Jimmy Page’s Trousers

Those few that were bothered enough to read my earlier posts about the horrors of my foray into consulting may be interested to note that after two days, I managed to get out of the third (and, ostensibly, final) day through nefarious means. As next week is my last week before my career break begins, I was looking forward to spending it, much as I have the last six months of work, drinking tea and surfing for pointless stuff.

Karma though, Karma has different plans. Karma, unhappy with my slithering my way out of the final day’s consultancy, has done its work to balance the cosmos. My boss (and apparently now, Karmic henchman), Dolphin Skin, popped over to request that I go back to the clients on Monday to do another bit. Well, I say ‘request’.

It gets worse though. Not only do I have to drive miles beyond what I usually would but I have to pick up some bloke, newly arrived from the UK, that will also be consulting for this particular client. Apparently, and for no good reason that I can think of, he is staying in a hotel near where I live rather than near the actual client’s place. Idiot. So, on Monday morning, I need to drive some bloke I’ve never met before to a place I don’t want to be and then stay there for the day. What a crock. Now I’m a fucking taxi driver.

Fucking Karma.

I still can’t be annoyed at Dolphin Skin though. I now know for sure that he is trying to give me something interesting to do after six months of nothing in order to try entice me back after my sabbatical. He told one of my colleagues as much. Still though, I’m not happy. Where’s my run-in? I want an easy week. I’ve had six months of them, just leave me alone for this one.

What the hell’s going on? Now I’ve gone and caught some nasty cold. All bunged up and snotty. Horrid mucus that seems to gather into a large, slimy ball at the back of my throat as I sleep the sleep of the cold-ridden and then shifts position when I move to the vertical in the morning. The shifting causes it to wobble about somewhere between my nose and throat and induce violent snot-gagging fits. No fun. Five minutes hawking, coughing, gagging and spitting in the morning. And the stuff that comes out. Jesus. [I’ll just say “good morning” to all my lady readers at this stage. Quite the catch, girls, quite the catch].

What’s with all the sicknesses? I am the world’s sickliest man, all weak and feeble. It’s really only a matter of time before some Alpha-Blogger comes along with designs on my patch and usurps me in a clash of virtual antlers. I’ll have to skulk off, infirm and puny, as he pisses all over the place to mark his new territory and then prepares for the rutting.

‘Tis healthy to be sick sometimes? Fuck off Thoreau, not this often it’s not.

I had my first experience of being a consultant yesterday. I felt dirty. Had to rush home afterwards to wash the shame off with a Brillo Pad and Domestos.

I’ll tell you what though, if you’ve any notion of what you’re doing (which many consultants don’t), it’s money for old rope. Sit about and ask people questions to find out what they’re doing wrong? With my Masters-Diploma-Degree-Cert in Advanced Fault Finding, it was a doddle. Just get them talking and make some notes - that’s shit, that’s shit, don’t know why they thought that was a good idea, that’s shit, etc.

Then, all you need to do is produce an impressive looking report that lists their many failings. You don’t even need to fix them - just make a list. It really is the ideal job for a lazy wanker.

It wasn’t all plain sailing though. This particular consulting gig was in a university. Did I stick out in the campus cafeteria with my suit and shiny, shiny shoes? Yep. Why, why did I choose to wear the pink shirt, the consultant’s uniform? They were all so young and carefree and scruffy. I’m not (as) young. I’m certainly not carefree and though my natural, and favoured, state is scruffy, yesterday I was all groomed and suited and tied. Christ, I felt out of place. I told myself it was the suit and that had I been in my usual attire of combats and Converse, I’d have blended right in. It’s not true. I’m too old. I have to face it.

Although, maybe not. Maybe those stares from the young ladies of the campus were not all derision. Perhaps they were impressed to see a suited, confident man, with a job and a pink shirt. Maybe those girls sitting around, all young and firm and pretty, were wondering how to strike up a conversation with this smartly attired stranger.

“Hi. My friends and I have been watching you and we’re impressed by your pink shirt and the fact that you’re so obviously confident that you don’t feel the need to conform to the societal image of men with chiselled abs.”

“Thanks, but this paunch takes work too you know. Costs a small fortune in beer”

“Not a problem for you, I’m sure. I can tell from your, very attractively filled, suit that you obviously have a good career. I find that incredibly sexy in a man and so do my young, firm, pretty friends.”

“Thanks again. I don’t like to brag but I do get a company laptop.”

“So what do you do?”

“I’m just here doing a spot of consulting”

“Consulting? Eeeeeuuuuuwwwwwww. Get away”

I’m working from home today and, much to my chagrin, am actually working. However, I have just partaken of breakfast, a sticky bun and a cup of tea, while sitting in the sunshine in my back garden. Perched comfortably on the rather worn-looking garden furniture that really should have been in the shed for the winter, atop the deck that I built with my own hands, I sat and read a couple of chapters of my book.

Extraordinarily pleasant it was too. I have resolved that I will do likewise on every sunny day (of which I’m convinced there will be many) of my impending sabbatical. Brekkie in the sunshine? Yes please.

Returning to my laptop, I felt the urge to share something agreeable and gratifying rather than the negative belly-aching shite that I’m normally whining on about.

Hurrah for sunshine, gardens and sticky buns.

