THE FORKIE PHILOSOPHER

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  • MUSINGS ON THE JOB ABOUT THE JOB: Mark-Pickers R Us

    I believe it is understood that bullies choose their victims (pick their mark) rather skilfully. Whether consciously or by instinct they seem to have an uncanny knack for not getting their heads kicked in.

    This case was a strange one indeed; made even more unique by how I guessed the underlying mechanics correctly. I am always curious about people’s motivations and behaviour, but picking one correctly and receiving such a quick validation is almost unheard of.

    I’ll keep things vague to avoid unnecessary drama with ex-employers. At this job there was the usual dilemma of cost versus service. Customers paid extra for products to be individually packaged. Trouble was that we often ran short of equipment and or space to accomplish this task without leaving stuff behind.

    The solution? If it looks like everything is not going to fit separately, intermingling is okay. Disregard the fact that the customer is paying for premium service, we need to ensure we complete all the orders.

    “Won’t that result in a sub-standard service?”

    “That’s not your concern. We cannot allow things to back-up. The customers do not like delays.”

    “So, if we are worried about the customer, do we separate or intermingle?”

    “Yes”

    “What?”

    “Separate as much as you can; if you cannot complete all of the orders, go ahead and mix them.”

    “There’s no way of knowing the quantities at the set-up stage. Any alterations will need to be done post-hoc, resulting in double-handling and a last-minute rush.”

    “Do the best you can.”

    “Clear as mud.”

    So, we bungled our way through each day trying to pre-empt the required individual/co-mingled ratio, with mediocre success. Usually resulting in a rushed mishmash before the final whistle. Random implications from supervisors about either our efficiency, or failure in the division duty, fuelling our frustration. Any request for clearer instructions was met with more wishy-washy bullshit.

    “All products must be segregated, but if you run out of room you should go ahead and mix them.”

    “FUCK!!!”

    During this period, the main workers in this section were me and Sonny. I was a scrawny alcoholic stalwart with limited knowledge about union influence. Sonny was a hardworking Tongan tank with hands like baseball mitts and the strength of an ox. He was a cheerful sort of chap, and we got along well.

    I remember him laughing when I tried putting a sentence together is his language. He said, “now I know what I sound like when I speak English”. Trust me, his English was better than my Tongan would ever be.

    I remember him laughing when I tried putting a sentence together is his language. He said, “now I know what I sound like when I speak English”. Trust me, his English was better than my Tongan would ever be.

    One day we were going about our usual duties. We had a kind of system for dealing with the whole “keep them separate, but if you have to, mix them up, but try to keep them separate” absurdity. Certain destinations were much busier than others, so if we knew we were running short on space, they would be the first to get mixed.

    I didn’t see the interaction, but I noticed Sonny was in a foul mood. I asked him what was up and he pointed to our supervisor, Tom. He was a chubby little man with thick glasses and zero people skills. One of those weaselly characters who kept his job by kissing ass and blaming anyone else for his mistakes. Not a nice bloke by any stretch of the imagination. 

    Sonny told me that Tom had approached him and snarked, “I’m sick of you guys always fucking mixing this stuff up. You’ve been told to keep them separate.”

    Just hearing that had my anger rising. Fucking little skunk! Sonny knew it was a sly dig and explained to me in his broken English how he was fucken sick of the way management wanted to have things both ways by giving contradictory instructions. They turn a blind eye to substandard practice to ensure all orders go out; yet reserve the right to insist on the premium one if they look like being busted. It was blatant palm-off of responsibility.

    Sonny was well aware that this pissweak little parlungi had disrespected him with his smart-ass dig and he was fighting the urge to crush Tom’s fucken skull like an orange; something he would have very little difficulty doing.

    Now I know that Tom was counting on Sonny not wanting to lose his job to prevent the facial rearranging he deserved for such a slimy play. I also know that like all bullies he desperately needed to feel any sense of power he could get just to feel like less of a coward. What I struggled with was why he would take the risk with Sonny when my puny ass was just as available.

    This pissy power-play was obviously based on something other than brute strength. That insipid fucken scumbag had to think he had some kind of joker up his sleeve. What threat could I possibly offer that trumps Sonny’s brute strength?

    English! The ability to communicate with confidence. That little runt was using Sonny’s timidness toward his second language as a weapon – fucking grub!

    I called Joe, our union delegate and explained the utter disrespect. I also warned him that Tom would very probably try to use “Sonny misunderstood me” as his excuse. Joe went and spoke to Tom and when he returned, he was giggling. He told us, “He said those exact fucken words! Sonny must have misunderstood what I said…” – piece of shit!

    Joe told him to cut the crap and made it clear that Sonny, himself and I all fully comprehended what he was saying and that we did not appreciate it. Not exactly a great comeuppance, but at least he got pulled up, and we got a laugh out of it. Sonny enjoyed asking anyone who knew the story, “do you think I don’t understand?”

    I suppose the insult didn’t hit him so hard because he knew he could have swatted Tom like a fly. Though I’m sure it irritated him that someone could be that much of an asshole. We eventually got the whole “make them odd, but even and left, but keep them right” headache sorted and that’s another story of its own.

    Standover merchants and pretend tough guys were nothing new for this industry, but this was a unique twist on the bullying repertoire for me. Tom showed me that a weasel can be very creative when trying to make themselves feel like a wolf. Again, I don’t know how much of this is conscious and you certainly can’t trust a mutt to speak sincerely. I am constantly amazed at their ability to avoid the righteous fucking flogging they so desperately deserve.

    If they are foiled, as in this case, they plead innocent, ignorant or employ any deception necessary to avoid admitting they just got caught trying it on. On the extremely rare occasion where they do get called out, in my experience, I am yet to see one take up the gauntlet. They usually slither away with great haste.

    I have quite a few of tales of these gutless goons. Stay tuned.

  • DECENT DRAMA RAMPS UP THE TENSION AND MAKES THE ACTION MATTER: Movie Musings #19

    ***SPOILER ALERT***

    Jean-Claude Van Damme finished his one-on-one hat trick with 1990s Lionheart. We all knew it as Wrong Bet down under. I did a comparison of Kickboxer (1989) and Bloodsport (1988) in my first post for this thread, explaining why I reckon the Kumite flick was far superior to the Muay Thai one.

    Having recently rewatched the streetfighter one, I am not surprised to find that it shares the same screenwriter as Bloodsport. Sheldon Lettich seems to know how to package a great action movie and he managed to raise the stakes yet again without stumbling into silliness.

