A Psychotic Break

Sorry for the delay in service, but the Guv’ner is busy saving the world one Excel spreadsheet at a time, ladies and genitals!

Yes, today has been declared “Have The Guv’ner Make YOU a Spreadsheet” day, but all orders are now taken so don’t even think of asking and incurring my almighty wrath. I have constructed charts, graphs, calculations and tables for various people and even made one in my head to demonstrate the pain scale involved in the various excruciating torture methods available to me in wreaking my havoc on the asses of these requestors.

I am now on a psychotic break where I am engrossed in constructing a very lifelike scale model of Bill Gates that I can hang in a noose from my light fixture. I haven’t yet decided if I should fill it with candy and incorporate this idea into a sort of Bill Gates torture piňata. Candy and violence, what more could a person want on a cold, Thursday afternoon?

" This is for Excel you speccy butt-pirate!” I'd proclaim loudly, wielding my big stick in my hand and in return for a good, satisfying whack at his geek head, I get a Snickers. I think I like this idea more and more…

In other news, THIS warms my old, psychotic cockles.

Well This is Boring

I got in this morning full of the joys of...well...nothing, quite frankly, since I got a hellish night's sleep due to two cats reenacting the Battle of Hastings on my bed, to find a note pushed under my office door that said, "Guv'ner - please deal with the pile of stuff on my couch."

One thing The Guv'ner does not like to find first thing in the morning, before the procurement of caffeine and the customary 2 hours winding down and waking up period, is a note wanting me to do things with "piles" of "stuff". It's like the man thinks I come here to work, for heaven's sake.

I cautiously surveyed this pile in case it included explosives. I was sort of hoping to find a chocolate cake, a keg of something icy and refreshing, Javier Bardem (minus the "No Country..." haircut, of course!), a burrito, an X-Files box set, instructions on torturing bosses, a waffle iron, a ticket to the Bahamas, a tub of Wet Ones, a lb of cheddar, a note telling me I had the next two weeks off and a shotgun.

However a Guv'ner's life is a disappointing affair and the pile contained only a shitload (this is the proper metric term for "quite a lot") of expenses from the last two foreign trips the Dark Uberlord took, some stuff on a Dictaphone tape that needed transcribing and some instructions that made no sense at all and that, on closer inspection, looked like they were possibly in Swahili. This is most unsatisfactory.

Anyway, I took care of business, scanned some things to email to vendors, cleaned my desk for the first time in about six months and to cap it all off, I somehow stapled my index finger so badly the staple was flat against my finger. You don't even want to know how I managed that. I should just suggest that you don't ever try it yourselves, kids, it will end badly and you'll get blood on your bloomers. It hurt so much that it brought tears to my jaded old eyes and I had to do laps of my office to give my body something else to think about.

So in summary, this morning the Guv'ner, a) Worked like a little bitch, and b) injured herself with a stapler. I'm accomplished I guess.

The Guv'ner Does The Mail

Dear Sir,

While I am flattered and downright thrilled by your kind offer to send me a free, six-month subscription to “Meetings Weekly”, I am afraid I have to decline your very generous offer. While I am quite sure you are correct when you say it will “…greatly enrich and enhance my conference experience” with its myriad of business jargon, corporate accessories and interesting tips on making your PowerPoint presentations “pop”, I think I would much rather dip my toes in ketchup, gnaw them off and spit them at a small child. Please, never send me this publication unless you, in turn, would like me to show up at the offices of your swanky magazine with a sawn-off shotgun and malice in my heart, to bring you all some surprise tiny, metal gifts and a ten second start.

Yours MOST Sincerely,

The Guv’ner

Dear People at Brand Week,

Thank you very much indeed for continuing to make my day, every day. In fact, if I can let you into a little secret, there are days I feel quite sad and I just don’t want to get out of bed, however it is the promise of your daily subscription reminders that forces back the sheets and lets me greet the day with sunshiney enthusiasm. One reminder a day is exactly the right number I need to remember to re-subscribe to a publication I haven’t actually subscribed to in three years, but thank you for reminding me! Truly! In fact, I love your magazine so much, I may take each and every one of those sub cards up on the offer of $149 for a whole year of Brand Week joy at your special subsidized rate. I mean look a gift horse in the noggin? Not I Sir! It’s a bargain at half the price. I would never for one second suggest you take all those notifications you keep mailing me and shove them up your ass sideways and that I hope they paper-cut the entire inside of your poop chute till you cry like a peeled baby rubbed with salt.

Die In A Fire,
The Guv'ner

Dear Readers’ Digest,

NO!