My boss, Dolphin Skin, has provided me with an important assignment. It seems I am to consult. My guess is that Dolphin Skin, knowing that I’m off on a career break and that I’ve been basically paid to surf for the last six months, wants me to ‘leave on a high’. I reckon he wants to show me that work here isn’t all about pasting numbers into a spreadsheet for two days of the month and then being even more bored for the rest of it. I am to leave Perdition Inc. with a feeling of what wonderful, varied and interesting work can be mine should I return.

There are a couple of flaws, of which he is unaware, in his plan.

First and foremost, I don’t want to work for Perdition Inc. I never did and I never will. I didn’t choose to work here (outsource) and now that I’ve been here for a while, it has proven far, far worse than my (already very low) expectations.

Secondly, to me, ‘consult’ is a bit of a dirty word. I don’t tend to like it when consultants consult at me and it’s not something that I’d have chosen to do. If I’d wanted to consult, I’d have taken the consulting job that I was offered when a client of my erstwhile employer found out about the outsourcing. “Come and work for us” he said. I politely declined as consulting isn’t something I want to do. It should be noted, however, that I liked this guy and had a lot respect for his company (something that can’t, and couldn’t, be said for Perdition Inc.).

Lastly, I’m on the ‘run-in’. I’m winding down. I don’t want to have to put on my suit and tie my tie and go out to talk shite to some idiot that was stupid enough to hire Perdition Inc. in the first place. I’m going on a career break in a couple of weeks. I don’t want to do this now (or ever, really).

Now, in fairness, Dolphin Skin can’t know all of this and I’m pretty sure he thinks he’s doing a good thing for me, so it’s hard to be annoyed at him. That does not however, change the fact that, tomorrow, I have to spend about an hour and a half in traffic to get to this client’s site, interview people all day and spend another hour and a half getting home again. This to be repeated two days next week too.

I’m unhappy. And anyone that says something along the lines of “there’s no pleasing him” can fuck right off. And no psycho-shite about how under-utilised and under-stressed people get used to that condition and actually begin to resent it when they do get some work to do. I know, but it doesn’t matter. They’ve let me sit around in jeans and combats, doing toss-all for the last six months. At least let me continue for my last fortnight.

The HR trolls have stamped their forms. It is official. I am to take a career break. A few weeks ago, as my dolphin-skinned boss began to list the wonderful chores that I was to work on, I interrupted and requested a career break (obviously the word ‘career’ is used in its loosest possible sense here). I’d been thinking about it for a while and it seemed an appropriate time to ask. So, wheels were put in motion and I have now found out that it has happened. I’m going to leave Perdition Inc. at the start of May and (if, as I suspect, the gods truly hate me) I will return at the start of October. It had better be a nice summer.

What to do with the time. What, indeed. Well, in typical blogger style, perhaps I should write a book. I doubt it, but there are a couple of possible screenplay ideas rattling around. I’m actually embarrassed even saying that as it appears that every second blog I read is written by someone that reckons they’re an author. What makes me different? Nothing probably. I am, most likely, as talentless and useless as many of the other bloggers that consider themselves writers (although there are a few to which this doesn’t apply). The important thing is that I’ll have some time to actually discover that I’m shite.

Then there’s the garden. That needs to be done. And the kitchen. And my little side-business that I’ll continue for beer money (not going into it now but it’s not dealing or pimping).

Also, my brother, the doley, seems to be quite happy that he’ll have someone with which to spend the long summer days and is already planning expeditions.

So, lots of projects to occupy my time. Lots to do to make the most of my time off. Or, I may sit around the house in my pants, drinking Dutch Gold and watching Doctor Phil. Could go either way.

*It’s not black, but I was unable to resist the, rather lame, pun.

To commemorate the death, by crucification, of Jesus Christ, the Irish people customarily mark the occasion by getting completely off their faces.  You see, due to some odd connection between the licencing laws and the Catholic church, pubs here are closed for only two days of the year.  On Christmas Day and on Good Friday you can’t get a pint in a pub.

Never ones to take such an affront to their human rights sitting down, the Irish people will flock in their multitudes to off-licences around the country today.  Vast hordes of people will buy far more beer than they can possibly consume in one day purely because someone has told them they can’t drink tomorrow.

It is the Irish way.  Tell us we can’t do something and we have to do it.  Especially drink.  I’m off to the offie for 6 crates of beer and a bottle of Tia Maria.

Huge it is. Fucking huge. A giant mound, glowing shiny red and ready to burst will all sorts of ghastly nastiness. An enormous, and I do mean enormous, spot. Just below the corner of my mouth. Fucking huge.

It started yesterday but it wasn’t ripe for the squeezing yet. Had to suffer it. Sore little bastard too. At least it was Sunday though, and I could shun all human interaction. Not today though. Now I have to come to work with this monstrous thing on my face. I didn’t shave this morning in an attempt to hide it but that was pretty much in vain as it’s in one of the places where no hair grows. All I’ve accomplished is to look like a scruffy bastard with a massive spot.

Hoping desperately for a nice yellow head to squeeze this morning, I noticed that there were, in fact, three tiny yellow heads all in very close proximity. It’s like The Perfect Storm of pimples. None of these were squeezable though. It’s all too deep and painful to squeeze anyway. I’d just end up with a sore face, swearing at the mirror. Then I’d have a colossal scab on it as well.

I’m going to have to spend the day telling people about it. “Look at my enormous spot”, I’ll have to say in order that people realise I’m unhappy and that this is a rare occurrence. It’s either that or have them glancing surreptitiously at it and thinking I’m some oily-skinned loser.

Now my spot is throbbing and my unshaven face is itching. Who’d be me?