who really, really doesn't care about their job, colleagues or reputation. If this is you then is the one night of the year you can do whatever you want. You are the master and the office Christmas party is your bitch. Let loose, drink big, grind hard and tell Shane what an absolute knob he is.

Merry Christmas.

Re.Dun.Dant

notthebestjob — Wed, 09 Sep 2009 13:28:36 GMT

Ah, the word of the year, so it appears. Redundant. Said in hushed terms, behind closed doors. Spoken amongst gentleman and paupers alike. But what does it mean to you, the man on the street? Or, perhaps, more accurately, in the cubicle?

Some greet redundancy with shrieks of joy. You can hear them running around the corridors shouting, "so long f**kers". I think this is why they generally pay you to leave that very day. A month of that behaviour can get fairly tiring. Tends to dampen morale.

For others, redundancy is not something to be taken lightly. It is therefore a strange and tense atmosphere whenever the word redundancy is bandied around within a company. Those who are longing to shriek with joy are left to chew on the desk to ease the frustration until the pink slip arrives. Those who would rather the pink slip didn't arrive are left to chew on their colleagues.

To both groups I say welcome. Allow me to ease you through this period in your life with my 10-step redundancy survival... ment:

1) If you are on the pro-pink slip side (let's call you Bob), now is the time to kick back and let the good times roll. Turn up at work drunk, fail to complete tasks, sleep under your desk. In short, make your job as redundant as possible.
2) If this seems like it may be running a fine line between redundant and fired, dial it back a notch. Stop showering, make inappropriate remarks, repeatedly attempt to access secure rooms.
3) If you are on the anti-pink slip side (let's call you Stella), look out for the Bobs in your office. Assign all your work to them. Advise anyone who will listen that you have completed your tasks, but "Bob is behind again..." Follow it up with a sigh and a shake of the head.
4) Ideally you will form a partnership with Bob. This symbiotic relationship will become advantageous to you both. Your work is completed ahead of schedule, Bob will tell all who listen how many weekends you've been working and you will tell the boss that Bob slept with his wife
5) To both Bob and Stella, keep an eye on the job market. The ripest picking will be those companies who leapt out of the starting blocks of redundancy making far too early. They panicked and laid off everyone, now they are realising that the data doesn't enter itself. These companies are easy to spot. They are advertising for all positions, including CEO (which leads to an interesting point, who is doing the hiring...?)
6) To Bob, make wild accusations about everyone around you. Stare at your colleagues unblinking for long periods of time
7) To Stella, dial a "wrong number" and leave a message on your colleagues phone for Bob. His test results are ready
8) The word redundant comes from the Latin, redundare, meaning "rise in waves". That's a fun fact.
9) Be prepared for whichever way the redundancy wind blows: to Bob, remember that your 'crazy, smelly, repungnant' act may have to be played out until retirement. To Stella, you basically gave all your work to someone else, spread rumours about a colleague and got paid to leave. Not too shabby.
10) And finally, remember, it could be worse. You could have lost an arm and want to scratch yourself in two places at once. Life isn't looking so bad now is it?

~~~~~~
Want more? How to....deal with colleagues

Sweat the Small Stuff

notthebestjob — Wed, 02 Sep 2009 11:55:45 GMT

I used to work for this company, let's call them Schmaschmorfsky Inc, where sweating the small stuff was so paramount I'm surprised we weren't sponsored by Rexona. In some ways, sweating the small stuff is great IF the big picture has been filled. Sadly, at Schmaschmorfsky Inc, not only was the big picture not filled, the management had lost it when they all attempted to pick up an atom that had just split.

My time at Schmaschmorfsky Inc came fondly back to me as I was driving around my 'hood just the other day. The news was on the wireless, informing me that the government in Baghdad had decided to pass a law banning smoking. That's right, smoking. As in stick it between your lips and smoke it, not, as you might imagine, strap it down with TNT and explode it.

This, as I'm sure you are all aware, is a country where it is likely that smoking is not going to be the thing that kills you, or kill those you may breathe on in the street. No, I'm pretty sure smoking isn't top of the list of hazardous activities in Iraq right now.

I could only think, as I drove, that the Iraqi government must have last been working at Schmaschmorfsky Inc. Why focus on car bombings when you can focus on anti-smoking laws? Why focus on the nepotistically fraudulent management when you can focus on pulling the dresscode into line?

"I can't believe she is wearing open-toed shoes?!"
"Yes, quite, but the CEO has just run off with-"
"OPEN-TOED SHOES!"

Why focus on profits bleeding out of every office orrifice when you can spend money on motivational posters? Why focus on streamlining processes when you can make a hat out of red tape?

Why? Anyone? Does anyone know why? Maybe this is why I am not a CEO - I can't see the tiny, tiny leaves for the big picture forest getting in the way.

~
Want More?
How to... survive office politics

Are You Feeling Compliable?