Sincerely,

The Guv’ner

Dear Sir,

Why yes, I surely would love to enroll in some classes at Harvard, thanks so much for asking me yet again. I assume since you are courting me so heavily, that you will be paying? I’m in New York, however, would I be compensated for the daily commute to Cambridge and back? I feel, under the circumstances it’s the least you could do.

I am particularly interested in your course on "How To Dispose Of Bodies Without Detection" and its sister class on "Flesh Eating Acids".

There are many fine Ivy League establishments trying to snare me, you know, you have to work for this ticket, pal. I feel I have to accept your offer, however, because you are obviously keen to get me judging by the invitation I receive every single Monday, enticing me to enroll. God bless you and your stalker mentality. I would however, ask that from here on in, you refer to me in all correspondence as "Professor Guv'ner" and I would like it known that I am not above accepting bribes.

The Guv’ner

All My Heroes Are Gay or Cowboys

The first email in my in-box this morning was from that giant stench of decaying matter, the Dark you know who, asking me to “download this picture and send to me”. The email subject contained a link directly to the picture in question and he is blissfully ignorant to the fact you can click this. I pasted it into the body of another email and sent it back to him. I’m constantly amazed the man can tie his shoes. In fact, I’m not convinced he doesn’t wear loafers for this very reason. Not “loafers” as in the tremendously flaming, George Michael, white-loafers-and-no-socks sense, although what he does at home is anyone’s guess (my guess is it involves standing in just his tightie whities, gut overhanging spectacularly, swinging a shiny golf club in front of a mirror and pouting a lot - think Ben Stiller in "Zoolander" - and next time he's irritating the baby jeebus out of me, I intend to visualize that scene for my own amusement.)

I spent an hour making hotel reservations for his upcoming round the world business extravaganza. We are a big company and we therefore have special rates at hotels like the Westin, but the Westin does not meet the Dark Überlord’s lofty standards so he has me book Grand Hyatts and the like instead. The travel department then laugh in my face, I convince them that even though they’re way more expensive than we’re allowed, the Überlord is a “very important man” who will take care of the difference if there is a problem, then sit back and watch the great big tool try to convince the CFO that he is special enough to warrant a $500 a night room. It’s better than TV. The Überlord is entitled, damnit.

I am sleepy today due to an abundance of bizarre dreams involving me fleeing some enormous arachnids. I blame this squarely on the fact my friend Maria came round last night to hang out and eat chocolate and we ended up watching a bunch of those disturbing travel/food shows where that little, rotund, bald guy goes around the world eating disgustingly unappetizing, and just plain wrong, things. We sat there horrified as he gnawed on fried tarantulas on a stick, battered worms and goose intestines and our particular favorite - “teriyaki cockroaches” – a large nasty roach, injected with teriyaki sauce and skewered like a kebab. Nom nom nom! They looked just as lovely as they sound I can assure you. And if you heard a giant wail of distress around 10pm last night, that was just my soul dying. Seriously, what traumatic event happens to a person in their life, so dreadful that they wake up one day and go, “You know what? Screw that mashed potato and gravy, I think what I want is a fried cockroach!”

Well I seemed to have eradicated that giant hunger I had five minutes ago, how about you? Having trouble sticking to your diet? Call the Guv’ner!

And no, the title had nothing to do with the post. I'm mysterious damn it.

Give The Guv'ner Strength

Sorry to have yet another whiny entry about the deficiencies of the stupid Überlord but he’s so full of fodder I can’t seem to help myself.

One thing he’s really bad with is names. He’ll have a person’s name in his head and he will proceed to get one name right and the other name will be totally off. Or else he’ll get a surname completely wrong. Or the spelling will be ridiculous.

“Get me the number for Fred Fitzsimmons at such and such a company.” he’ll say. Numerous searches and head scratching will pull up nothing until I accidentally find a Frank FitzGerald.

“I don’t suppose that by Fred Fitzsimmons you meant Frank Fitzgerald?” I'd ask him suspiciously.

“Oh. Yeah. That’s him! I need his number.” He will reply, as though it were blatantly obvious.

Grrr.

Yesterday he said to me:

“I need the number for a man in Latin America named Luis Garcia. I’m not sure who he works for but I think he’s in Venezuela or it might be Colombia.”

Thanks a bunch Überlord. I mean there won’t be several thousand of those in those countries at all. Every second man you meet in the street will be called Luis Garcia, their sons will be Luis Garcia and their fathers will be Luis Garcia, you stammering buffoon. Nevertheless, I conduct a search through various fields and come up with several possible candidates with that name, in related fields to us. The Überlord frowns when surveying the list.

