Friday, September 07, 2007

Guest rant: 3

I like to think of myself as a healer. Well, at least a facilitator of healing. Well OK, this is just a place to sound off. And semi-regular contributor to this blog, The Big Fat Phony, has something to get off his chest. Take it away....

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I have the dubious pleasure of being a work colleague of a regular contributor to this blog (work it out - it's not rocket science!). In fact, we are the two disgruntled souls who feel it necessary to leave work at lunchtime and head for the nearest hostelry in a vain attempt to anaesthetise ourselves against the drudgery which will surely follow in our afternoon session at work.

It was not always thus. Sure, we used to avail ourselves of a couple of Holland's finest ales as a break from a morning of computer screens, credit cards and database errors. Talk used to be of football, rugby, norks, television, comedy, music - I'm sure you're getting the picture. Nowadays the happy, relaxed conversation is no more. Nowadays, we more often than not sit for an hour drinking and talking in what can only be described as an aggressive manner. When this is not the case, the air of resignation and depression hovering over our lunchtime haven must surely put fellow patrons off their particular brews (although if they're holding a pint of Carling in their mitt then quite frankly we're doing them a favour).

I get the impression that when it comes to how our view of work is influenced by our personalities, myself and Mr D are different creatures. Up to now I tend to have been the type of employee who will take pretty much any sort of shit as long as I get paid. Why this is I don't know - possibly I just don't have the cojones required to say no to a boss. Perhaps, deep down there somewhere, subconciously, I have a desire to climb the career ladder. Perhaps I have an inbuilt desire to please. I'm not sure but I have a suspiscion it's the first one.

I have made sacrifices for the company I'm currently working for. I was onsite four days after my wedding day, the honeymoon having lasted a mere two days due to the fact that I had to prepare to go on site. I did not follow the route that most decent men would when my pregnant wife rang me to tell me she had been admitted to hospital with pre-eclampsia. No, not for me hopping on a train to see my wife. I kept in touch by phone but stayed in that southern shithole whose only plus point is that it's not Luton.

I grumbled a bit, I mithered, I added to the aggression and depression in evidence in a certain L**ds public house Monday to Friday, 1200 'til 1315, but I never did anything about it. The straw which has broken the camels back came earlier this week.

22nd August saw the birth of my first child - a gorgeous little girl. She was born six weeks premature and was obviously kept in hospital and fed, initially through a tube, at regular intervals throughout the day. Being the good employee that I am I rang work on the day of my daughters birth, informing them of my news and speaking to my line manager with whom I agreed that I would come in to work the following Monday but would start early and finish early so that I could make my daughters evening feed as well as working from home one day a week up to the time of my paternity leave. Quite reasonable for both parties I thought. When I came back to work, I went to see my manager to arrange which day would be best for me to work from home. At this point my manager says that the deal is off because my daughter's condition is not "critical". This from a man who has one day off a week and comes in at around 1000 every day whilst insisting that all his team members are in work between 0900 and 1730 (plus all the extra hours we are expected to do for no reward or (in most cases) thanks). Taken aback slightly I said nothing, but after three or for days the mixture of betrayal, shock at his hypocricy and anger got to me and I emailed my manager asking for an official reason. His response was to make out that I was making a personal, political attack and that he would give me an official reply at a later date. I await my shafting and shall take it like a man.

The question that puzzles me is why am I so angry? Is it because I have been denied the opportunity to spend more time with my daughter? Is it because I believed in the existence of a system of "give and take" and only experienced take? These are all factors of course, but mainly I am angry with myself for trusting my manager to be a decent sort, occassionaly defending him in the pub, thinking that if I worked hard it would be noticed and appreciated. Remembering all the times (and there are many) that I have sacrificed my personal time, energy, effort and, on some occassions, cash to do my best in my job and then equating this to the laissez faire attitude of my superiors to my sacrifices, my hardwork and my personal wellbeing.

Work hard? Do your best? Fuck 'em!

3 comments:

The Big Fat Phony said...

Cheers for allowing me access to the healing properties of your blog.

It is a very personal rant but to be fair had I not got it off my chest somewhere I believe I may have popped.

Anonymous said...

congrats on the lil girl Mr B Fat Phony, may she bring a big smile to your face.

I'm sure that your manager is a hypocritical beardy arsehole who likes ruling over his little domain, but it fact he doesnt realise he's got no f*cking power. Beside I bet he likes to think he's the best manager ever!

And I bet he hasn't changed and still believes the lies that the people above him tell him.

You're better off leaving like I did for more money, less work and less hassle. I just wish I did it earlier that wasting several years in Support. The only thing I miss is office cricket and the 2 guys who went down to the local Hostelry every Friday dinner time.

We don't have too many Marxist leaning french rugby supporters or people who say "it's not kosher, it's a f*cking pork chop!" where I work.

Good health to you both Mr B Fat Phoney and Mr D.

rks1910 said...

I still believe that he's a twat.