notthebestjob — Wed, 26 Aug 2009 11:10:24 GMT

One item on the nearly endless list of joys of working in the financial industry is your participation in the group-bonding session known as compliance training. Every month, when that email invitation arrives, you find yourself counting down the hours until Outlook advises you it is time. You bounce up with glee (glee, I tell you), for on this day, a plethora of mysteries await: you will visit another floor, you will sit with unfamiliar people, you will learn the true power that is Microsoft Clipart. And the best part is, you are paid for every second of joy.

Freedictionary.com (don't judge, there is a recession on) defines compliance as: the ability of an object to yield elasticity when a force is applied. I find this an apt definition of compliance training. Let me break it down: the object (that's you and I) yields elasticity (that can sometimes refer to an unfortunate underpant incident, but in this case it generally means you standing up from your desk) when a force is applied.

Ah, the force. This force can vary depending on your company and the level of masochism that exists in the training department. Generally it seems to consist of the thinly disgused threat that a PIECE OF PAPER WITH YOUR NAME ON IT will be distributed for others to look at. I am ashamed to admit that my name ended up on that paper once. Apparently, being overseas is not a good enough reason to miss compliance. How could I have been so foolish?

So what exactly are you complying with after all this training? Well, funnily enough the one thing they generally focus the training on appears to conflict with the manner in which they ensure you are trained. How so, you say? Fraud (as the main topic of compliance training) is defined as: intentional perversion of truth in order to induce another to part with something of value or to surrender a legal right.

The truth? That you will enjoy the endless clipart and witty banter of your colleagues. The something of value? Um, well, there's your time and sanity to name two fairly key items. A legal right? To not have your management inflict intentional perversion on you.

And so we have come full circle: the training begets the topic which is the raison d'etre for the training. Sacrebleu! No wonder they have to do it every month.

Aren't you glad you have me around to uncover the mysteries of the office?

That's Fan-statistical

notthebestjob — Wed, 19 Aug 2009 11:45:37 GMT

I work a lot with numbers: manipulating, analysing, debunking. I try and I try, but yet I cannot seem to make a seven anything else. It's very disheartening. However, what it does present to me is the ability to chat about statistics. Gosh, how I love them. I love the authoritative manner it gives to everything you say.

"78% of people think you're a dick. That's down from 84% last week, so you're improving."
"1 in 3 never bring anything to a morning tea. You know who you are. Line up against the wall so I can kick you, you cheating f**ks"
"54% of people hate their job. No, wait, 55%. Wait, sorry, 65%."

Endless, endless fun. I also love the way that when a human inteferes with the beauty of a statistic, it quickly unravels itself, as you shall see.

So, with that in mind I present some office statistics for your perusal. All true, of course. All collated after extensive research dollars were no doubt spent. Worth every penny in my view. Warning, some are of the tawdry persuasion.

1) 75.9% of office grunts (such as myself) are female. 24.1% are male
2) 1 in 3 people are currently out of work. Which begs the question, who in my office is working for free?
3) There is a 1.7% chance of threatened or actual violence occurring to you whilst you are sat in your cubicle
4) Murder is the highest rated killer in the office. It beats unexpected lift shaft plunges hands down.
5) 46% of women have had sex with their boss, which, when you consider the first statistic, you could deduce that 100% of male office workers are getting lucky as you read this sentence
6) 33% of men have had sex on their desk. The statistic is unclear as to whether anyone else was involved.
7) 55% of office romances end in marriage
8) 31% of people said they want to marry the person they are dating at work
9) Which can only lead me to conclude that 17% of office marriages are very awkward and may result in 99% of parties killing the other and 78% sleeping with someone else's boss who may or may not be 50% female

What are you favourite office statistics? Send them my way and there is a chance that 56% will be answered.

Analogize This

notthebestjob — Mon, 03 Aug 2009 12:38:01 GMT

A while back I spoke on the office phenomenom that is the buzzword. Let's take that chat one step forward shall we and instead focus on the more highbrow analogy. Oh yes, that's right. I'm talking about the high-powered analogies only used behind closed doors where high-powered people are having high-powered meetings, discussing the kind of crazy shit that will blow your mind.

I, however, am not adverse to sharing afore mentioned crazy shit to you as it was with great honour that I attended one of these high-powered meetings just last week. The tension was high, the ties were D&G and the analogies were flowing thick and fast. I felt as if I was in the presence of true genius. For surely, only a true genius can say a complete sentence full of high-powered words, but completely lacking in content or meaning.

Picture the scene, I, the only person in the room without an anacronym seemingly part of their surname, ("Hi, Dave Jenkins, CFO". "Hi, Mary Shmary, CRO". "Hi, Steve Sleeve, COO". "Coo? Like the bird?"), used the only skill I can muster in situations like this. That's right, I got drunk and unbuttoned myself. Oh, I wish I was kidding.

Though really, I nodded along importantly at what felt like the right time, which quickly turned into me nodding non-stop as if my head was loose. I listened to the most high-powered people in my business come to agreements that nobody really could follow:

"Steve, as long as it's all rats and mice, where's the problem?"