“I don’t think this is right…” he says.

“You are sure his name is Luis Garcia?” I ask, because really, I’ve been down this road before.

“I think so.” replies the Überlord. “I mean, I’m pretty certain. And now I think about it, I think he works for [company]”

I track down that company, do some more digging and come up with no one named Luis Garcia. There is, however, a Jorge Garcia Martinez. And he’s in Brazil.

“Um…I don’t suppose that by Luis Garcia in Venezuela you actually meant Jorge Garcia Martinez in Brazil?” I ask, getting some severe déjà vu.

“Yes!” he exclaims. “That’s the guy!”

So I picked up my industrial 3-hole punch and beat him to death with it.

Damn Überlords

The Dark Überlord has a really, intensely irritating laugh. If you took a loud, boorish society matron and mated her with a horse, then tickled the ass of the resulting spawn, with a feather, that’s exactly the sound you’d get.

He also overuses this obscene guffaw in his many quests to be “one of the guys”. He’s in his 50s but likes to think he’s still a frat boy with his curse words, his schmoozing, his corporate lunches with clients where he tells appalling jokes and laughs at them with that laugh.

Yesterday, while walking out of his office, he ripped a giant fart then had a jolly good wheeze at it. I mean, I know farts are funny. I laugh at mine all the time – they are high-fucking-larious, but really, not in an office environment. Not in the corridor where several people can bear witness to your gassy bowels. He also lets out these enormous belches fairly frequently and mutters to himself. Once I heard him joking with his son on the phone about whether or not his son was “getting some”. I doubt they were talking about chocolate. It’s bizarre to me because people are always saying to me “Oh you work for The Dark Überlord, he’s so nice!”

No. No he isn’t. He’s only nice if you don’t know him. He’s a schmoozer. He’s phony. He’s a faux nice guy. He’s a player. With a loud, witchy laugh.

Therefore, it’s some sort of divine intervention when he waltzes out of his office all smarmy and cocky, trips over his shoelace, does an unintentionally fine rendition of a seven year old girl at a ballet recital and flies arse-over-tit onto the floor.

I laughed and laughed. See, THAT, Dark Überlord, is appropriate office humor!

I just got through a whole entry without mentioning V-Day. I deserve an award.

Hell In Excel

Yesterday, I received via email, an Excel spreadsheet that could only have been created by Satan himself, while high on amphetamines. It was the sort of document that was so text heavy, full of unnecessary vertical page breaks, and had about forty sheets contained within all so full of gibberish, that you wondered why the person didn’t just create it in Word like a normal, rational human being (you know, like ME), negating the need for me to curse like a sailor and threaten people’s grandmas. And write ginormous sentences like that one up there.

I briefly entertained the notion of inserting random formulas that would bring up cells saying "DIE YOU C*CKS*CKER!" but sadly this function doesn't seem to have been invented yet.

Naturally, the Dark Überlord insisted on having a print out of this mammoth document because his retinas would melt and ooze onto the floor if he was forced to look at something on a screen. All the more reason to do it, I say.

The problem was Satan had cunningly incorporated more text than a cell can hold into many areas of the spreadsheet which meant you had to click the cell to get a pop up of the contents, making it virtually unprintable. Trying to paste said contents into various other cells didn't work either and I ended up with this page that looked like something a dyslexic spider had woven. Now I’m quite familiar with Excel in its basic form, can work with data bases and write formulas, etc., but this text heavy nonsense is making me insane. This means today I get to spend all day working out how to reformat this beast and recreate the excess contents so the Überlord can have a hard copy. This should take me oh….the rest of my natural (and unnatural) life.

The man’s in Canada today (a lucky feat of fortune or else he’d have a spear in his eye) and I was planning a sort of office “spa” day – music, feet up, snacks, blog reading, all very ambient and lovely. Instead, it’s Hell in Excel for me, so please send food/vibes/gun/hunky man with cake/news on how to print this mofo of a document in order to save the Guv’ner’s sanity. Thank you!

Please donate cocktails!

Psychotic Secretary Will Kill You

The headache I have today makes me think I know exactly how Lizzie Borden’s victims felt. You know, right before it all went black.

Things briefly improved when, while running an errand downstairs, I ran into this girl who was as excited and flustered as a ten year old at a Hannah Montana concert. This made me momentarily happy that the upper echelons of power must have given us the whole of next week off and a giant raise, but it turned out she was just happy because she heard a rumor there was a cake shaped like a skyscraper in the cafeteria and that we were all entitled to eat it. Fair enough little chick, that would get my heart-a-fluttering too. I went down there and sure enough – skyscraper cake. Who knew! I figured all that cake might place too heavy a load on the flimsy little table they had it on so I volunteered to eat a giant slab of it, thus making it lighter and saving the day. Go me.

