The EU has an E-number for everything from calcium carbonate (chalk) ^{[Source: Wikipedia]} to Mycoxafailin (Viagra) ^{[Source: OBB News]}. I propose a system of W-numbers for those employers who are wankers to work for. Here is a small sample from my own past experience to illustrate this.

W101: I was 14 years old. Myself and Tom, the farmer’s 12 year old, had spent a long hot, itchy, back-breaking, finger-slicing (the baling twine) week bringing in the hay. The only adult help we had was from Tom’s grandfather and that was only in the haggard - we had to manage as best we could on our own in the fields.

The farmer’s wife thanked me and handed me a £1 note. I stood waiting for her to produce the rest. Nothing came. I handed back the note suggesting she buy sweets for her son with it and walked off.

That was my introduction to the world of wankers-to-work-for.

W666: Years later, as part of my degree, I found myself on work-placement with another farmer - this time near Ballybunion in Kerry. Arrangements had been made over the phone. £80 a week, which was average for students then, and full board.

Each morning I milked the cows before a hearty breakfast of cornflakes. Then I’d spend the day picking potatoes by hand in the company of a group of locals. Some were school kids, the rest were on the dole and constantly on guard for social welfare inspectors. A hearty lunch was delivered to the field by the farmer’s wife. Jam (yes, jam, not ham) sandwiches and lukewarm tea in a whiskey bottle.

Milk the cows again in the evening followed by a hearty dinner of sausages (2), rashers (1), fried egg (½) and baked beans (probably 27 or 28, but never more than 30). Each night, this Kildare man, was treated to lectures on how yee crowd up in Dublin get everything going - the best land and all the money - and we poor eejits down here are left to struggle with nothing.

At midday on the first Saturday I got paid. £40! £20 taken for the hearty meals and £20 for the use of a rickety bed.

I was on the train out of there that afternoon and on Monday his name was taken off the list of approved work-placement employers by the faculty. That bit caused a stir as his first cousin, who had recommended him, thereby bypassing the vetting process, was a professor.

As an aside, that same professor, as patron of a large charity, undertook a fact-finding (all expenses paid) mission to Ethiopia in the aftermath of the ‘84-’85 famine. An ex-flatmate of mine was working for that same charity and found the prof didn’t once leave his fancy hotel in Addis Ababa. Yet he was able to report the situation on the ground back to the Irish government and was on RTÉ for weeks telling us of the misery and suffering he had witnessed. I guess being a wanker is a genetic disorder. [May be classified as W666]

W666²: Luckily I had a good run from then on and worked for some of the best you could ask for. In fact, the other farmers I spent time with come top of the list. The sole glitch during those wonder-years was just after the turn of the century (I’ve always want to say that) when, after a series of meetings with the country manager of a large multinational in plush hotels and restaurants, I got offered a job with excellent salary and perks. I should have realised that it was too good to be true.

The Irish arm, or franchise, I learned had been formed to cater for a single multinational client under a global deal. The country manager owned it - his daddy had set it up for him. The office manager/accounts manager and order entry clerk were his little sisters. His wife was a consultant. His first cousin the sales manager. The ladies used maiden or married names as appropriate so as not to raise eyebrows at the US HQ.

There were five of us squashed into a tiny office downstairs. As last-man-in I had a stool. If someone was out, I could borrow their chair. In a larger space upstairs, sat the country manager and his sisters - the consultant was always out with a client apparently.

The techie in my estimation had trained in the Fisher-Price school of engineering. How he had survived in the job so long amazed me until I discovered a) the factory floor staff did the day-to-day work for him, b) when something went down he called a service company and c) he was the wife’s cousin.

The QA officer knew as much about quality as a Chinese toy maker. An ex-box-packer with a software distributor he had once been interviewed by an ISO auditor. Played key role in securing ISO accreditation read his CV - a twisting of the truth he was very proud of and joked about regularly. Also part of the extended family, his CV was merely conjured up to satisfy headquarters.

Why did they have a sales manager and a consultant when there was only one client?