"Mary, we both know it's more than rats and mice. It's swings and roundabouts."
"Yes. You're right. Well that puts the cat amongst the pigeons."

I was in awe. My company was in safe hands. I wrote hurriedly, trying to take it all down. Finally, there seemed an impasse, a halt in the flow of parallels between potential rodentsome creatures. I sensed my chance. I could feel them looking for a break in the stalemate and grabbed the horny bull.

"Dammit Dave!" I shouted, banging my fist on the desk and leaping to my feet. "It's all goats and cheese and if you can't see that I have no time for you anymore. NO TIME!"

I left, feeling their admiring glances on my back.

It really is just about taking a risk and putting yourself out there. It may feel uncomfortable, but you know, you can't spell analogy without.... wait, never mind.

Shut Your Ugly Mug

notthebestjob — Wed, 29 Jul 2009 09:54:48 GMT

Two beverage related posts in a row? I must be slipping. This topic, however, deserves comment, as it's mere existing is perhaps the touchstone of any reputable corporation. Forget clients, paper, computers even pens, without this item your business is nothing. What is it? It's the personalised coffee mug. Yes, you heard me. I'm not mistaken. Without this your business is crapper than a broken toilet on a crap heap in shitsville.

Why? You may ask as I have noticed my readership tends to when I lay out my perceived outlandish suggestions. Well, fine, i'll tell you, but sooner or later, reader, you are going to have to do the thinking for yourselves for a change. WIthout the personalised coffee mug how would you ever know anything about your staff? Without their feelings written on ceramic, how would you ever know how they felt about themselves, life, their job even world politics? Your staff aren't going to come up to you, slap you about the face with a wet fish and tell you to go f**k yourself are they? No, they will let their coffee mug speak for them.

Allow me to present some examples from my very own institution:

1) "I'm not fat, I'm just lazy" - hmmm... I think the fact that you can't get even a solitary finger through the handle says that for you. It's unlikely someone had to look past your third chin at your mug to determine that.
2) "You can't fix stupid" - this one can be hard to read as it is generally upside down.
3) "Smart arse" - I made the mistake of accidentally using this one, one morning. The owner really doesn't need a mug to let people know his true personality.

But possible the... "best" mug I ever saw was when I was meeting a client for the first time and she arrived coffee mug in hand. It depicted a scene of a girl child looking down the boy's child pants and saying "huh, so that's why you get paid more than me." As you can imagine, that meeting was filled with light-hearted anecdotes and smiles all round.

Seriously, that woman was filled with so much anger and man-hate I felt the penis I don't own shrivel up and die.

Think about it, what does your coffee mug say about you?

Anyone Fu'coffee?

notthebestjob — Tue, 07 Jul 2009 12:40:42 GMT

I am one of the fortunate few who find the use of caffeine a benefit in my day-to-day living. A morning without coffee may as well be spent under the desk for all the good I am to the administration world without it. Contrary to what you may believe, I am not a complex person and I believe this is best demonstrated by my coffee choice. In fact, I will take that one step further and declare that everything about a person can be uncovered from their caffeinated beverage of choice.

An example you say? Glad you asked. Take yesterday morning for example. There was I, slumped against the wall of the cafe waiting for them to call my order, when an odd thing caught my attention:

"Small soy half-strength decaf mocha for Sarah"

Now, allow me if you will, reader, to dissect this coffee order for you. First, a half-strength decaf. What exactly are you half-strengthing? Does decaf come in levels of strength? "God, no, not a full-strength decaf! I may wee my pants before returning to the office." What seriously, would happen to Sarah if she had a full-strength decaf? Second, a mocha. So, it's actually not even all half-strength decaf coffee, half of it is hot chocolate! The level of anything vaguely resembling coffee has now been reduced to a quarter at most.

And soy. Well, enough said. If your stomach can't cope with lactose then you need to find a new one.

So, how did Sarah look you ask? Well, she looked exactly as you'd expect somebody to look who has spent all their free time coming up with the most convoluted, ridiculous coffee order imaginable. I would've kicked her as she passed, but sadly my caffeine levels were low.

So, what does your coffee order say about you?

Cappucino - I want to be grown-up and drink coffee, but I don't like the taste. Don't skimp on the choco shakings. I collect things compulsively.
Latte - I like the milky goodness with a hint of coffee-adventure. I want to live on the edge, but haven't advanced past pressing the crossing button when I have no intention of crossing the road.
Flat White - I like my coffee like I like my men: less milk, more action. I like to eat cheese when no-ones looking
Short Black - I DON'T HAVE TIME TO HAVE A PERSONALITY
Long Black - I like to think this makes me look hard, but in reality it makes me look like I can't afford milk.
Macchiato - I'm a dick

What coffee do I drink you say? I drink the coffee of champions.

