My name is Jonathan. You don’t know me. Nobody does. My shtick is very old and was arguably never interesting or worthy of people’s attention in the first place. In that way I share something in common with your colleague and fellow Committee member, John Coates, about whom I’m writing to you today.
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Dear ABC, This email started its life, many years ago, as the transcribed harrumphing of a Baby Boomer (in the…
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When I asked at the start of this article have you ever been mystery shopped, there was only one possible answer you could have given – “I don’t know”.
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The story of Eve: thank goodness for warm generosity in the cold world of work
I’ve been writing this blog for six and a half years. Over that time, I hope it’s become clear that…
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But your online ticketing system blasted dozens of litres of thick yellow diarrhoea into its own underpants and now many of them don’t have tickets. Probably, some of them don’t have jobs because instead of working today they had to sit on a computer piss-farting around while your website told them various unhelpful and contradictory things that weren’t the truth, i.e. “Oh, pwoah! The system has 48 cubic metres of shit in its boxers. Just like last year. This is going to take at least 45 minutes to clean up.” You might not be familiar with an online ticketing system – it’s a digital platform used for distributing… anyway, never mind. The salient point is yours didn’t work. At all.
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Yes, I procrastinated about procrastination. And I left it for such an exotically long period of time that my untouched work moved beyond the bad stages like rigamortis, bloat and decay and got as far as fossilisation and, finally, as you can now see, gem formation.
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Yes, what some would call a tropical cyclone of juvenility and amateurism; a shitstorm of lies and arrogance and presumption and quite a lot of shit; a maelstrom of fuckwittery the likes of which only 1970s Queensland could possibly rival; a bubbling fen of idiocy, animated only by the foul gas of a clown drowning in his own ineptitude; a septic tank filled with rank hypocrisy and seven different versions of the truth and then stirred with an ibis’s beak (but which I would call a minor, easily explainable incident) has put tiny Sydney on the world map.
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It’s been exactly a year since Donald Trump took office as the most powerful man in the world. Here’s what…
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He traipsed through this “lost illusions boulevard” in his trilby and his double-breasted suit, smiling knowingly, perhaps ruefully. There was no pretence or charade.
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I’m not afraid to admit it: I loved being surveilled at work. Without Big Brother having watched my every professional movement from one of his infinite telescreens, I would have frittered away my career to date on inefficient activity and unorthodox thoughts.
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