    His absence from the credits for Kickboxer gives me another hint as to why they botched the escalating threat ploy in that one. Maybe check that post out before reading on.

    Lionheart takes advantage of Van Damme’s fame for playing martial artists and saves time explaining how he got such skills; they also do away with the training montage trope. When his character (Lyon) is not busy busting heads, he is desperately trying to help his brother’s widow and her daughter.

    In Bloodsport, he was fighting for the honour of his shidoshi (mentor/trainer). In Kickboxer it was for vengeance against the fighter who crippled his brother. In Lionheart it’s for his family. For that to hit home, you’re gonna need a little melodrama; it’s quick and effective.

    Lyon did what he thought was best for his brother, but he still wound-up dead. His widow, Helene reckons Lyon fucked up and blames him for the death of her (sounds like a dead-shit) husband. As a single mum, she is struggling to make ends meet and to provide a stable home for her daughter.

    Lyon competes in underground, no-holds-barred fights to get money to help his sister-in-law and niece. He fights all manner of characters and eventually becomes well known on the illegal street fighting circuit.

    Unlike, the previous 2 films, there is no clear “Top Boss” character for him to be aiming for. Chong Li and Tong Po had already demonstrated their brutal efficiency at defeating, maiming and even killing opponents. They were there on the sidelines ominously watching as Van Damme dispatched challenger after challenger on his way to the final confrontation.

    Lionheart uses a different tack for introducing our hero’s biggest threat, by leaning into the whole illicit gambling portion of these fights.

    Lettich employs one of Alfred Hitchcock’s classic ploys where the audience knows more than certain characters. It is fantastic for building suspense. The audience gets to witness the two different versions of one of Attila’s fights caught on video. He will be Lyon’s ultimate challenge; a chance to either make enough money to get out of the game and take care of his loved ones, or to wind up horribly incapacitated or dead.

    The original tape, along with Cynthia’s commentary, shows Atilla’s incredible ability to take hits. He uses this resilience to toy with his opponents and give them hope, before he literally tears them apart. Well, that looks like the fate of his unfortunate opponent in the video – OUCH!!!

    A little later we are invited to the “official” screening of the tape for the high rollers. Lyon and his trainer, Joshua are present for this too. Cynthia whispers to one of the wealthy punters, “If you knew what I went through to smuggle this out…” before handing him the video tape.

    When we cut to the footage on the big screen television, we understand what purpose that preface served. The picture is shithouse, like a poxy pirate copy made from God knows how many other copies. Lyon, Joshua and the high-stakes gamblers watch unimpressed as Attila takes huge punishment without answering back in any way.

    As we approach the moment where Attila is done playing around, Cynthia gives a nervous sideways glance at her guests. Before they get any inkling of how severe the tide is about to turn in this bout, the screen turns to fuzz, and the picture is totally obscured. Kind of like that missing minute of the Epstein video.

    The audience has seen enough and the tape is stopped. The con has succeeded and Lyon is now the hot favourite in a fight against a seemingly unstoppable wrecking machine. Attila, in this scenario is more a force of nature Lyon must overcome to achieve his goal rather than the villain of the piece.

    That role is played by the scheming bitch and her pretentious partner/bodyguard; Cynthia and Russell. If Attila falls, the audience will be relieved, but the rejoicing will come from that devious duo getting their just desserts.

    While preparing for the showdown Lyon tells Joshua he has put all his money on himself to win; thus we have an all-or-nothing hook to up the ante (yeah, I know). During a little play sparring Joshua discovers Lyon has been nursing some broken ribs he received courtesy of the two Foreign Legion thugs who are after him. Now our Lionheart is carrying a serious injury into a fight with the human mangler.

    Oh and just for good measure, the cat is out of the bag regarding Attila’s history of obliterating his opponents. Joshua desperately tries to school his naïve friend about the dog-eat-dog world he is competing in, but Lyon is unwavering in his quest. That limp Joshua has was a result of a similar fix where he ended up on the receiving end of an odds rigging mismatch, thanks to none other than that same pair of slimy swindlers; Cynthia and Russell – FUCKERS!!!

    Waiting to place his bet, Joshua’s loyalty is torn between backing his friend and trusting he can defeat this man-monster, or taking the better odds and at least having some money for when Lyon gets beaten to a pulp. They don’t go into whether the rumours about Attila have any effect on the odds. I think we’re just to assume that Lyon is still the favourite and Attila is the long shot.

    So, the scene is set for the savage finale. All bets are in and the two combatants face off. As expected, Attila takes a few of Lyon’s best shots and brushes them off. When he is done toying, Attila unleashes and serves a vicious ass-whooping to the seemingly helpless Lyon.

    Attila likes to showboat and he savours his dominance over his victims. He pauses between knockdowns, strutting around and holding off on the coup de grace. The high rollers are visibly distressed as they realise they have been duped. Cynthia sits with a shit eating grin, adding to our loathing.

    During what appears to be Attila’s final swagger lap, Joshua rushes over and kneels beside the downed Lyon. He begs his badly damaged buddy to stay down and avoid being crippled or killed. As it becomes clear that Lyon is incapable of backing down, Joshua tells him that he put all his own money on Attila and pleads for Lyon to take the loss, promising to split the winnings.

    Lyon gives an agonised look of betrayal at his friend and through gritted teeth, spits out the Aussie title of the film, “Wrong Bet”. The cinema audience gets a flood of endorphins as the now resolute Lyon gets back on his feet. The audience in the film begin clapping in unison, awestruck at the tenacity of this wounded man. Even Attila is amazed and then quickly switches to pissed off!

    Attila moves in for the kill, and Van Damme leaps up for his signature helicopter kick as Joshua shouts out the US title of the film “LIONHEART!!!”

    Lyon lands a perfect jumping 360-degree spinning heel/hook kick right on Attila’s jaw; would’ve taken an average man’s fucken head off! It doesn’t finish Attila, but it immediately turns the tide in Lyon’s favour, as he proceeds to beat the living shit out of this, moments before, unstoppable beast.

    Lyon has achieved the impossible! Attila has been defeated! Now we get to share in the gloating as the high rollers revel in Cynthia’s expensive backfire. Apparently, she is ruined. Lyon has won enough to support his family. His demonstration of courage and resilience has even earned him the admiration of his foreign legion pursuers, who let him escape.

    Cinema audience is thrilled and justice has been served. Except…

    I just have one misgiving. If all the big money was on Lyon, and Lyon was the favourite, Cynthia’s losses would have been minimal. Of course, she would have been humiliated and inevitably shunned by her patrons, but certainly not bankrupt. The leak about Attila’s true capacities might have created a huge swing with the odds, but that was not explored. Probably belongs in a different movie.