Tool of the Trade

notthebestjob — Sun, 28 Jun 2009 13:08:57 GMT

Alas, this post is not about my colleague Tool (alas for him that is, not you, reader). No, it is about the common and perhaps lesser known perks of any job: the tool of the trade. I , as yet, do not have a specific tool of the trade, that is, if you don't count my pencil, chair and team building/bonding squeezy ball I have that says 'Go Team!' (good times, good times). I am fortunate enough, however, to have the use of Mr Notthebestjob's tool.... but, that's probably another story for another time.

Thank you, thank you, try the veal.

Instead, let's talk about my use of Mr Notthebestjob's tool of the trade, his car, which I like to call Pete. I take Pete out quite regularly, sometimes when Mr Notthebestjob himself has to get to work. Man, can that guy kick up a stink about the little things: "But I couldn't get to work!","Quit it, bitch, I was pimping my ride", "But I got fired!", "I said quit your whining!" And so on, and so on.

Just this morning I took Pete out for a spin around the mean streets of Indooroopilly. I , of course, was dressed in my work gear, blue-toothing several important conference calls whilst simultaneously gesturing to my fellow drivers that they should take some part of their anatomy and perform a most likely illegal act with their own mother. Papa Notthebestjob, my passenger, spent the entire ride constantly interupting me to ask who I was talking to and why did I have a cardboard cutout of a blue-tooth headset sellotaped to my face.

I tell you , these people know nothing about business.

I am, mostly, grateful that I do not have a work car, or, in fact, that I don't have to drive endlessly for my job. Most mornings, I wake up in the front seat of the car after Mr Notthebestjob has dragged me out there, and see driver after driver screaming at each other and then veer off in to ditches when their head's explode. I do not understand this behaviour at any time of the day, but how people can get so enraged so early I do not understand. I imagine this to be their day planner:

6am - Wake up: "what a beautiful day"
6.30am - Get in car: "you can all go to hell you m*thaf**king bunch of p**cks"

I find it difficult to remember to take the toothbrush out of my mouth most mornings, let alone get that fired up. I expect they had sad childhoods. This is why I prefer to pretend to be a high-end exec. You have all the prestige with none of the actual responsibility.

You just have to be careful that your bluetooth headset doesn't rip in half when you're in the middle of an important call...

Look At Me Liz!

notthebestjob — Tue, 23 Jun 2009 13:15:31 GMT

So, it appears as if my blog has reached the first stage of world domination, a casting call for 60 Minutes. Yes, that's right, you heard it here first. Liz Hayes and her buds are out looking for people who are "living the dream" career-wise, who have taken the bull by the horns, stood up proudly and said "World, check me out. I am doing what I do because I love it and I couldn't imagine anything better."

Well, Liz, I'm frankly quite surprised you felt the need to ask if other people were living the dream, when quite clearly you have your number 1 candidate here. In case you haven't been paying attention, let's see how I well I fit the criteria:

Q) Do you wake up every morning and have to pinch yourself because you can't believe you are doing what you are doing for a living?
A) Oh my God, totally. Sometimes I even ask Mr Notthebestjob to punch me in the face just to make sure.

Q) Do you find it criminal that you actually get paid to do what you do?
A) Oh yeah, I find my pay completely criminal.

Q) Did you make a concious decision to change what you were doing to get this amazing opportunity?
A) Ab-so-lute-ly. Before I was just an administrator, now I'm a senior administrator. I mean, the kudos alone is worth it. It was hard, at first to make the decision, but I thought "Notthebestjob, just do it, it'll be tough, there'll be obstacles, but this is why you have been doing what you do over the years. To get the word 'senior' in your title... think of the glory." And I did. And the glory was good.

Q) How did your family react when you told them about the dramatic career change?
A) Mr Notthebestjob was understandably nervous. He wasn't sure that he could cope with me reaching for the stars and not getting there. He'd knew I'd be crushed and he didn't want the pain for me. The studying took up a lot of time, but eventually I spelled Senior right first time and it was a glorious moment for both of us. We celebrated with cake. I like cake.

Q) Do you think this is it? Or has your achievement given you a taste for more?
A) Liz, it's never enough. Once you have tasted the power you just want more. I hope one day to get to Team Leader, but it's so scary. I can't talk of it for fear I shall jinx it. Just imagine, someone asks you what you do and you can say, "I'm Notthebestjob, TL"

Really it's a no-brainer. I guess the reasoning of having open auditions is so I don't win in a landslide, but really, it's in the bag.

Note for my international followers: 60 Minutes is a TV show (a TV is that box that randomly makes loud noise) where injustices are metted out with the attitude they deserve. Essentially, everyday folk whinge about something that's gone wrong in their life that you've never heard of and then the TV crew find the perpetrators of this injustice and ram microphones and cameras in their face. Generally someone cries. Usually the viewer.

Thank You For The Music

notthebestjob — Mon, 01 Jun 2009 13:27:17 GMT

If someone could put a soundtrack to your working life what song would you pick?

