Corporate Cock – As Expected

As expected, my wonderful employers have not paid for me to go on the poxy course. I’m glad because I didn’t want to do it but that doesn’t mean I don’t hate the fuckers for not putting me on it.* I spent the whole day they told me imagining them all being bum fucked to death by huge Arabs with razorblade dildos.

God they depress me. They depress me because the reason they give me for not sending me is a reasonable one, but it is used to mask the real reason which is they are so bound and paralysed by impotent fear that not one of them has the spunk sacks to say “You know what, fuck the contract date. You don’t want to go, we don’t want you to go so bollocks to what HR say, we’ll slot you in another post when this one is done”. They could do it, but the rules say they can’t so they won’t. Yet when one of the top bosses who was close to a nervous breakdown decided to have every door repainted lilac because she had fallen in love with the shade in a picture hung in her office** they put that one through without a word. Or when they rolled out Blackberries to the senior managers and so kindly allowed our team to have one of their old laptops. As long as we kept it in a locked cupboard. And never used it.

Christ.

It’s my own fault. I lowered my guard and raised my expectations. When dealing with the corporate mind, one based on the twin braking forces of fear and powerlessness, the expectation level should always be set to somewhere between two-faced cowardice and outright stupidity.

Still, I’ve dealt with it in my usual mature manner. I doubt I’ll ever get on any course ever again now. And I have a sneaky suspicion that the words ‘promotion’, ‘passed’ & ‘over’ will be featuring in my life very soon. As will ‘contract’, ‘ended’, ‘now’, ‘piss’ & ‘off’.

Whoops.

Ah well. They are nothing but up-tight, bumbling shitsacks. True, they are well paid, up-tight, bumbling shitsacks with great pensions, expensive cars and a career. I don’t have a career. I just have a series of jobs. All of them with people who said ‘yes’ rather than companies in an industry I had chosen to work in. I’d love to say “But I’m the one laughing! Look at me laughing! HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA… ahem” but I’m not. At least they’re not either. They won’t even care enough to find it funny. Which is a waste, the useless twats. Someone pass me a cricket bat and I’ll try and work up the enthusiasm to swing it.

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* Because I do, in case you were wondering. A lot. Like all the money in your local bank times a thousand and placed on a dead cert in the 2:30 at Chepstow that comes romping home.

** I am not making this up. Every door. Lilac. Then she stood up in a meeting, spoke in tongues for five minutes before suffering a total collapse and being taken to hospital. She has never come back.