    Split hairs aside, it was a most satisfying victory. Easily a better build up and climax than the “Kickboxer” shemozzle. Proof again that, while there is no step-by-step formula for writing a good script, there are essential elements that cannot be ignored. It’s beneficial to tinker with them and deliver them in a unique way to keep things fresh. Leaving them out however, without a purpose, is either ignorance or hubris.

    It may seem that the action is all we’re there to see, but if we don’t care, it all falls flat. Sheldon Lettich knew how to get the audience invested and I suspect played a significant role in securing Van Damme’s star status because of it.

    Making this post I discovered 3 other titles for this fucken movie!

    Marketing “experts” in various countries must have needed to justify their jobs.

    This might be some kind of record for rebranding!

  • MINDFUL MUSINGS: Killer Convictions

    I didn’t put this one under the Movie Musings banner because I have been unable to find the title of the movie and I will be going off a single viewing from very long ago. While the specifics are missing, the overall theme and conclusion still intrigue me, so I will be focusing on those aspects. Questions like:

    “How do you know you know?”

    “How can you be sure that other person knows?”

    “How reliable are our memories?” That’s a good one in this context.

    I was only a kid when we watched it on video, so I didn’t question much. It seemed rather cut and dry to me back then. The deeper philosophical significance didn’t occur to me till much later. The ambiguities within that tale only served to make it more profound. Maybe the lack of closure was the lesson.

    My memory is foggy and the details are sketchy, so please bear with me. I believe it takes place in the USA around the 1980s. An elderly woman (I’m assuming she’s Jewish) who survived a Nazi concentration camp, is certain she has found the sadistic officer who oversaw or perpetuated atrocities and abhorrent cruelty. She is determined to expose him for his evil deeds. She follows and harasses him as he tries to go on about his upstanding life in America.

    The man’s adult daughter adores him and is horrified at this woman’s misdirected accusations. The man vehemently denies the vilification and seems genuinely baffled. He was indeed German and in Germany during WWII. I cannot recall if he admits to working in the camps or not. Either way, he swears he is not this monster the woman says he is.

    At the climax of the film, the woman approaches her alleged abuser with a gun. Rather than shooting him, she looks him in the eyes and turns the gun on herself in front of a crowd of onlookers. The final scene has the man remaining tight lipped, while his daughter looks at him with agonised doubt.

    “She must have been so sure” says the heartbroken daughter before turning her back and walking away.

    As a kid I swallowed that logic hook, line and sinker and I am sure the film meant for the rest of the audience to do the same. Although I believe it was left open ended. If anyone knows the title of the film, I would love to know.

    40 odd years later and a lifetime of discovering things I was certain about were either wrong, or quite different from my conception; countless arguments over flawed recollections; mine and others. I am no longer so sure about much anymore, and I am amazed by anyone who is.  As I grew, my curiosity grew along with me and the implications of that story, in regard to knowledge and proof, expanded along with my bewilderment.

    We will never know the trauma that old lady suffered, and we can only imagine her yearning for justice. The unclear ending makes me believe that there must have been a lot of circumstantial evidence and unanswered questions regarding the alleged war criminal which led to the woman’s final act.

    This is the nightmare of being outside of a dispute and only having people’s differing versions to go on. “She must have been so sure” is one interpretation. I’m not trying to be flippant, but there are other explanations, not least of which would be “shit, I hope she wasn’t mistaken!”

    The accused may not have been on trial officially, but that suicidal condemnation certainly placed his reputation and relationship with his daughter in major peril. Maybe it was one of those mystery story cliches where he couldn’t reveal his exact whereabouts during the period in question because he was doing something else he wanted to keep a secret; cheating on his wife perhaps, or maybe something even worse than what he was being accused of. Christ, that would have to be fucking awful!

    Either way, the woman was fed up with being disbelieved and her tormented psyche demanded retribution. So, she carried out a definitive and terminal act to finally close the book on her horrific ordeal. A “once I do this it will finally be over” type ritual.

    While it leaves little doubt regarding her anguish and the conviction behind her incriminations, there will always be that lingering misgiving. The fact that she took her own life will, for many, be evidence enough for the credence of her story, and anyone wishing to argue will be doing so with a ghost. As far as she is concerned, the case is closed.

    Unfortunately, certainty does not automatically equate with being in possession of the “truth”. Ending your own life will absolutely add weight to your grievance and may even force some type of further investigation. It cannot be seen as irrefutable evidence though.

    It is a very effective way of ending a dispute and literally having the last say. If nothing else, it cements the psychological and/or emotional pain as your reality. Although it will never prove what actually happened on its own. The major attraction to this form of exercise in terms of justice may well be the “they must have been so sure” conclusion many people will make. Anyone who questions the deceased woman’s assertions will be seen as heartless or maybe even a Nazi sympathiser!

    If you kill someone, you are left to face the consequences. There will be an investigation, and many questions will be asked. Imagine finding out you killed the wrong person? Or maybe discovering sufficient evidence to make you much less sure regarding your chosen villain. Quite a horrendous cross to bear on top of what was already crushing you.

    Maybe self-erasure is preferred because it ends your suffering while ensuring the torment of your nemesis. Is it one of those “death is too good for them” things? The questions are endless! Maybe that’s why many people choose to go with the simplest or most popular conclusion.

    In my memory as a kid, I was sure he was the evildoer. And now? Now I just reckon I would be a massive pain in the ass for my fellow jurors.

    This was a strange one, I know. Talking about a movie I only have sketchy memories of. Having hired it from a video shop in the 1980s there’s also a chance it was a TV movie in the USA, which would make it that little bit more obscure.

    Anyway, it left an impression on me and gave me an introduction into things I would later become very interested in, such as psychology and epistemology. Perhaps it even planted the seeds.

  • WHEN I WAS YOUR AGE: How Could They Believe That Shit?

    On Sunday the 30th of October 1938 at 8pm ET the CBS radio network aired a special Halloween adaptation of H.G Wells’ “War of the Worlds”. It was delivered like a special news bulletin as a way of updating and innovating the source material. It was meant to be a hoax for the spooky season and therefore the goal was to frighten listeners. However, some citizens were more taken in than others by the realism of the presentation, and it resulted in small pockets of panic and confusion.

    While it wasn’t chaos in the streets as the myth has been told, it did demonstrate how media can affect people’s reality. Television was only in its infancy, and radio was the primary source of immediate news for the population. That was it. You are sitting in your home listening to the wireless and you have precious little options to fact check what you are hearing.

