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World of Stupidity…


Yesterday our kettle died. We work on two floors and our downstairs kettle died. Someone went out with petty cash and replaced it with a nice spanking shiny new one. Ooh. Aah. That’s nice (nod to Billy Connolly for the line) For a while we will be limescale-free. Within a minute of our new kettle arriving it is, however, taken upstairs and set on the purple cushion in pride of place. In return, their brown, skanky, poo-pot stained piece of crap kettle is put downstairs. We are downstairs geographically only; we are not inferior! Sill, despite e-mail bombardments, nasty comments, demands and ultimatums being given, we took it in fairly good grace. (We were, of course, going to steal it back this morning.)


We drink enough coffee between only three of us in our part of the office to keep Columbia in national funds constantly. If only they’d met us, they wouldn’t need to deal in cocaine. We’d pay $50 per gram for good coffee!

This morning, after a night of extreme bourbon abuse, bordering on blindness, I arrived at work in something of a daze. Having a memory that would make a marmot worry about my future, I stared at the two kettles in the kitchen in confusion. I’m usually the first in, and usually make the first brew. The brown, stained, unknown object was already boiling, while our nice familiar blue downstairs life-giver was not plugged in. Hmmm. I unplugged the newly-boiled turd-coloured kettle and filled the blue one, plugged it in and switched it on. I approached a director asking if the brown kettle was his (I was carrying said boiling kettle at the time and must have looked like a caffeine-addicted retarded hobo.) He stared at me in confusion and we stood there for a moment locked in mutual misunderstanding. Then it dawned on me. Ah yes. There was a day before today and it involved a kettle. Trying desperately to sound like I’d just solved a major mystery, all keen and intelligent, I stood there with a hot, brown kettle like a beloved pet and then snuck out of his office hoping he wasn’t going to try and have me committed. I then returned to the kitchen to reboil it since the other one was broken…

only to find the other one boiling. Now I was deep, deep in the mire of confusion. How did the brown kettle mysteriously appear filled and boiling this morning when the only two people in the building knew nothing about it.

Oo-ee-oo-ee-oo and other ghostly noises.

Anyway, now we have two kettles but have run out of coffee. God takes me roughly from behind with no lubricant again!


At 8:40 this morning, while I was the only person in the room, Chicken Boy’s phone rang with a direct call. I picked the call up, answering in my best phone voice. It turned out to be Ikea, calling for the Hobbit, who was having two sofas delivered. The Ikea man (who I can only presume had had some kind of bizarre accident in childhood where he tripped and got a melon lodged in the middle of his brain) said “Is Mr Hobbit there please?”. Not knowing who this was, I continued very professionally: “No, this is Mr Moosehunter. Mr Hobbit isn’t in the office yet.” I’m expecting perhaps an insurance broker or the King of Finland or something. Instead, Mr Lead-poisoning-victim-of-the-21st-century says: “I’m calling from Ikea. We’re delivering two sofas for Mr Hobbit.” Oh. Ok. “I’m sorry, but Mr Hobbit isn’t in yet” says I. He umms for a moment and then says “I’ve tried calling Mr Hobbit on his land-line and his mobile, but he isn’t answering. I’d like to get him before he comes to work. What should I do?”

For a moment, I’m dumbstruck. He’s asking me what to do about delivering some furniture I have never seen to a flat I’ve never been to in a place I don’t often go to a person who’s not here. What does one say to a person like this?

I resist the temptation to say “Ah fuck it, just dump it in the street and piss on it.” Instead I say it in my head while out loud I say “I really don’t know. You see, I’m not him.” The world is full of stupid people who are incapable of thinking for themselves. Needless to say, I will now never buy anything from Ikea and ask for delivery. If I can’t fit it in a rucksack, I won’t buy it.

Then, just this afternoon a man arrives who appears to be equally retarded and might just be the champion ‘Drooler’ that Britain’s looking for to place in the Fuckwit Olympics. He stops myself and Chicken Boy and proffers some kind of delivery note. “I’m here to deliver a screen and collect one.”

I work in computers. To me a screen is something you view documents, DVDs or shooting games on. I have no knowledge of this and am suitably confused. Guessing which department it is that’s organised it, I prowl through their department (as they’re all out on lunch) until I find a big glass plate wrapped in bubble wrap. This must be it. He collects this, delivers another one, but curved, rolls his eyes in two different directions, dribbles a little onto his stomach and gets me to sign the notes.


Ten minutes later, Bobby, who I’ve know for two years and deals with all our furniture supply, turns up at the office waiting for a delivery driver who’s supposed to be here in 5 or 10 minutes time. I have a feeling of foreboding. Turns out that the plank of wood with opposable thumbs who delivered the screen should have been here later at a specific time to meet Bobby. He should also have collected some other furniture. Bobby spends the next half hour walking round, fixing a screen and talking on his mobile phone with a face that looks like he’s licking a badger’s arse. He’s not happy. Delivery men appear to be getting remarkably stupid. I remember these guys from my youth being the salt of the Earth and quite bright and friendly. Recent examples have led me to believe that they are currently drawn from the Jeffery Archer Fan Club (or mindless fuckwit society to the rest of us.)

I rejoiced yesterday at signs of life from both PorkTornado (who’s been offline for a little while) and Dangerspouse (who’s been gone since the Pyramids were built.) Welcome back guys. Our entire office thanks you.

I’m staring to worry about my personal safety. I was rather accident-prone as a child and was constantly bruised and bleeding and covered in cement and so on. In my more adult (I won’t say adult… if you read this you’ll realise that I grew out, not up) years, I’ve been more together. More about this after a digression:

At school, one of my nicknames was “Thunder Thighs”. Yes, I had fat thighs. Now I’ve got fat everything so no one notices the thighs any more. Now I should be “Thunderstomach” perhaps. Or just “Fat Head”. Anyway. Also, I had a slightly hairy chest, which at the age of fourteen just gets the piss taken out of you.  Now, I have turned into a moulting Gorilla. You may not see where I’m going with this, but bear with me.

I was also a wimp. Now, I am a pacifist. A pacifist is basically a wimp with a good excuse. I got beaten up at school. I got my ink bottle stolen and then thrown at me head (I went to the posher sort of school where they used fountain pens and ritually beat you for fun.) These days I often find myself making threats rather than listening to them. (They’re empty of course. If a squirrel stood up to me I’d have to back down and scuttle away with my tail between my legs.)

This is basically to set the scene. At that time, if someone dropped a penny, I’d probably have tripped over it, maimed myself, torn an arm off in the process and ended up with a wound the shape of a penis that would haunt me for months. I was not together.

Now I am. I do not fall over unnecessarily. I don’t walk into things unless copious alcohol is involved. I don’t drop my pants and wound my buttock with an amusing image by accident. I am together.

However, in recent weeks I have noticed in myself an unfortunate tendency to fall over for no readily apparent reason. I have banged my head on solid wooden beams, seats and lintels four times this past week. And the scary thing? It no longer seems to hurt! I appear to be turning into a numbskull (quite literally.) I fully expect to walk into work some time in the next week or so and accidentally decapitate myself. I probably wouldn’t notice for a few days and would walk around headless until I tried to shave.



Written by SJAT

August 20, 2009 at 2:09 pm

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