I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking, “Thank God there is someone to take over where Mother Theresa left off, Guv!” Well, you are welcome.

I’ve also been slogging through a slew of complicated work crap and now I feel slightly insane, which, as you know, is a new sensation for me. I sent out emails to all corners (?) of the world demanding certain pieces of information that would prevent me overheating and having to take hostages, but so far no response. I will try not to be offended by this as I know people in Sydney and in India are entitled to sleep once in a while, even if I happen to be awake and demanding things. I mean ideally the whole world would stand to attention every hour I’m awake, ready to spring into action at my command, however, for now I have no choice but to let it be.

On the equally annoying side, I have had to start a dedicated notebook just for the travel stuff I’m doing. This book is already hilarious. It’s filled with flights I need to get, information I need, hotel stuff and due to the constant changes, it has more lines through it than a WalMart store. One day I’m going to take a photo of this book so you can see the mayhem I’m talking about. You will be appalled. You will cry for your mommy. You will cut yourself.

The Dark Überlord is here today and running around like his panties are on fire. This morning he sent me to Starbucks for two double espressos and a latte. When I got back he frowned because he wanted two lattes and a double espresso. I showed him the note he gave me to the contrary but he still sulked because really, I should have decoded that note and reversed the numbers, what was wrong with me, did I not read between the lines?

Give that man a sedative.

Quiet Please! The Guv'ner Is Working

Despite the fact The Überlord is out of the office, and in fact, out of the country until tomorrow (cue Hallelujah Chorus), I have spent all this morning working. Yes, you heard me correctly. Working. When I could have been blogging. Or reading gossip sites. Or napping on the couch in the Überlord’s office. Or procrastinating and drinking Diet Pepsi. Or making voodoo dolls in his likeness out of office supplies and then castrating them. With a rusty butter knife.

So yes, I worked. Of my own free will. Aren’t you all so proud? I’m putting it in the calendar as a reminder and next year I will bake a cake for the anniversary and possibly commission a bill board in Times Square saying “What were YOU doing on February 7th, 2008? THE GUV’NER WAS WORKING!” and it will be as smug and sanctimonious as it sounds and feature a huge, scary photo of me grinning with spinach on my teeth and giving a cheesy thumbs up.

There has been some rampant compiling of lists for a start. Things are getting to the Code Red stage of hectic as regards travel and meetings for the next few months, and keeping track of the who the where the when is getting horrendous, as is keeping a record of what paperwork has been completed for each trip. It is quite frankly a major spear in the Guv’ner’s side. Therefore, my highly informative lists are very helpful in these matters and as only I see these lists, I can scribble snide little comments in the margins like “get authorization for first class to Australia, chaaa right!” and “who does he think he’s kidding?” and when he’s really pissing me off I can scrawl myself a note that says, “Überlord requests middle seat in coach next to very fat person who hates deodorant”, as well as draw crude sketches of the Dark Überlord swinging in a hang man’s noose or being eaten by a lion or sodomized by Shaquille O'Neal. So even work can be fun to an extent.

Naturally now I am over the lists and more interested in the Internetz and whether Britney’s driven off of a cliff yet, while naked, speaking like Dick Van Dyke and covered in lime jello, weave falling through the air like a giant, hairy spider.

(She hasn’t.)

There are, however, still 9 and a bit hours left in the day, so I wouldn't count her out just yet.

The REAL Super Tuesday Results

As the various states' election results are still pouring in you may wish to check the official results against the Guv'ner's much more realistic and not at all made-up predictions, which you can find RIGHT HERE! See? The Guv'ner speaks only the gospel truth.

I'm pretty certain you'll find my predictions a lot more accurate in portraying who each state truly wanted to vote for. None of this Hillary or McCain or Obama nonsense.

My apologies to Michigan and Delaware who were just too hard to predict (or I forgot, whatever, sue me). I'm pretty sure Delaware would do whatever Maryland wanted and Michigan is practically Canada so who cares? (I'm KIDDING Michigan, honest, simmer down!!)

Don't even think of suggesting that I have too much time on my hands. Or beer.

The Guv'ner Predicts

All the various states' election results are still coming in and sadly everything's been pretty much going as expected with a few minor upsets, regarding election results this Super Tuesday.

However, you may wish to check the official results against the Guv'ner's much more realistic predictions, which you can find RIGHT HERE BABY!.