    You can change the channel, but that doesn’t prove much. Maybe that other station isn’t up to date yet with the emergency. The neighbours are all in the same boat, so all you can do is talk amongst yourselves and/or argue. Calling the authorities would seem like the logical thing to do. They should be in communication with other departments and would have a much better chance of getting to the bottom of the situation.

    So, when you read that there was a massive influx of calls to local law enforcement agencies you must keep in mind that the available access to information was very limited in 1938.

    Flash forward around 45 years to when I was a pup in the 1980s and we were so much more advanced than those yokels. Running amok in the streets because of a radio program. “Did you know people were arming up? These poor simple fools were firing shots at shadows they were so frightened!”

    Yeah, we were too clever to fall for something like that in the 1980s. Joke being that we had no trouble believing the over-exaggerated and/or fabricated stories of how a radio program caused alarm when it managed to trick people into wondering if it was authentic. Pranked about the reaction to a years old hoax – perfect!

    Way down south in the isolated land of Oz we bought that panic in the streets bullshit hook, line and sinker. Someone heard or read it somewhere and told someone else and pretty soon, “everyone knows that!” Urban myths and all manner of tall tales got tossed around and somehow became realer the more times they were told.

    Nothing fed our craving for the inexplicable more than “Great Mysteries of the World”. I recall it playing on television on Sunday afternoon and we would all sit transfixed as Leonard Nimoy would regale us with uncanny tales of bizarre and scary phenomenon that may or may not be for real.

    “This series presents information based in part on theory and conjecture. The producer’s purpose is to suggest some possible explanations, but not necessarily the only ones, to the mysteries we will examine.”

    Spoken disclaimer

    I always remember getting spooked during the opening credits every time that weird looking vampire showed up. It would be a long time before I would learn about “Nosferatu”; yet another bit of information that was simply too hard to find in my Gen X world.

    For many of us kids, this was our first introduction to Bigfoot, The Loch ness monster and the Bermuda Triangle. All of which were hotly debated whenever they were brought up. I am positive that any kid growing up during the popularity of that show would shit bricks if they thought they would be travelling through that fucken Bermuda Triangle. No fucking way man!!!

    UFOs, ghosts and demonic possessions were all possibilities, and while I am sure university libraries would have scientific and sceptical literature on the subjects, none of us was going to do any research into it beyond the Encyclopedia and some random book about myths and legends in the school library.

    There would have been magazines cashing in on the more notorious strange and spooky stories. There was always a Time Life book collection to order by mail if you could afford it. Along with other shows such as “Ripley’s Believe it or Not!” our fertile little brains were overflowing with baffling and unnerving places, creatures and events.

    “I think Bigfoot is blurry, that’s the problem. It’s not the photographer’s fault. Bigfoot is blurry, and that’s extra scary to me. There’s a large, out-of-focus monster roaming the countryside.”

    Mitch Hedberg

    Some of us never did any real investigating until the internet started to get big and even more never even bothered then. I am certain that plenty of my peers still hold superstitions or sneaking suspicions that were imprinted via one of those shows when they were a kid.

    It wasn’t just those shows fuelling our imaginations and blurring the lines between science and the supernatural. It was movies and TV shows we watched all the time and the cliches we accepted as fact. Of course, superheroes aren’t real, but so many commonalities that were taken for granted somehow slipped into our understanding of ‘reality’. There was a funny meme circulating a while ago which covers this brilliantly:

    Another lethal peril of the natural world was piranhas. We wholeheartedly feared those ravenous fish and thought human beings were a regularly on the menu. I’m sure there are still many people my age who think these carnivorous critters attack any human unfortunate enough to be swimming nearby. That unsuspecting bathers are the preferred cuisine guaranteed to kick off a feeding frenzy and leave nothing but bones and blood in the water. To be honest I still struggle with the actual data saying it is very rare.

    That’s quite interesting being that I was born and raised in Australia and spent much of my youth in the surf. Yes, Jaws scared me, but it never kept me away from the waves. Trust me, when I hear a shark alarm I get my ass on the sand ASAP and would do the same if I saw a fin. I’m not bobbing around wondering if I might be about to meet a playful dolphin. I know sharks can kill and maim; I just also know we are not this gastronomic treat that they simply cannot resist.

    Maybe it’s the unfamiliarity that ramps up the fear factor. I would definitely be very wary in our tropical north where warnings about crocodiles are posted. Our fear of the unknown springs from being out of our element and being bombarded with unique stimuli. Strange surroundings and/or unusual events leave us vulnerable to unexpected threats and that can increase anxiety right alongside awareness.

    Nowadays finding the answer to any of those old enigmas is a click, even a verbal question, away. All the historical and scientific records relating to those Great Mysteries of the World from my childhood are floating in cyberspace waiting to be summoned. Along with any other obscure information you may wish to find.

    Of course, this overabundance has given rise to a whole new host of confusing conundrums. “Fake news” is becoming an all-too-common occurrence. One could just as easily find a website espousing the existence of Yetis as one debunking them. I suppose the magic lies in the impossibility of proving anything beyond a doubt. There is always a little wriggle room for blind faith; even if it is the width of a bees’ dick.

    Ever since I was a kid, this has always looked like a forearm and hand sticking out of the water. There’s nothing to compare for scale. I wasn’t positive that it didn’t exist, I just couldn’t imagine it being enormous.

  • WE NEED TO DIG A LITTLE DEEPER: Tough Love Thomas

    “Socialism in general has a record of failure so blatant that only an intellectual could ignore or evade it.”

    Thomas Sowell

    Being that this was said by Tough Love Thomas, I must assume it is a warning against the slippery slope of the welfare state. Thomas Sowell is an American economist and social theorist. His no-nonsense approach to these topics is often controversial and he makes no apology for this. He is often regarded as a liberal bashing conservative. It’s easy to label anyone who finds fault with nanny-state governing as a heartless money grubber. To me he often sounds like a father trying to prepare you for the harsh reality of the world we must live in.

    Of course, we often disagree with our fathers on certain things. Although with this statement, it seems to be more about narrowing the scope, rather than flat out rejection. It is clear that any attempt to take socialism to its extreme has ended in disaster. The economy stagnated and living conditions (for the lower classes at least) plummeting to deplorable levels.