The company was a mess. But I reckoned it ticked along because it had to. The client had a global agreement and couldn’t change service supplier.

The inefficiency was wrecking my head, not to mention the nepotism - I could end up being forced to marry the forklift driver to keep the job. She did weights. Big ones.

What was my job anyway? I was hired as an IT project manager but didn’t have any projects to manage. They were coming I was told. In the meantime, seeing as I knew a lot about the systems they were using, I could help out the techie - show him a few things. (I thought I’d start with keyboard skills). I had experience of the ISO so I could help out the QA with writing his procedures and manuals. (I figured lessons in English for native English speakers might be useful). The girls upstairs weren’t fully up to speed on the accounts package so I could talk them through it. (I could go hoarse).

There was to be a site visit at the long weekend by the IT manager from one of the UK offices and two of his engineers. New PCs and other stuff were to be commissioned. At last something IT projecty managey. What would I be doing with them? Ferrying them to and from their hotel and staying in the office with them in case they needed anything - like to be taken to lunch.

At lunch that Saturday the IT manager innocently asked what my plans were when the five month’s training was over. Had I another contract lined up? If I brought this operation into line and saved it being shut down, HQ might have something else for me. I should talk to them. I was gobsmacked and at the same time disgusted with myself for being so naïve.

I pried him for more and the pieces began to slot together. HQ had been warned by the client the global agreement was in jeopardy unless the Irish arm got its act together within six months.

If they hired me as a trainer I would have been suspicious seeing as the headcount was so low. Things change so quickly in IT that a role for a full-time project manager would be plausible. If they hired me as a trainer on a contract basis it would have cost more than double or treble - remember the money had to go to the family.

By hiring me as a full-time employee and throwing the odd IT project my way to keep me happy whilst utilising me as a trainer they would save money. Plus they could fire me within the six month’s standard probationary period claiming I was unsuitable with little or no comeback for me. I later learned that was the intention all along.

I walked out leaving a well fed but nappyless baby sitting over the fan. I felt guilty that I could be in part to blame for the factory floor staff losing their jobs, but the economy was booming and they’d find something else. They didn’t have to and the company is still running so I guess they either found another eejit to do my job or they learned their lesson and acted honestly the following time.

Next post up: Wankers who worked for me. I’m thinking of M-numbers but am open to suggestions. Stay tuned either way.

Eight years ago, at about teatime on a Tuesday, there were 1,700 post offices in Ireland. Today, there are 1,200.

According to the Irish Postmasters’ Union most were closed on the retirement or death of the postmaster and low wages meant no one stepped in to take their place. Most small rural post offices were dependent on dispensing social welfare payments for their survival, but since the boom of the 90s fewer and fewer people were unemployed and many of those that were, opted to receive their payments directly into their bank account.

It was no longer economical for An Post to keep them open. Things changed - An Post had to react to that. The bigger ones survived but not as they were.

The functions we once used the post office for became redundant. Forgive me father for I haven’t penned - it’s 10 years since I wrote my last letter. I filled in forms and posted them - does that count?

Like many around the country, my local post office now offers a wide range of services. (See Table for One) Most of them I have never used. It’s nice to know I can get a Top Up there, whatever that is.

Like many around the country, my local post office would once have been considered rural. With the large influx of new residents it no longer is. Yet it retains that rural ethos.

Mistress Jackie, as our postmaster is affectionately known, does far more than her employer asks of her. (See Table for Two) And no, she’s not some little old lady with her specs on the tip of her nose and cat hair on her geansaí - she’s a 20-something about-to-be-hitched cutie.

An Post (as Postbank) have just launched their Everyday Account (a current account). Once again the list in Table for One has grown. I admit it will be handy having such a service in small towns and villages like ours. The drawback is that as Table for One grows, Table for Two shrinks. Mistress Jackie gets busier and busier, though her own current account remains the same. I just hope she still has time to make that call the next time Mrs. Murphy doesn’t turn up for her pension.

