Tomorrow is a bank holiday, and so I get an extra day’s break from a workplace that gets ever more moronic. Two cases from the last week alone would prove my point.
Now, it may be an unfashionable value judgement, but for me anyone who watches enough TV to talk about it at work is beneath contempt. Why do I have to endure the pain of being around such numpties?
OK, apart from because I get paid to be there. Which is no real answer, because the payment is for the pointlessness and drudgery of the work, not the uninspiring surroundings or the vacuity of wage slaves and supervisors who – amazingly – seem to regard such activity as worthwhile or even stimulating.
I mention this because I had to endure the office veg ranting on about East Enders this week. Which got me idly wondering when was the last time I watched any TV soap, and why they don’t interest me.
Apart from a brief period in the 1980’s when I was confined to a house which did, I realised that the answer is “never”, unless I was visiting someone else who does. And the latter, to be honest, is itself unlikely because I would be bored rigid by anyone so dull-witted that they bother.
The thing is that before the year 2000 I was usually out at work until late at night – or just out at play. So I never learnt the genre, and never had the time or inclination to watch TV anyway.
I have never been one of life’s spectators and cannot imagine a time when I would be. Well before the age of hundreds of channels, internet devices and so on, I learnt to pick any rare interesting programme, watch it, then turn off to do something more interesting.
Another source of office-based misery is the monthly compulsory corporate charity scam. In which – in return for the dubious privilege of being allowed to come to work on Friday dressed like a brain-dead Rotarian at the golf club – we “voluntarily” donate money to “good causes” carefully selected by some of the company’s worst mouth-breathers.
From time to time, in order to counter the idea that the company robs the poor of public services in order to subsidise the rich, a mugshot of such slack-jawed oafs branding a giant cheque appears in the local press. Oh, and the “donation” is written off on the company tax return. In fact, everybody wins except those being nominally helped.
This week it was “Subsidise the Yacht-trash”….. sorry “Sailing for the Disabled”. Another of those pointless pseudo-charities that bored rich gits set up, then pressure others to pay for. There’s also Riding for the Disabled, and probably countless others along that line.
See the pattern yet? People with the kind of expensive hobbies that require you to shell out thousands to arse around with other rich wastes of space magnanimously agree to share their dismal hobby with some crips. As if an inability to ponce about in a yacht or on a pony is really the first thing on any disabled person’s mind.
More like, getting a job, being able to get round the house unaided, finding a public toilet, catching a bus…… well, the list goes on and on really. If the nauseating wasters who think up these schemes really wanted to share their toys with some wheelchair user, the cost of adapting them would be….. what, one G&T a week for a year?
But the Manx obsession with pointless charities and cretinous fund-raising events (usually involving the kind of charmless sports player you’d pay to avoid or have crippled, not to encourage) is just another of those joyous things about living here, along with kissing some rich in-breed’s arse, dealing with a government department headed up by the aforementioned in-breed’s least employable relatives, etc. etc. ad nauseum.
Not that I am complaining. In fact, observing the sheer inanity of such experiences is enough to keep me amused for most of my waking hours.
Though you do need a strategy to deal with psychos with collecting tins. I find keeping a collection of toy, fake or foreign coins in a separate pocket to your real spare change is a useful one. In the last year, while sporting the appropriate fake smile, I must have dropped, oh, all of 50p’s worth of junk coinage into various collecting tins. It almost makes it interesting and worthwhile to seek such rubbish out, and imagine the dismay and anger when the self-important fundraiser finds it hours later.