It is a question that has been haunting me on my walk into work for the last week or so (funnily enough, the exact length since my last blog entry). Some days I imagine a show tune accompanying me between meetings, I mean, we all know there's nothing better than picturing your colleagues in sequins to pass the time. Sometimes it's a little more melancholy, something to cry to like Ice Cube's You Can Do It (Put Your Ass Into It). When I'm upset there's nothing I like more than climbing on to my desk and violently thrusting my hips in my shocked colleague's face, crying 'Huh?! Huh?! How do you like them apples?". Sometimes I smack my own ass, but only if it's been a real bad day.

So what gets your rocks off? What song is going through your head when you bust out those secret moves in the kitchen? And what song do you imagine to be playing when you shake your thang down the corridor with the security camera cause you know that it will give Pete in IT something to pass the day to?

Word to the wise, if you do happen to shake said thang somewhere, and let's say for example you were, I don't know, harmonically extolling the virtues of Beyonce's suggestion to 'put a ring on it', and you just happen to attempt some move with your back against the wall, well, don't. Or at least, if you do, be carrying something which you can drop so you have at least a semi-legitimate reason to be lying on the floor in the event that the dance doesn't turn out so well.

These things happen to good people.

Me, personally, I have a new song for this week. It loses something without the actual tune, but I think you get the general idea:

And the best thing about this place
Is it looks good from outer space
Because nothing's here for me
Is there some place somewhere
Because the best thing around
Is the road that leads out of here

And then my favourite part of the song that has all the hidden subtext about my feelings:

Na na na na na naaaa nununu na na naaaa nu na na naaaaaaaa nu na na na nu nu nunu naaaaaaaa nunu naaaaaaaaaaaa

If you don't know the song then there's probably some security footage of me busting it out just outside the disabled toilet that you can watch.

Dear reader, don't hold back this week. That inner song wants to come out and play. Send me a comment and tell me what your song is, then I can keep an ear out for it.

Women! Know Your Place

notthebestjob — Thu, 21 May 2009 13:30:21 GMT

Dear reader. I believe we have become quite close over the lifetime of this blog. I feel I can tell you anything. I feel it is my duty to tell you things that you may find shocking, disturbing even about the seedy underbelly of the corporate world. Turn back, dear reader if the thought of this offends you. I will not tell a lie: this entry is rated above PG-13. Perhaps even M. It tells of a dark place. One that I have resided in for some time. Much like a Kinder Surprise this tale comes in three parts: Loathing, Disgust and Apathy. We all know what great toys Loathing makes, and the sweet, sweet taste Disgust leaves behind in your mouth...

Are you ready? I will begin.

Do not be frightened when I tell you that behind every perfectly shaped cubicle lies the potential for your worst nightmare. Use a periscope to covertly look over the divider that separates you. Is the occupant female? Then I'm sorry to tell you it is most likely your time on earth is up. Believe me when I tell you this: your female colleague is out to kill you. How do I know? I have seen the horrors yet lived to tell the tale. I have seen the worst a broad in a twinset and pearls can muster up. It is not pretty.

"But she seems so friendly. She's always helping me."

FOOL! She is stealing your personal information and replicating your fingertips.

"Her emails always end in a smiley face..."

IDIOT! Can't you tell the eyes are watching you?

"She bakes the best treats at morning tea...!"

It is too late. You will be dead by the end of this entry.

"But... but... She puts hearts over the i's in her name!"

So do serial killers.

Not convinced? Allow me to further elaborate. Pathologically insane female office workers do not come to work ranting and raving and carrying on like you would expect an insane person to. No, they are clever enough to hide it. See if you can spot any colleagues in the following:

1) They will call you a term of supposed endearment as greeting, most likely 'babe'. This is because they have murdered so many colleagues they have realised it is pointless learning names. Or, sometimes, they are just too stupid to remember a name that isn't their own.
2) They always express great sympathy at any illness that requires your absence from work. This is not sympathy. Have you noticed how roughly two weeks later it is subtly thrown back in your face. Regard: "Oh, Mr CEO, Tina here worked on that document. Remember Tina? Oh that's right, that's when you were "sick"..." More often than not the air quotes will actually be performed. See how the previous sympathy made you think they cared? That's right, they don't.
3) They appear to detest the fact that they worked "till 8pm last night" or they were "here at 6am". The only time those two sentences are acceptable in a work environment is when the first is followed by "because the f**king elevator broke down" and the second by "because I came straight from the pub. I just vomited in the bin."
4) They believe the greatest weapon in their arsenal is the power to ignore people. Like the ice-cold ninja that they are. In most societies, a person who is mute is regarded as the village idiot. I'm just saying. Side note: I read an interesting piece of historical information that stated Churchill actually won WW2 by simply ignoring Hitler. Amazing... I guess it does work.