    My issue lies with the sweeping use of the word socialism. Socialism and communism are not one and the same. I do not intend to split hairs, so I will simply provide the way I intend to use the terms:

    Socialism: The state uses taxes it collects from citizens for programs and initiatives designed to improve the livelihoods of citizens and society at large alongside its spending on infrastructure and defence. Given that citizens are taxed according to their income, the rich will inevitably pay more tax. A portion of that money will go into services for the lower classes. Services the rich do not require and may feel disgruntled at having to pay for.

    Communism: The state seizes control of all property and sources of income. They run the industries, infrastructure, agriculture, military etc. There is no private ownership; not of property or business. The government operates as a central planning hub overseeing all production and distribution via specific departments. Now the all-wise government can ensure that everyone gets a fair share of all goods and services provided by the workers.

    Thus, we have eliminated the captains of industry and replaced them with politicians. Apparently, this will result in the eradication of greed, hubris and the lust for power in the human species.

    I am yet to find a good explanation why, but communism has thus far always been totalitarian as well. This does not seem compulsory for communism, in theory at least. Correct me if I’m wrong, but I am certain there has never been a totalitarian regime that ended up producing a successful economy, and although the IN group may have thrived, the OUT group got properly fucked. Not a very fruitful or egalitarian system.

    Without a genuine example of communism minus totalitarianism, we can never be 100% sure it would fail. A democratic form of communism has yet to be attempted, which intrigues me. Although to be honest I would not feel confident being part of the nation introducing it.

    Be that as it may, at present, all endeavours to bring Marx and Engels’ theories into practice have been dismal failures resulting in misery for the masses. Interestingly, China appears to have grown quite powerful using a different hybrid. They appear to have softened their rigid communist stance, adopting a combination of capitalism and socialism; while still holding fast to their totalitarian regime. Only time will tell how that turns out.

    Back to the opening statement. Socialism runs along a large spectrum and communism, especially the totalitarian type, sits at one extreme. I am sure that Mr Sowell knows this and I am by no means a scholar on his extensive writings, so I can only relate to what I have seen or read myself. Please correct me if I have misinterpreted something or taken it out of context.

    Looking at this statement on face value I reckon our main point of contention derives from our nationalities. I am an Australian and have been provided with Medicare since I was a kid. I have no memory of life without it. For an American like Thomas Sowell, such a system seems to be a frivolous waste of taxpayer’s hard-earned money. Though both stemming from the same homeland, our governments have quite different policies regarding government assistance/interference. I used those terms deliberately.

    Leaving a critique of the variations between our economic ideologies aside, I will just say that to bundle all forms of socialism, or social welfare, into the doomed doctrine of communism is a very USAish thing to do.

    I accept that capitalism has provided one of the best economic systems so far, yet it is far from ideal and seen in numerous versions around the world. This coupled with the various forms of government/democracy provides such a mish mash of combinations that a one-to-one comparison between countries is impossible.

    “Many forms of Government have been tried and will be tried in this world of sin and woe. No one pretends that democracy is perfect or all-wise. Indeed, it has been said that democracy is the worst form of Government except for all those other forms that have been tried from time to time.…”

    Winston S Churchill, 11 November 1947

    A riff on this is often used to describe capitalism:

    “To paraphrase Winston Churchill, capitalism is the worst economic system except for all the other forms”

    Original Unknown

    Socialism is not a total rejection of capitalism; it is an attempt to reel in the avarice of the upper class. It seems to be failing miserably at present as we see the rise of corporate power and influence, so this argument might be redundant. The goal of socialism as I see it is to utilize legislation to ensure that the trickle-down economy idea receives more than just lip service from the elite. A noble initiative indeed, even if it is naïve.

    “Since this is an era when many people are concerned about ‘fairness’ and ‘social justice,’ what is your ‘fair share’ of what someone else has worked for?”

    Tough Love Thomas

    Another wake-up slap from the pragmatic one. Who gets to decide how much gets redistributed from the rich and who gets what? Not to mention the amount of funds that will be exhausted paying eggheads for their theories and all the administrative staff required to run and keep track of all this. That’s all before you factor in theories that fail in reality, ala communism, and the host of charlatans lining up to offer their bogus services to get their hands on that sweet government funding. Probably need to hire more people to police the potential scammers too.

    “The fact that the market is not doing what we wish it would do is no reason to automatically assume that the government would do better.”

    Another solid jab from Pull Your Socks up Sowell!

    This one reminded me of an Aussie tycoon’s famous rebuttal to a parliamentary committee:

    “I am not evading tax in any way, shape or form. Now of course I am minimising my tax and if anybody in this country doesn’t minimise their tax they want their heads read because as a government I can tell you you’re not spending it that well that we should be donating extra.”

    Kerry Packer

    His premise is simple: politicians and bureaucrats do not have a great record when it comes to using our tax dollars wisely. To assume they would do any better with more money is a foolish idea. The government as Robin Hood is a wonderful fantasy. Trouble is that it is full of human beings, just as susceptible to deception and greed as anyone else. Gullibility and/or corruption is a constant threat. Not to mention outright stupid decisions, regardless of the intentions behind them.

    All this is true. However, does that mean we simply keep the status quo Mr Sowell? It is abundantly clear that the corporations and super-rich have no intention of sharing the wealth. To rely on nothing but philanthropic assistance is just as foolish. Expecting people who covet wealth to willingly share it with the faceless masses is pie in the sky stupidity.

    Therein lies one of the most contested conundrums facing populations the world over. One cannot amass such a ludicrous amount of wealth without exploitation of workers and/or skirting rules, regulations and tax obligations.

    This looks like becoming an ongoing thread for a while. I would like to look at this issue using some of Thomas Sowell’s brilliant quotes and then dissecting them from an Aussie fair go point of view. Maybe there’s some gold in there somewhere.

  • CORPORATE CONFUSION: Profits at any Cost

    Ever notice that no matter how much technology improves, no matter how massive the yearly profits get, the people at ground level doing the grunt work always remain understaffed and/or under pressure?

    We have more billionaires than ever before, yet the cost of living for the workers is steadily rising.  Apparently, these businesses are raking in record profits, and they simply refuse to allow anything but the bare minimum to trickle down to where the work is being done.

    A choice has been made that profits for the shareholders takes priority over all else – which translates into those huge salaries, bonuses and golden parachutes for the executives of course.

    The workers that perform the tasks that produce the wealth are treated as just another cost. The customers? They must be appeased – just try not to waste too much money on it. “Waste” = anything that detracts from shareholder equity and is a nuisance that needs to be dealt with.

    The profits keep rising. Technological innovations keep improving efficiency. You’d think that for the workers, this would result in better working conditions all round. You poor simple fools. Where do you think the money is coming from to create all these fucking billionaires? If they shared the wealth, they might only end up being pathetic multi-millionaires, and that is unacceptable!