I'm pretty certain you'll find my predictions a lot more accurate in portraying who each state should have voted for. My apologies to Michigan and Delaware who eluded me. I'm pretty sure Delaware would do whatever Maryland wanted anyway and Michigan is practically Canada so who cares? (I'm KIDDING)

Everything Tuesday

Today, Tuesday, is also known as “The Day of Bloody Mayhem” in NYC. This is because we have problems handling one “event” at a time – OK…I do - but any more than that, you can fuggedaboutit.

Firstly we had this huge ticker-tape parade taking place downtown for the award-winning, killjoy, sporting upsetters, those enormous coffee bean throwers, the NY Giants, making me thankful I work up here in midtown therefore got to escape the crazy that no doubt ensued. I know nothing about football except those boys are way too fond of the shoulder pad and tight pants. It’s all grunting and sweating, touching each other’s asses and rubbing one another’s helmets.

Whoa, I just got the sudden urge to sing YMCA…

Today’s also not the most pleasant weather so that ensures lots of wet, paper pulp littering the streets, which better be cleared by the time I get home tonight, slackers!

Then of course it’s Super Tuesday so naturally much voting has commenced in the five boroughs. I pretend to be uninterested because, frankly, they don’t let me vote as I’m a filthy, stinking, commie, Godless foreigner so I reserve my right to sit back and watch the proceedings while mocking all the candidates in any way I see fit.

This being NYC and not renowned for its Republican stance, my subway entrance this morning was swamped with Hillary and Obama supporters, thrusting leaflets and buttons and their throbbing, sweaty groins in my direction - I made one of those things up (they had no buttons). They tried to follow me down the steps like I’m a purty celebrity. “Vote for Hillary!” one whispered furtively, nodding at me sincerely and waiting for a response.

“I’ve got a lovely bunch of coconuts!” I replied cheerfully and swiped my way through the turnstiles to safety.

You know what I'd like? I'd like just one candidate to ask ME what I'd like them to do for me if they became President. Because I have some suggestions (of course I do). Firstly, I'd like to be able to enjoy all bad, bad, heavenly things tax free (even the illegal ones). I would like some affordable healthcare and decent education but apart from these things I'd be happy if the government would butt out of my life altogether, unless it's to bring me a wheelbarrow filled with money, a bottle of top shelf tequila and an Uzi.

Most importantly of all, today is Pancake Tuesday, Fat Tuesday, Mardi Gras, Shrove Tuesday! A day for a face stuffing and I’m happy to report, my coworkers have started early by providing us with many cookies, coffee and pastries. This is a quite splendid and unexpected occurrence. Tonight I will bake up a storm of crepes to drizzle in lemon juice and sugar as is the British way and will proceed sucking them down like oxygen while the election results come in.

The Dark one just left for Europe again and I am drowning in future trips and travel arrangements that need to be made, so I will commence swinging on my chair and singing along with this old Jesus and Marychain album and maybe tomorrow I'll consider doing some work.

I do have a lovely bunch of coconuts.

Last of the International Playboys

A cryptic message from the Dark Überlord on a scrap of paper on my desk, requested I procure him a flight on a certain date, to “Indonesia”. I am fairly convinced that the Überlord believes that “Indonesia” is a city and not an entire geographic region full of them. I am assuming he wants to fly to Jakarta but really, he could be going anywhere.

Especially if I have anything to do with it.

I looked up some information on Indonesian cities and got back a list of what looks like monsters in a low-budget, Japanese horror fest (“Bogor” anyone? “Probolinggo?” “Dompu”?), drugs with possibly nasty side effects (“Ciamis”, “Cilacap”, “Cinere”), or potential Latin prepubescent pop groups (“Menado”). Some of the others sounded like fun pastimes (“Sukabumi”, “Purbalingga”, “Bangkinang” and “Fak Fak”) or tropical diseases (“Bukittinggi” and “Sibolga” – “Mom, mom I have a rash on my cranker, I think it’s Sibolga!!!” the correct response being, “Don’t worry son, take two Cilacap twice a day and you’ll be golden!”)

And all them sounded infinitely more interesting than Jakarta although less lovely and tropically pleasing than Bali. My only real disappointment was not finding a town named “Punani” because that would have been a stupendous HEE moment.

I think I will await further instructions on this one for the sake of my sanity. Or I could just send him on a one way ticket to Fak Fak where he would have his orifices filled by the phallic appendages of well-endowed, evil tribesmen who would then roast him on a spit and shrink his head to the size of a wee, tiny pea. Ah one can dream.