The Diary of Samuel Poops

I suppose the beauty of this blogging thing is, it has got so huge and diverse, what with the mememespace, and faecesbook sites, that no-one actually comes to the small places that kicked the fashion off. This means that I can pop in on occasion and post the useless piles of shite that I used to splatter, safe in the knowledge that I will be the only one to read it.

Anyhoo. We've moved again. The old house in the country stuff mentioned in the previous post turned into a steaming pile of shit shortly after I last posted. We are now back in Inverness, although the location might be considered by some as "out of town", being 4 miles from the city center.

Workwise, I'm still pretending to be a Quality Manager, although I did manage to throw all the toys out of the pram a couple of months ago, and walked out in a glorious huff. That lasted 2 weeks before I decided to return and face the demons. My re-emergence as the blue eyed boy has been a success, but my enthusiasm for the job still remains...low. The Ops manager is convinced that I do care about the job, when I remain adamant that I definitely do not. Unless it directly affects me, or anything that is related and will reflect badly on me, then, yes I do care. But, there is a real misconception that I care about the performance of my colleagues. The truth is, it all depends on my mood on the day how well their performance is reported. If I'm in a good mood (rare) everyone will score just above average, more regularly they barely reach the "meh, ok" mark on the quality barometer. Their job is piss easy. They have all the tools to fix the majority of problems within 15 minutes of the call being logged, but choose to be incredibly shite. Their problem not mine, yet when the Team Leaders feedback the quality report to them, they get stroppy and demand that the call be reassessed and they be given a higher score. The funny thing is that after I have marked the call, the team leader and the flunky listen to the call together and mark it independently. This usually results in a lower score than I gave. Stupid cunts.

That's about all that I can say about work at the moment. Even in an attempt to vent my spleen anonymously, it disgusts me.

On a much cheerier note, the wedding plans are progessing satisfactorily. Only 6 weeks to go, I have been reliably informed by Monkey, and still no sign of either of us trying to make a run for it! Our plan to have Doddsie as ring bearer failed though. An attempt to attach a ring box to his collar and get him to run towards us proved fruitless. If we want him to look at us with disgust, then sit down and lick his arse for 5 minutes before chasing an invisible insect, then yes, it would be a success. Unfortunately this is not the case, so we will rely on the traditional method of the best man pretending to have lost the rings instead. Although in my case, the best man could very well lose the rings. Perhaps we should attach them to his collar and call him? He might try to lick his own arse, but his attention span is shorter than Doddsie's, and, he doesn't like the taste of insects, so it could be the answer.

Who knows? And, also, Who knows when I will return and give you the answer?

Best not to hold your breath.

Poops.

that this place existed.

The last few months have been eventful. In my time away from here I have:

Proposed to the Monkey - She accepted, obviously.

We moved to the country - Well, about 5 miles out of Inverness, just off the A9. Doddsie has become the king of his manor, and rules his territory with an iron paw.

I was promoted at work to training co-ordinator, hated the job, and have since resigned. Still working in the same place, but aiming lower in the pecking order. Truth is, although I originally wanted the new position, it developed into an enormous pile of shite and hassle that I just didn't need. They want me to take control of the quality team now, which involves more work than I think is necessary, so I expect to walk away from that in another few months. I don't know what I have to do to convince them that I have absolutely no interest in working here any more, other than joining the ever increasing number of AWOL staff that haven't shown their faces in here for months. The annoying thing is that all those fuckers have been signed off with "stress", when we all know that most of them are work shy idle cunts. Inverness may be classed as a city, but in reality it is still a very small town. You can't fart without everyone knowing about it, so, if you're off work with stress the least you could do is stay in the fucking house! Not send text messages to your mates that actually do turn up for work, arranging details for the weekend. Lazy cunts!

I have had numerous conversations with managers, and their managers, trying to convince them that I honestly do not have, nor do I want a career with this fucking company, but never seem to get anywhere. Is it really that difficult to get sacked/made redundant, because twatting some random fucker that happens to pass by me seems to be the only way? Or I could just go to the doctor and play the "stressed" card. My problem is that I am an unsuccessful work shy idle cunt, in that I hate work and would much prefer to stay in bed, but that old protestant work ethic grabs me by the pubes every morning and drags me to the bus-stop. Cunt.

I hoped that writing this down would be a little more cathartic, but it seems to have amplified my hatred for this place so much that if I carried on I'd still be here at midnight.

I'm going for a fag and a coffee instead.

 I'm mostly here

Louis Mcintoshhttp://getbannonaff.bebo.com/

Rot in Hell...You fat cunt. 

Nothing really. I just felt like using the word 'Apropos'.

Anyway. I am currently hiding in my office, desperately trying to come up with a new training plan. This is a task that I offered them in the interview, and promised to deliver sometime before the end of the year. Their idea to wait so long, not mine. Unfortunately the subject reared it's head during a conversation with the head honcho this morning, and I am now racking my brains trying to come up with a plan. (Obviously he believes the year ends a lot sooner than I or anyone else does.)

Plan A -

I pull all resources together and discect then re-assemble the current plan into a more coherent and logical training system. i.e. I just fuck around with what we already have in an attempt to make it more interesting, meanwhile, reducing my workload and the time I have to spend with the miserable bastards I have to train.

Plan B -

 Same as plan A, but I delegate to my deputy, then take all the credit.

Plan C -

I continue to hide in the corner, and pretend to be absorbed in work/deep thought/telephone conversation, whenever head honcho sticks his head round the door and asks how the training plan is coming along.

The natural instinct of the average lazy bastard like me is to opt for Plan B, although my deputy seems to be of a similar disposition. Plan C isn't really an option, it is in fact what I've been doing for the last month or so. It's amazing how many calls I've received in the last 48 hours...Busy busy busy little Poops

Eventually I'm going to have to admit defeat, and succumb to the world of "working" for a living. It's a shame because I've never felt guilty about collecting my wages before, and the truth is I still don't. But, in the very near future I'm going to have to face up to the fact that I am in the employment of a force much greater than I, and will dutifully deliver to them exactly what they want. The bastards.

Other news -

Still behaving erratically behind the wheel of a car. Mind you I did manage to reverse park next to another car perfectly straight, and didn't get close to, or hit anything. The theory test is now 15 days away.

Monkey has started farting a helluva lot these days. Something to do with some new fangled diet I'd wager. There appears to be an abundance of brown foodstuffs in the cupboards, rice/cous-cous etc and huge quantities of organic things. Add to that way too many vegetables for my liking. When she cooks dinner I always ask if it had a life before it reached my plate. If the answer is no, then I prepare myself for the onslaught of methane.

She's not gone veggie...yet, so to maintain the balance I make sure that we add a large slab of flesh to the menu at least twice during the week, and insist on a roast every other Sunday. I have my own digestive problems to deal with you know.

Big Brother -

Holy shit.

Sample quote - "I can't help it if my hair has a natural curl...sniffle sniffle...boohoo...Snort!"

3 months and counting...