    Sure, all that extra capital would greatly improve the livelihoods of the employees. Trouble is that “livelihoods of the employees” is hardly an investment, is it? Those ungrateful bastards would just waste it and come back asking for more. The insulting irony is hard to ignore: the mega-rich with their ostentatious excesses see no hypocrisy in their insistence on frugality for the plebs.

    Okay, what about workloads? If technological advances allow a team to complete a task faster, why not allow the workers to benefit from the assistance? No sooner has a new system proven that it improves efficiency, has the team lost a member. Meaning, as soon as management notices any consistent down time they are compelled to redirect any excess resources to another task.

    Wow! That sounds close to corporate jargon. This is mostly a corporate issue remember. A boss that owns the business outright may or may not be a tight-ass slave driver; that’s their prerogative. A business that is beholden to shareholders is obligated to extract the maximum profit from the operation. A highly effective way of reinforcing this aim is to keep costs at a minimum – i.e. be a tight-ass slave driver.

    If they do not require an increase in output and can do the same job with less labour, I’m sure you can figure out what happens next. It’s very difficult to find shareholders who are happy to receive lower dividends for the warm fuzzy feeling of knowing that the workers are being paid more than they’re worth. I’ll resist going down the fair wage rabbit hole and stay on track.

    What about safety? I’m sure I’ve covered this in an earlier post. Accidents, injuries, death and environmental incidents are bad for business, surely. They are also impossible to eliminate completely. Therefore, you end up with an extremely callous gamble between cost and risk. I suppose you would also throw possibilities of fines and compensation payouts into that equation too; plus, the potential sums of money lost and cost of legal representation – they’ve got people for that.

    Let’s just say that the shareholders are fine with cutting health and safety budgets if it improves the bottom line. It’s a gamble, but you know what they say, “the bigger the risk, the bigger the reward.”

    I hope this helps flesh out the point I am aiming for: the rise in billionaires coincides with all the ruthless cost cutting crushing the worker ants who keep the corporations chugging along.

    So, was all that talk about automation freeing up the workers and providing more time for life and family a lie? Who knows? It makes no difference now. The people with the power have tasted ludicrous luxury and obscene opulence and they fucking love it! Or they always knew they weren’t going to share the spoils. Probably a bit of both; either way the workers are fucked!

    Thus, we have this perverse game of workforce Jenga. When they cannot justify increasing the price of their goods or services and have reached the threshold of market share, it’s time to start taking from the bottom.

    Cost cutting, downsizing, streamlining, trimming the fat; call it what you like. The reduction will affect the day to day working life of the people at the bottom of the pyramid. You cannot expect the executives to give up their bonuses and perks!

    “Business class! How dare you! First class all the way asshole! Look at all the profits I’m making!”

    All this hoarding of profits and we are only looking at one arm of the avarice apparatus. The one that at least produces something of worth for the population. Something tangible like food, medicine, appliances etc. or essential services such as transport and infrastructure. Even frivolous stuff like toys, sweets and entertainment. The business produces wealth by selling something to the masses – good or bad.

    The more sinister side of wealth generation operates outside the dimension of coherent supply and demand. The people who play with the profits. The alchemists of capital creation. The money “experts”. These sorcerers are a whole other species. More on them in the future.

  • SHIFTY BUSINESS AND SHADY TYPES: What the Fuck is Pot?

    My mother kicked my father out when I was around 8 years old. There wasn’t much in the way of an explanation. I don’t really have any memories of him living with us. I remember a few slanging matches between them and that’s about all. I’ll go into that stuff another time. For now, just remember the separation.

    I have such a vivid recollection of the day I met Chris. Me and my mate Fong were hanging out in the playground. I reckon it would have been around year 2 in primary school. I think we’re in the early 1980s here. It was Fong who spotted the pushing match. He pointed over to Goran and a new kid partaking in the obligatory shoving competition that precedes a fight.

    Fong said, “Look, that kids fighting with Goran!”

    In our tiny world, Goran had proven to be a tough kid, and for this new kid to be wrestling in the dirt with him was most impressive. It didn’t last long before a teacher picked them both up by the collar and sent them off in different directions.

    “Let’s go talk to him” was Fong’s pragmatic suggestion.

    That’s all I recall about that. From that day forward Chris was one of my best mates. I was a scrawny awkward kid. Chris was much cooler and the girls all loved him. He stood up for himself, and me sometimes. He wasn’t the best fighter, and he was only average size, but he hated bullies.

    His family moved around a lot and sometimes they would move out bush. We wouldn’t see him for a year or longer. We would send letters to each other now and then; yeah, that’s right – pen, paper, envelope and stamp. Long distance phone calls were expensive man!

    He would randomly appear out of nowhere sometimes from then until my late twenties. Sometimes he was moving back, other times it was just a visit. As a result, we were intermittent observers of each other’s development from childhood to manhood.

    As kids I was the nerd and clown with a vibrant imagination. He was the sporty and rebellious larrikin. We got on like a house on fire. Along with our other friends we got up to the usual foolish juvenile shenanigans:

    Stupid dares: Climb this, jump off that.

    Vandalism: Damaging stuff simply because you’re not supposed to.

    Trespassing: Exploring construction sites, factories, schools etc.

    Petty theft: Usually stuff like ice creams, soft drinks, lollies and bubble gum.

    And various combinations of these.

    I can think of two times Chris went that little bit further:

    1. We were wandering around a department store in the city. Chris sees a pair of sneakers he likes and ever so casually removes his cruddy old ones, puts on the new ones and walks out.
    2. Chris, Jim and I were roaming around the tip (a common past time from my youth) and we came across a large hole in a fence. We went through and discovered we were in the rear of the Penfolds wine warehouse. Pallets and trucks loaded with cases of wine and spirits standing before us. There weren’t a lot of workers walking around, so Chris orchestrates an impromptu heist, and we end up walking home with a few bottles of brandy.

    What the fuck is brandy? And what the fuck are we going to do with it?

    We took a few sips, and it tasted horrible. Chris ends up giving the unopened bottles to Jim’s mother with some bullshit story about it being from his mother. Jim’s mum’s English wasn’t very good and she seemed pleased, so I guess that went well.

    He kept sipping away at the open bottle as we walked to where our paths split. We were barely 12 and this kid’s sipping on brandy like its lemonade. God, it tasted putrid!