- The Kildare Chilling Co. facility was destroyed in a fire on Saturday afternoon. Both Breaking News.ieIndependent.ie say the fire broke out at the Chillen factory on the old Dublin road at around 4 o’ clock. I can only assume the report was phoned in by a true local. Anyway, it’s a sad loss - The Chillin’and was a major employer in Kildare Town.

- Breaking News.ie are also reporting that a man landed his helicopter on the roof of a car park in Athlone as he wanted to have keys cut at a nearby shopping centre. Smart comments please.

- Oh! Before I forget: Eolaí’s sale of paintings ends in one or two days. When I say one or two it’s because one day + time difference between here and Kansas = almost two days in Kansas time. I think. My head hurts. Ah, look, just go on over there and pick up the last of the bargains.

- Remember I told you about the trouble I was having convincing An Post that I don’t have a TV?

This was it:Load embedded post, "Blank stares"

And how they should stop wasting everybody’s time sending me reminders to buy a TV licence? Well wonder of wonders they do believe me. They wrote to say they did. However, their computer system doesn’t so I am to get reminders indefinitely. But the human says I can just ignore them.

- MacDara is blogging as often as he can on the unfolding situation in Beruit. I’m relying on MacD for news of what could become a civil war in one of the world’s most beautiful countries. Independent.ie seem more interested in reporting soccer results.

At 11:00 I was having lunch. Tuna in mayonnaise with sweetcorn on brown bread. The bread was home-made by a company that pretends to be a little old lady. The rest was away-made by fish, fowl and farmers.

It was gorgeous. So much so it made me feel guilty. You know. All the starving children. In the crèche in the village. They don’t get lunch until 12:30 the poor little mites.

Ah yes. The kiddies. The Irish Times was fretting about them too. Its Education Today section was in Tuesday’s edition. The Noticeboard carried information about upcoming events of interest to those about to leave school - an open day at the Racing Academy and Centre of Education for anyone thinking of a career in horse racing. There was even a URL for the RACE website. Fair play to the IT - it is not so long ago the same piece would have read something like more details available on the RACE website, with no link. Find it if you can.

Such a pity though these kids can’t access the Education Today section without paying a subscription fee.

The IT seems caught in a Lanigan’s Ball loop of stepping out then stepping back in again when it comes to technology.

At times, it meets new challenges with foresight and vigour, as it did many years ago when they it became the first Irish newspaper to launch an online presence. Then it shoots itself in that same foot that it struck out so confidently, as it did when it began charging for its online content.

Recently the IT admitted its website is struggling to break even. Surprise, surprise.

Madam

If you provide content for free the advertisers will be lining up in droves to give you their money. Even if you only open the archives you’ll make a killing.

Yours etc.

The Sneeze

The IT never seems to realise the commercial value of the Internet. Perhaps they fear the Internet. Or they simply don’t understand it.

On the one hand, it has some of the best technology writers in Karlin Lillington, Danny O’Brien and Mike Butcher. On the other, it has Colin Murphy saying things that many bloggers like to share their thoughts on politics, the media, popular culture and their toilet habits.

The Irish Times’ editorial policy on, and understanding of, blogging is confusing to say the least. Wednesday’s edition carried an opinion piece on Taoiseach Brian Cowen’s Irish language policy, written by none other than the blogger An Spailpín Fánach. The Education Section on Tuesday had some Leaving Cert related snippets entitled Blog tales which had quotes from leaving-cert.net (a blog authored by three eloquent school-goers), walsho.net (an equally eloquent one-manstudent blog) and, get this, boards.ie. Yes! boards.ie! boards.ie! Since when are message boards blogs? Is an IM an email? Is a magazine a newspaper? No. They might share a certain traits but they are not the same.

To further confuse matters, the IT hosts very popular blogs by three of its own journalists: Jim Carroll’s On the Record, Shane Hegarty’s Present Tense and Conor Pope’s Price Watch. Yet Conor’s column in the print edition invites readers to offer feedback, with options like phone, post, email or blog it! * So leaving a comment on Conor’s blog makes one a blogger? Eh, no. If that were the case then writing a letter to the editor would make one a journalist.