There are several ways to handle these women, some blunt and some subtle. I prefer the blunt option, mainly because it's more fun, but remember, subtlety also requires intellect on the receiver's end, and... well, let's just say that when God was handing out intellect these women were round the corner ignoring Him because they were pissed at some such.

Your blunt responses to the above situations would be:

1) "Babe me again and I will end you."
2) "Yeah, I must've caught something when I was banging your husband."
3) "Why did you need an extra 4 hours to sit around and do nothing?"
4) The skies pretty much the limit with this group. My personal favourite is to follow them around all day, singing "I know a song that will get on your nerves, get on your nerves, get on your nerves. I know a song that will get on your nerves, get, get, get on your nerves." Jazz hands as well also seem to rile them up. I don't know why.

You may be laughing nervously and thinking 'not in my workplace', but secretly you know it's true. You just caught Doris in the cubicle over look at the time on her toolbar when you arrived and you knew she was storing that information for later.

And so it begins.

A Sign of the Times

notthebestjob — Thu, 16 Apr 2009 06:33:04 GMT

When I eventually become CEO of a company (any company, I’m not fussy. It says as much on my CV), the first thing I will do is hire all the people I dislike, insist as part of their employment they mortgage themselves to the hilt and then fire them.

The second thing I will do (after all their wailing has finally died down), is visit every single floor of my empire and remove all the pointless signs that some wastrel with too much laminating time has created. In my time in offices across the globe I have seen a plethora of these signs. What signs? Those of you who do not have the pleasure of working in an office may cry. Don’t panic, I am not referring to the “Fire Escape” sign, or even the “Button for aborting self-destruct” sign. Their removal would be cruel, and I am anything but cruel. See my first point: that’s not cruel, I don’t like these people... Keep up.

No the signs I am referring to imply that you do not know how to load a dishwasher, or flush a toilet. That you need to be told to not let masked terrorists into the building. “I would love nothing more than to let you in, strange, bearded fellow, but look at this lamination. It told me not to. And look! Look at the little clipart at the bottom! See the smiley face isn’t smiling and it has a big finger waving no? You don’t want me to argue with that face do you?”

I would also love to know when the fable of the “cleaning fairy” was first told. Every kitchen in every office in every country has this sign. Some write their message as a poem, some in prose, but the basics are always there: “There is no cleaning fairy so clean up your own mess”. Well, that’s just mean. What if I believed in the cleaning fairy? I don’t go round to the homes of cleaners and put laminated signs on the bunk above their children’s heads that read “There is no Father Christmas so buy your own gifts”. Maybe I should.

The absolute cream of the laminated sign crop though had to be one I saw in the bathroom of our partner office in another state. It read (and I quote): “Ladies, please spend some time to clean the bathroom after use in deference to the cleaners”. Ummm... what? Let me get this straight, helpful notice, you want me to clean the bathroom after I use it in order to help the cleaners? Surely if I take the clean out of their title they just become ‘ers’ and nobody wants to answer the question of “What do you do for a living?” with “Er”.

So, in actual deference to the cleaners and to keep them in a job, I pulled all the toilet roll out of its holder and let the sinks overflow. I saw the gratitude in their eyes as they came in that evening. Their looks said “Thank you. A sign was laminated for us and we couldn’t laminate a sign in reply. You have set us free. Thank you hero. Thank you”

I’m not a hero. I’m just an everyday office worker.

Sorry, Colleague, I Believe My Tongue is in Your Ear

notthebestjob — Wed, 15 Apr 2009 06:03:31 GMT

If Hollywood has taught me anything, and dear God it has, it is that:

One should never say goodbye at the end of a phone call, nor, in fact, should you finalise any arrangements whatsoever. A simple, potentially flirtatious, “see you then” is more than enough. Perhaps too much.
If you believe someone is about to deliver bad news to you simply interject with “Please, let me just say this first, I cannot tell you how happy you make me feel/less dependent on drugs I am/less likely to murder someone when you’re around” etc etc. Guilt is your friend in these situations.
(Perhaps more blog-relevant) Colleagues are undeniably more attractive/better dressed/socially acceptable on the silver screen.

Dear readers, do not think that my final point is in anyway disrespectful to Tiger, Tim, Tool, Trouble & Tara. They are, of course... beautiful... in their own ways. Sometimes though it is like watching a primary school nativity play: you feel sorry for them in the awkward way they go about things, but you’re not going to smash their head on the keyboard for it.

No *sigh*, it’s a sad fact of life that if I worked in any of the offices portrayed in Hollywood then hot dang you could pay me pittance for doing triviality and as long as I had Jake Gyllenhaal and/or Jason Dohring and/or David Duchovny as water-cooler buddies, then in the immortal words of Dolly Parton, I wouldn’t give a f**k.

Woah, sorry, I went into some sort of bliss coma then.

It is my personal belief that before you accept any job you should be shown photos of your potential fellow colleagues: “You know, I just don’t think this job is going to work out for me, sorry” one might say as they look at Simon from accounting. Or not. Maybe the wobbly eye does it for you. And that’s what makes my plan foolproof - I could work with the... finer specimens... and the rest of you could all work in one office somewhere together. Far away.