    It wasn’t until we were much older that Chris told me about a different burglary he pulled when we were kids. My mate Wayne’s next-door neighbour had a long shed running along their fenceline. We would often have to jump the fence to get the ball back during a game. We noticed the padlock on the door, that was about all.

    One drunken evening in our twenties, Dean tells us how he figured out it was a hydroponic marijuana set up. He broke in and pinched some. At that age!

    What the fuck is marijuana? What the fuck is hydroponics?

    That wasn’t the best pot yarn though. He tells another one about how I used to annoy his mother whenever I stayed over. She said I was a really nervous kid, hanging off doors and fidgeting all the time. Apparently, she used to put marijuana in my food to settle me down. No wonder I felt so relaxed over there.

    There’s a few more Chris tales I’ll save for later. For now, I would like to return to my mother turfing my father out. I wouldn’t find out until a few years later, but mum and dad were an opposites attract couple – she was straight and he was crooked.

    I suppose it’s all fun and games until you have kids and want to keep them away from shonks. Dad always had a job, but he just couldn’t resist a good rort. My sister and I just thought that the companies he worked for were really generous. He would always be bringing freebies back in large quantities. More on that another time.

    It turns out that the final straw for my mum was when she found out dad was selling pot. Yeah, that stuff! To my mother, drugs were all the same and dad was just as unscrupulous as a heroin dealer. I still reckon she blurs them altogether now over 40 years later.

    All this pot Chris’s parents obviously had no qualms about exposing him too and that I was oblivious of. I had much to learn.

    Anyway, that’ll do for our first outing in Shonkyville.

  • POTENTIAL DEATH OR SERIOUS INJURY: True Stories #30

    Driving to work down Canal road with Hanson blaring on the radio; the lyrics of “MMM Bop” ringing through my head. I turned into the S bend like I had done dozens of times doing this drive every morning; why should today be any different?

    What happens next is still a blur to this day. I will tell it like I remember it:

    I make the left turn into the S bend. In the rear vision mirror I see a car behind me swerving sharply (maybe even slide) into my lane. He’s gunna hit me! I turn my head to get a better look and say out loud “what the fuu!”

    Next, I see shattered glass flying at my face… then black.

    I awake and am aware of someone leaning in through the driver’s side window. I am still in my seat, but I am very dazed and confused, staring straight ahead through my shattered windscreen into nothingness. The person is talking but I do not understand what they are saying… then black

    Now I am seated in the passenger seat with my legs out of the door. My feet are on the median strip. I realise pretty quickly that my car is on the wrong side of that median strip. Someone is asking if I am ok. I say that I am good. I can see lots of blood, but I do not register whose blood it is. I look around and see I am sitting in a battered mess of a car, but I do not know whose car it is. The car is facing the wrong way on the wrong side of the road. Shattered glass is everywhere.

    They ask if I know what day it is. I look down and see I am wearing my work shirt. “A week day” I answer. They ask me the month and the year and I get these ones correct after a little time. I assume the person talking was a paramedic, but I cannot be certain.

    I see my cousin running across the road from the bus stop; he has just jumped off the bus we catch when we don’t have cars.

    Next, he is right beside me. He asks, “what are you doing on the wrong side of the road?” “I don’t know” I answer. “Are you drunk?” he asks. “Shit I hope not!” I reply. My mind starts reeling at the thought of all the trouble I will be in if I am over the limit. I truly have no idea at this point.

    My next memory is being asked if I can walk. “Sure I can” is my reply. I get to my feet and try to walk. My ankle gives out and I topple, being grabbed by someone and seated back down. That’s about al l I can remember from the crash site.

    My next memory is of being in the hospital lying on a gurney and the ER people asking a lot of questions and prodding and poking me; shining lights in my eyes.

    Finally, I am in a bed somewhere in the hospital. I really have no idea where. A big bloke wearing a neck brace and a sling on one arm walks over to me and asks if I am alright. I say I am very groggy, but I think I will be fine. “That bloke just smashed right into you” he tells me. I still have no idea what actually happened to have me end up here.

    I think the police arrived at this point and separated us. I remember them telling me they need to get everyone’s story separately and that we shouldn’t be allowed to collude or something like that. I told them I had no idea of what had happened and that I would need the other people’s help piecing everything together.

    At this stage I know there are three of us involved; me, the big bloke and another young skinny guy who is lurking around the hospital. Thankfully I had no alcohol I my system.

    After this I can’t really remember how it all unfolded; I just remember getting driven home by mum.

    Now I will explain the crash as it was pieced back together:

    As I turned into the S bend the young skinny bloke was turning behind me in the other lane. Somehow he lost control and smashed into the rear side of my car. The impact forced me over the median strip into oncoming traffic. I was driving a little Nissan Bluebird that was almost entirely rust. The big bloke was driving towards me in a large, sturdy Ford Falcon with a bull bar for extra impact.

    We collided head on and my car crumpled like a paper cup. It truly was a miracle that I wasn’t killed. The tiny little space left on the driver’s side of that car would only fit my bony 58kg ass in it. Anyone larger would have been crushed; me, I was bounced around and rattled, but there was no serious harm done.

    I sustained a sprained wrist, sprained ankle; some stitches above my left eye and a bunch of broken ribs (thank God for seat belts). I have another blurry memory of someone at the crash site asking if I was wearing a seat belt. I recall looking around at the pulverised wreck and thinking “if I wasn’t I would have flown 100 metres down the road.”

    I eventually had the wreckage towed to my house to save on bills and it sat in my driveway as a memento of the serious harm I somehow escaped. Anyone who saw it felt certain that the driver must have been killed. Some relatives were almost brought to tears at the sight of it. I was one lucky son of a bitch that was for sure.

    Every time I hear that Hanson song I am reminded of the near fatal crash I was involved in. Miracle or fluke, take your pick; but looking at that crumpled mess of a car you must sense that something was watching over me that fateful morning.

  • A DIFFERENT KIND OF REVOLUTION: Rise of the Tycoons #25

    British Agricultural Revolution 1700 – 1801

    Industrial revolution 1760 – 1840

    American Revolution 1765 – 1789

    French Revolution 1789 – 1799

    This was going to be a post about the industrial revolutions, of which it seems we are into number 3 or 4 at present. I got to thinking about the other revolutions I had been writing about recently and decided to check how the dates matched up – fucking fascinating to say the least.

    The Americans and French were fighting against the aristocracy, with its spoiled upper class being born into power and wealth, while the peasants toiled to maintain this unjustified status quo. All the while the leaders of industry were getting set to hit the hyper-drive button on their production potential. Thus, lining themselves up to become the new super-rich – fuck me!!!