I cannot help but suspect that The Irish Times is deliberately muddying the waters in order to distract the non-tech-savvy from blogs. Who do they think they are fooling? I don’t care if the little old lady who makes my bread is actually a company if it tastes good - though it would be nice if they admitted it. I don’t care if the IT source a quote from a message board if it’s worth reading - though it would be nice if they didn’t call the source a blog.

Why are they bothering anyway? The bread complements the tuna perfectly. Neither are as good on their own.

* That could be blog on.

I like lists. I made one last week using a sheet of headed paper the government sent me, a carpenter’s pencil I found behind my ear and a Robert Roberts coffee stain. You can try this at home yourself. Use a tea stain if you want. Or a biro. The choice is yours.

First on my list - the garden centre. Howya getting on, Breda? I need a television plant. [Blank silent stare]

Maybe I should explain. Maybe you should. Right. I have this big TV wall bracket thing and I want something to put on it. It looks very bare. I was considering a plant. Did you consider a TV, Primal? I did for years but now I ‘d prefer looking at a plant. I might be killing the sale here, but did you consider taking down the bracket? The wall would have to come with it. I like having the wall there for hanging things on. Like TV brackets? Yeah. If I ever get a second plant, I’d need a second bracket wouldn’t I.

Next on the list - the post office in the local shop. Can I have a €50 whatchamacallit, a Musketeer voucher please? A what? The vouchers that you can use in any shop. Oh, an All-for-One voucher. There you go. That’ll be €52 please. What? €50 worth of stuff costs €52? That’s scary. I’m afraid so, Primal. Is there anything else I can frighten you with?

Actually there is. This. That’s your shopping list, Primal. Look again. A shopping list with a coffee mug stain. Robert Roberts? Yes. Java. Very nice too. But look what it is written on. Ah, a TV Licence renewal reminder. I’ll do you up one now. No! Stop! I don’t want one. You’d better. That’s a 4th reminder. They’ll be at your door and you’ll be fined for not having one. No I won’t. I don’t have a telly. [Second blank silent stare of the day]

So what do you watch in the evenings? A pot plant. You watch a pot plant. Well not watch really. More look at. The wall-bracket where the telly used be is soon to have a pot plant on it. It’s in the car. How does that work out when you’re having a pint? “Hey lads, anyone watch that aphid last night? Something else huh?” And you won’t get Comfort conditioner in a 2l size here.

Look. Can you just tell them I don’t have a telly? They wouldn’t believe me. Why don’t you just write that on the back of the reminder and send it back to them? Tried that the last three times and it didn’t work. Try it again. Can’t - my shopping list is on the back. Sorry. Can’t help ya, Primal.

Okay. Thanks anyway. Hey, what you mean about the Comfort? I read it on your list. The 750ml is the only size they do here. It’s only a small shop remember. You’ll have to go to the supermarket. So you’re saying this shop is too small for Comfort? Something like that. Anyway, good luck now - there’s a queue behind ya.

It wasn’t on the list so I added it - a pint. The pub was deserted. Suited me fine. I’d read the paper in peace. The barman’s eyes lit up with the prospect of someone to talk to. It wouldn’t be my favourite Mediterranean country but as far as Mediterranean countries go it’s okay. I suppose you’re right, Rob - and I went back to my paper. I see you’re reading the paper there, Primal. Keeping up with current affairs and world news and all that. Well, I’m trying to but someone keeps disturbing me. I suppose it’s all on about the Lisbon thing and all that. Look, Rob. Why don’t you turn on the telly for yourself. Nah, I’m fed up with it. Nothing but racing and soccer and all that. Pity I dropped the car home - I have a grand pot plant in the boot you could be watching. [Third blank stare of the day]

He shuffled off. Finally some Comfort in this town. I checked the telly listings. Sure enough, a gardening programme at 8. I have the best thing in reality TV.*

*I needed ammunition for blank stare number four in case he came back.

That’s enough isn’t it? I can stop now?