This blog entry is dedicated to Tool who is in the final stages of producing baby Tool. Stay at the wicketkeeper’s end Tool. The wicketkeeper's end.

You Can't Spell Holiday Without 'Ho'

notthebestjob — Tue, 14 Apr 2009 04:30:13 GMT

Hilarity Duff put it best when she sang:
"You took a holiday from us
Took a trip & left your love
You took a holiday from me
I guess you needed to be free
& now you got me asking
Where (where did you go huh? where did you go huh?)"

Well, Duffster, since you asked twice and with vaguely threatening undertones, I will confirm that yes, I did take a holiday and yes, it was hard to leave my 'love' behind, but I did it and I can't begin to tell you for 3 weeks how much I suffered...

So, for all those other unfortunates who have leave rushing up on them much too fast, here are some tips for surviving the holiday without your corporate 'love':

Encourage your holidaying partner to support you through this period. For example, Mr Notthebestjob would thoughtfully (and regularly) change our original plan at the last minute to engage in unnecessariness, thereby increasing the budget, skewing the project plan, upsetting the client, but ultimately making me feel more at home in this scary outside world. If you are travelling alone I have found that many a stranger will assist you with this, mostly inadvertently but always welcome.
The tedium and mediocrity of midweek drinking sessions, wine tastings and happy hours can be made more enjoyable by knowing that most likely you will soon ‘throw it at the wall and see if it sticks’.
Decorate your side of the car/tent/caravan/boat etc to resemble your office cubicle. This can be as simple as a laminated sign denoting your name and title stuck to the window all the way up to packing the sandwich guy in the back seat and requesting he ring his bell everyday at 10am. Innuendo optional.
An electronic labeler should be the first (and potentially only) thing you pack. Many, many a crisis was averted between Mr Notthebestjob and I, due to the ability to instantly ascertain whose stapler was whose. Laugh now, but you have been warned.

Finally, a salute, to those colleagues who have leave accrued until they retire. You are my heroes. May you never cease to work.

I Would Draw An Analogy If I Hadn't Eaten All My Crayons

notthebestjob — Fri, 20 Mar 2009 02:34:06 GMT

My colleague Tool is always at me to draw analogies on my blog "Tool," I say "when you have control of an award winning, global blog maybe you can dictate its ebbs and flows, until then be quiet and make me a coffee."

Unfortunately, Tool makes a quick coffee so he's soon back at my side banging on about analogies and the like. So in the interest of maintaining the delicate balance of love and hate that exists in every corporate office, here is an entry chock full of analogousness to keep the peace.

*cough* I would like to draw an analogy between work and exercise if I may. I have to say, this is mainly because for some foolish reason I attempted said exercise this week and have self-diagnosed my resulting injury as kneeexcrutiatingpainprobablygoingtoexplodeitis. My apologies at using the correct Latin term for my injury, but I like to speak proper:

Anyway, analogising commencing... Work is like sport. It is something one feels they should do but is generally not enjoyable, it takes up free time, results in ruptured ligaments and/or brain rot and you are generally playing with at least one person who is abiding by the rules of an entirely different game. Those who are deemed to be "in charge" are generally pathologically insane and seem to glean zero pleasure from what they are doing, other than when interpreting the rules to suit their argument at any given time.

I'm on a roll here.

Work is like sport. Those who speak up, argue the interpretation of the rules or punch a colleague in the face are usually "sent off". Most of the time this is an unfair dismissal: the rules should be questioned and some colleagues deserve a good smack-down. I can think of 3 candidates off the top of my head right now. You know who you are bitches...

Work is like sport. It is much better to sit on the sofa, drink a beer and watch someone else do it.

By the way, does anyone actually know what an analogy is?

Attack of the Killer Bodies

notthebestjob — Wed, 18 Mar 2009 05:53:28 GMT

One of the undeniably incessant joys of working in an Australian office must be the phrase 'morning tea'. As my colleagues will all testify I love everything about morning teas. Mainly eating as much as I physically can. Truly appreciating a morning tea takes practise and preparation, both of which I am well versed in and qualified to share with you.

The first step is to eat a large, late dinner the night before. The stretching of the stomach in this way ensures more lamingtons can be consumed. You may be surprised by how many. Schoolboy error alert: don't eat breakfast that morning. You will just undo all your hard dinner labour.

The second is to be very careful as to the amount of carbohydrates you consume during the morning tea. Those pull-apart berry breads may look nice, but they will thwart your attempts at eating all the brie.

Mastering just these two steps will put you in good stead to attain morning tea success (success levels are measured by how tight your pants are and how much of a sugar hangover you have - if you are not simultaneously angry and happy then you are clearly a morning tea rookie. Tip: stop eating the fruit).

