(no subject)
A most trying shift. Just past the half hour mark, I'd just completed an interview with a bloke (who'd sounded fed up the whole time) and he said no to us calling him again next year on the grounds that he "[wasn't] going through all that again". I explained it would be the last time and that all the work we'd previously done would be wasted, but to no avail. So nearly twenty minutes of work time got wasted on this dick when we could have been talking to someone productive.
Worse, ten minutes after that, was a woman who announced abruptly that she'd done it once and as far as she was concerned that was enough. My explanations that there are new questions this time and that we couldn't use her results if she only did one got short shrift, in the shape of a snapped "Just forget it, then" and a hung-up phone.
Then an hour later came a man who, asked to do it for the first time, wouldn't, claiming that he was "too old and cantankerous for that kind of thing." I guess you have to hand it to him for honesty.
While I'm feeling suitably fed up, I'll take the opportunity to lament the outrageous unfairness of life and death. The arch scumbag will turn 60 this year (he may already have done so, a Google search doesn't turn up his actual birthday and I'm shagged if I'm going to actually surf onto his own blog just to find out when it is). Don't believe the puff on his wiki page about 'compassionate conservative'. This guy rails in the press against those of us who have to express our emotions to get over personal crisis. If he had his way, suppressing the emotion would be the only legal coping strategy. He constantly dismisses catharsis, and expression-based counselling, as "self-pity" and trumpets that 'the truth is, [the bottling it up/just shrugging it off/just forgetting about it approach] works for everybody'. Speak for yourself, squire.
So with apologies to Attila the Stockbroker, here's a lyric I've written to the tune of his song Scumball Pinochet. Sing it T. Rex style.
One wrote plays that meant a lot to me
But she ended her days lonely in a ladies' lavatory
And the other one is evil fascist arrogant scum
And he's lived to be sixty - still the Reaper won't come
Daniels the bastard should have got blasted
Sarah Marie should still be lighting the stage today
One took her final curtain at the age of twenty-eight
While the other grew old on bigotry and hate
It's fifty years too short and it's sixty years too long
And A, B, C and M think it's wrong!
Chorus
They both had their heyday in the late 1990s
One was Grace and was sweet Marie
The other called us a culture of self-pity -
And he lived to be old. That's really bloody shitty.
Lobotomised sheep love him as their Dr Dalrymple
But expressionists know that he's just a nasty pimple
But one day a wooden box will finally be his fate
And Strophe says that hell can't wait!
Chorus
Worse, ten minutes after that, was a woman who announced abruptly that she'd done it once and as far as she was concerned that was enough. My explanations that there are new questions this time and that we couldn't use her results if she only did one got short shrift, in the shape of a snapped "Just forget it, then" and a hung-up phone.
Then an hour later came a man who, asked to do it for the first time, wouldn't, claiming that he was "too old and cantankerous for that kind of thing." I guess you have to hand it to him for honesty.
While I'm feeling suitably fed up, I'll take the opportunity to lament the outrageous unfairness of life and death. The arch scumbag will turn 60 this year (he may already have done so, a Google search doesn't turn up his actual birthday and I'm shagged if I'm going to actually surf onto his own blog just to find out when it is). Don't believe the puff on his wiki page about 'compassionate conservative'. This guy rails in the press against those of us who have to express our emotions to get over personal crisis. If he had his way, suppressing the emotion would be the only legal coping strategy. He constantly dismisses catharsis, and expression-based counselling, as "self-pity" and trumpets that 'the truth is, [the bottling it up/just shrugging it off/just forgetting about it approach] works for everybody'. Speak for yourself, squire.
So with apologies to Attila the Stockbroker, here's a lyric I've written to the tune of his song Scumball Pinochet. Sing it T. Rex style.
One wrote plays that meant a lot to me
But she ended her days lonely in a ladies' lavatory
And the other one is evil fascist arrogant scum
And he's lived to be sixty - still the Reaper won't come
Daniels the bastard should have got blasted
Sarah Marie should still be lighting the stage today
One took her final curtain at the age of twenty-eight
While the other grew old on bigotry and hate
It's fifty years too short and it's sixty years too long
And A, B, C and M think it's wrong!
Chorus
They both had their heyday in the late 1990s
One was Grace and was sweet Marie
The other called us a culture of self-pity -
And he lived to be old. That's really bloody shitty.
Lobotomised sheep love him as their Dr Dalrymple
But expressionists know that he's just a nasty pimple
But one day a wooden box will finally be his fate
And Strophe says that hell can't wait!
Chorus
