Primal Sneeze

The EU has an E-number for everything from calcium carbonate (chalk) ^{[Source: Wikipedia]} to Mycoxafailin (Viagra) ^{[Source: OBB News]}. I propose a system of W-numbers for those employers who are wankers to work for. Here is a small sample from my own past experience to illustrate this.

W101: I was 14 years old. Myself and Tom, the farmer’s 12 year old, had spent a long hot, itchy, back-breaking, finger-slicing (the baling twine) week bringing in the hay. The only adult help we had was from Tom’s grandfather and that was only in the haggard - we had to manage as best we could on our own in the fields.

The farmer’s wife thanked me and handed me a £1 note. I stood waiting for her to produce the rest. Nothing came. I handed back the note suggesting she buy sweets for her son with it and walked off.

That was my introduction to the world of wankers-to-work-for.

W666: Years later, as part of my degree, I found myself on work-placement with another farmer - this time near Ballybunion in Kerry. Arrangements had been made over the phone. £80 a week, which was average for students then, and full board.

Each morning I milked the cows before a hearty breakfast of cornflakes. Then I’d spend the day picking potatoes by hand in the company of a group of locals. Some were school kids, the rest were on the dole and constantly on guard for social welfare inspectors. A hearty lunch was delivered to the field by the farmer’s wife. Jam (yes, jam, not ham) sandwiches and lukewarm tea in a whiskey bottle.

Milk the cows again in the evening followed by a hearty dinner of sausages (2), rashers (1), fried egg (½) and baked beans (probably 27 or 28, but never more than 30). Each night, this Kildare man, was treated to lectures on how yee crowd up in Dublin get everything going - the best land and all the money - and we poor eejits down here are left to struggle with nothing.

At midday on the first Saturday I got paid. £40! £20 taken for the hearty meals and £20 for the use of a rickety bed.

I was on the train out of there that afternoon and on Monday his name was taken off the list of approved work-placement employers by the faculty. That bit caused a stir as his first cousin, who had recommended him, thereby bypassing the vetting process, was a professor.

As an aside, that same professor, as patron of a large charity, undertook a fact-finding (all expenses paid) mission to Ethiopia in the aftermath of the ‘84-’85 famine. An ex-flatmate of mine was working for that same charity and found the prof didn’t once leave his fancy hotel in Addis Ababa. Yet he was able to report the situation on the ground back to the Irish government and was on RTÉ for weeks telling us of the misery and suffering he had witnessed. I guess being a wanker is a genetic disorder. [May be classified as W666]

W666²: Luckily I had a good run from then on and worked for some of the best you could ask for. In fact, the other farmers I spent time with come top of the list. The sole glitch during those wonder-years was just after the turn of the century (I’ve always want to say that) when, after a series of meetings with the country manager of a large multinational in plush hotels and restaurants, I got offered a job with excellent salary and perks. I should have realised that it was too good to be true.

The Irish arm, or franchise, I learned had been formed to cater for a single multinational client under a global deal. The country manager owned it - his daddy had set it up for him. The office manager/accounts manager and order entry clerk were his little sisters. His wife was a consultant. His first cousin the sales manager. The ladies used maiden or married names as appropriate so as not to raise eyebrows at the US HQ.

There were five of us squashed into a tiny office downstairs. As last-man-in I had a stool. If someone was out, I could borrow their chair. In a larger space upstairs, sat the country manager and his sisters - the consultant was always out with a client apparently.

The techie in my estimation had trained in the Fisher-Price school of engineering. How he had survived in the job so long amazed me until I discovered a) the factory floor staff did the day-to-day work for him, b) when something went down he called a service company and c) he was the wife’s cousin.

The QA officer knew as much about quality as a Chinese toy maker. An ex-box-packer with a software distributor he had once been interviewed by an ISO auditor. Played key role in securing ISO accreditation read his CV - a twisting of the truth he was very proud of and joked about regularly. Also part of the extended family, his CV was merely conjured up to satisfy headquarters.

Why did they have a sales manager and a consultant when there was only one client?

The company was a mess. But I reckoned it ticked along because it had to. The client had a global agreement and couldn’t change service supplier.

The inefficiency was wrecking my head, not to mention the nepotism - I could end up being forced to marry the forklift driver to keep the job. She did weights. Big ones.

What was my job anyway? I was hired as an IT project manager but didn’t have any projects to manage. They were coming I was told. In the meantime, seeing as I knew a lot about the systems they were using, I could help out the techie - show him a few things. (I thought I’d start with keyboard skills). I had experience of the ISO so I could help out the QA with writing his procedures and manuals. (I figured lessons in English for native English speakers might be useful). The girls upstairs weren’t fully up to speed on the accounts package so I could talk them through it. (I could go hoarse).

There was to be a site visit at the long weekend by the IT manager from one of the UK offices and two of his engineers. New PCs and other stuff were to be commissioned. At last something IT projecty managey. What would I be doing with them? Ferrying them to and from their hotel and staying in the office with them in case they needed anything - like to be taken to lunch.

At lunch that Saturday the IT manager innocently asked what my plans were when the five month’s training was over. Had I another contract lined up? If I brought this operation into line and saved it being shut down, HQ might have something else for me. I should talk to them. I was gobsmacked and at the same time disgusted with myself for being so naïve.

I pried him for more and the pieces began to slot together. HQ had been warned by the client the global agreement was in jeopardy unless the Irish arm got its act together within six months.

If they hired me as a trainer I would have been suspicious seeing as the headcount was so low. Things change so quickly in IT that a role for a full-time project manager would be plausible. If they hired me as a trainer on a contract basis it would have cost more than double or treble - remember the money had to go to the family.

By hiring me as a full-time employee and throwing the odd IT project my way to keep me happy whilst utilising me as a trainer they would save money. Plus they could fire me within the six month’s standard probationary period claiming I was unsuitable with little or no comeback for me. I later learned that was the intention all along.

I walked out leaving a well fed but nappyless baby sitting over the fan. I felt guilty that I could be in part to blame for the factory floor staff losing their jobs, but the economy was booming and they’d find something else. They didn’t have to and the company is still running so I guess they either found another eejit to do my job or they learned their lesson and acted honestly the following time.

Next post up: Wankers who worked for me. I’m thinking of M-numbers but am open to suggestions. Stay tuned either way.