Item of note: every morning tea without fail will have somebody who appears and starts eating things when they have clearly not 'brought anything to the table'. These people are assholes and their attempts to eat a mini quiche that they have not worked for should be impeded. They will usually 'accidentally appear' under the guise of discussing work with someone at the morning tea. Do not be fooled. They probably don't even work at your office. My advice is to stand between them and the food table and shout "Who are you? Where do you work?" repeatedly until they leave shamefaced. If this doesn't work, keep smacking the food out of their hands as they attempt to get it to their mouth. They'll soon get the hint.

Some may say that morning teas are just an excuse to skive off work and be glutinous. To these people I politely say "Shut the f**k up you f**king square and get the f**k away from my dip".

I feel I am fairly open-minded when it comes to most things, but not morning teas. Don't get between me and my 10.30am glut-down.

Are You Touching My Base?

notthebestjob — Mon, 16 Mar 2009 06:31:59 GMT

As I tried valiantly to wile away the hours at the weekend, desperately hoping that all the theatre visits, dinners out, shopping trips and glasses of champagne would soon be over so I could get back to work, I stumbled upon a second-hand book stall in a church. This church, unlike many others, is one that I feel fairly comfortable stumbling upon mainly due to the fact that it is where, at 3 months old, I starred as the baby Jesus in a nativity play. Sadly, that is another story, one I like to call 'Jesus was a baby girl'.

So, the second-hand booksale... As I walked the aisles breathing in the smell of old books and old people, a book caught my eye. It was titled "Officespeak: The win-win guide to touching base, getting the ball rolling and thinking inside the box". How could I resist? At last I would be able to converse freely with my fellow colleagues without feeling out of place! I would be able to make intelligent and coherent sounding points during meetings! Finally my weekend had produced a gem!

I put down the book I was going to buy, entitled "How to make erotic videos for amateurs" (after all, Mr Notthebestjob would definitely appreciate this new book more) and purchased my new found ticket to corporate wonderland.

After a weekend of practising to ensure my new lexicon tripped off the tongue as if by accident, I feel fairly confident in unleashing the following during meetings:

"I concur Dave, I say we take the bull by the horns and shoot the puppy"

"Hmmm.... this idea of yours, let's put it on the five-fifteen and see if it gets off at Westport"

"Are you going to sit there and screw the pooch all day or are we going to knife-and-fork it?"

"This paradign shift indicates we're behind the curve. Heads up - let's get our ducks in a row and hit the ground running. Preferably whilst eating low-hanging fruit"

"We'll burn that bridge when we come to it"

"You want to take this offline and interface? Isn't that against corporate policy"

NB. I may have not got the last two right, but they seem to cause a stir when I say them , so I must be doing something right....

Finally, for those of you who like your meetings to be more 'play along' (and let's face it, who doesn't?) then this is for you: Buzzword Bingo. Just don't follow my example and shout 'Bingo!' in the middle of a "cascade".

Re: FW: FW: FW: FW:

notthebestjob — Thu, 12 Mar 2009 12:42:44 GMT

One of the great joys of working in an office is the moment an email comes in with a subject line starting "Fw: FW: FW: [unclassified-sec] FW" or a variation of that theme. Opening it like a child on Christmas morning you can't help but wonder "Will this email wipe my harddrive and potentially the server at work? Will this email 'suggest' that if I don't forward this email onto at least 25 people that my wish won't come true (which we all know means imminent death)? Will it have Clip Art? Will it have a beautiful poem extholing the virtues of friends, colleagues, kittens? Perhaps even a homemade animation that brings a tear to the eye? Perhaps even... *gasp* a motivational poster?"

And so I present, the best of motivational postermanship (click to embiggen):

Please forward this post on to 7723 people in the next 15 seconds.

A Tale From Yesteryear

notthebestjob — Wed, 11 Mar 2009 05:51:18 GMT

Firstly, I must apologise to those avid blog readers who were distraught there wasn't an entry yesterday. I understand that sometimes it is hard to get through a working day when you feel all alone, but I'm back. It's ok.

I spent the day with Papa Notthebestjob and to ensure our conversation remained on-topic and relevant to my world domination blogging aspirations, we spoke mainly about work. "Padre," I Italianised "Tell me a tale from the days you used to work in the mine and went to bed by candlelight" "My child," he responded wistfully "how old do you think I f**king am?"

Once his antagonism had subsided he talked about his time in local government in Yorkshire and how it was virtually impossible to be fired. One chap proved this point spectacularly when he was imprisoned for 6 months for taking back-handers and his position was waiting for him when he was released (no doubt less inclined to "bend over backwards" and perhaps with a new "wife" named Tiny).

Did he deserve to be fired? Pretty much. Does my colleague, Trouble, who insists on wearing stapled together speedos to swim deserve to be fired? Maybe, it is quite a precarious situation after all. Does the girl who writes her blog in work time deserve to be fired?

No.

The back-handers on the other hand might be a bit incriminating....