    Before the advances of machines, water and steam power, most man-made items were produced by hand, which placed a frustrating limit on the amount a factory could turn out. A mechanised factory could pump out more for less, meaning the investment in machinery and other technology paid itself off and produced massive profits, which could be used for more machines and more profit.

    Where to find the workers? Well, it just so happens there was another important revolution going on before the industrial one. The British Agricultural Revolution fuelled by prolific innovations in machinery and methods resulted in the country’s farming output surging. This technology would soon spread through the western world.

    As I mentioned many posts ago, more food usually results in more people. Those extra people can now be exploited – ahem – employed by the factories springing up all over the cities. Those people don’t even have to be fully grown people either. Little people with little limbs can be useful too.

    They just needed bodies: bodies to feed the machines, bodies to keep the machines running and bodies to ship the merchandise. These factories had an insatiable appetite for arms and legs – quite literally in one horrific sense.

    At the same time, improved farming efficiency meant that less workers were required on the farms. Farmers probably got a few easy years with some nice bonuses, but the money grubbers would soon funnel any extra revenue exclusively in their own direction. So, the agricultural moguls get richer and the farmers get fired. Cue the mass migration to the cities.

    Desperate peasants flooded the cities looking for work, and the factories welcomed them with open arms. The new workforce was in for one of the most significant upheavals of daily life the west had ever seen. From working in tune with nature; the seasons, the sunrise and sunsets. Periods of feverish work, followed by downtime as nature took its course – to working to a clock, a never-ending slog of monotonous work churning out endless amounts of stuff. Stuff someone else made profit on, in return for a pittance.

    The machines could run non-stop and needed to do so for maximum profit. That combined with gas lighting meant that workers could continue their drudgery 24 hours a day – in shifts of course (I hope). The machines also provided plenty of work for women and children by mechanising many tasks that previously required shear strength; but don’t worry, it was still back breaking work – no ergonomics or occupational health and safety here old mate.

    The cities couldn’t cope with the population explosion, and the workers were forced to live in dilapidated, overcrowded, disease-ridden slums. Appalling living conditions and nightmarish working ones meant that the skyrocketing profits were in no way being shared equitably.

    The marvellous mansions on one side of the city – preferably away from all the pollution caused by those filthy factories. A few well-fed people living in opulence with plenty of rooms and gardens. On the shitty side of the city, among the contamination of industrialisation, the human beings that kept that industry going were jam-packed into decrepit deathtraps, nothing more than expendable cogs in the profit-making machine.

    The new monied were getting richer and the peasants were in a worse predicament than ever. Trickle down, my ass! Peasants were now slaving for the enrichment of industrialists instead of aristocrats. Oh, they were free in the legal sense, yet the circumstances they were in were just as abhorrent, or possibly worse, than serfs.

    A decent lord would at least provide adequate accommodation and food. In the city everyone got paid lousy wages, lived in squalor and barely had enough to eat. For this privilege they worked like dogs, risking death and dismemberment with precious little hope of improvement, while the owners’ profits and power grew and grew.

    These rich pricks would soon be the new ruling class. When the embittered workers and peasants had finally had enough and violently turned on the noble class, many of these industrialists must have slipped the net.

    “We’re not aristocracy! We’re just businessmen”. What a tragedy of errors.

    This is mere conjecture on my part, and I am unclear on how it all unfolded, but I have a sickening suspicion that while the royals and gentry were being beheaded, hung, imprisoned or exiled, many of these industrialist weasels hid in the shadows.

    When the smoke cleared and the blood was washed away, they continued to make stuff with their machines and sweatshop labour conditions. The lower classes could have all the democracy they liked. In the end, money still talked and it would be a saintly/staunch politician, commissioner or law enforcement officer who turns down the spoils of corruption; and probably an ostracised one too.

    I’m sure I’ve oversimplified this, but I am only just thinking of it right now. The concept of the revolutionaries eliminating one cruel and greedy ruling class, yet remaining oblivious, and even being employed by the very bastards who would be their new parasitic masters only occurred to me while writing this.

    It would be around 50 years later when the Communist Manifesto attempted to understand the evils of this capitalist system and imagine a solution. Nearly 70 years later after a brutal revolution, Russia would pioneer this new system and discover its flaws way too late..

  • MUSINGS ON THE JOB ABOUT THE JOB: Someone Else and Other Workplace Enigmas

    Often following close on the heels of “not my fucken job” is the palm off to “someone else”. For example:

    Foreman – “Those tins of tomatoes need to be sorted and shelved”

    Ted – “What are you telling me for?”

    Awkward pause

    Foreman – “Would you please do it”

    Ted – “I’m doing frozen food”

    Foreman – “Not right now though”

    Ted – “This is bullshit! That’s not my job mate!”

    Foreman – “Whose job is it?”

    And therein slides the allusion to our mysterious picker upper of slack. I have never met this someone else, but I hope they are getting paid well; they must be exhausted. Are they even on the payroll? I mean we never see them. Are they mythical beings who take pleasure from tying up loose ends for tired workers.

    These industrious creatures are the invisible heroes of the working class. Their compassion, like their energy, knows no bounds. The joy they experience helping the overworked and underpaid is all they require. Sadly, their devotion is so true that they are blind to the abuse of their service that happens every day in one workplace or another.

    In every work environment there are those tasks that fall between the cracks of designated responsibilities. If you are fortunate enough to be in a properly functioning team this will not be an issue. The nearest person will take care the unexpected chore knowing that whoever was there would have done the same.

    People cover for one another and offer assistance confident that their efforts will be appreciated and reciprocated if needed. This kind of esprit de corps is more effective than any praise a leader may bestow; although that would certainly add to the motivation.

    Shit! That fantasy workplace is more unbelievable than the mystical someone else fairies! Only the gullible Company Carrier would add extra duties to their already overflowing workload. They may or may not be thanked by their supervisor, but that is about as helpful as a screen door on a submarine.

    “Keep up the good work” is a very unsubtle code for “keep picking up the slack so I don’t have to try and get the others to lift their game”.

    The reason for this circle shirk is simple – trust; or lack of it to be precise. Almost all work teams have underperformers and downright bludgers. After being left holding the bag one too many times most of the decent team members get sick of being fooled and join the game.

    If the task in question genuinely sits in no man’s land between staff, it will swiftly be delegated to ‘someone else’. If it is clearly another workers responsibility and the one being asked is certain their assistance will not be returned in any way, they have two viable options other than quitting or telling the boss to “fuck off!”, which is tantamount to a resignation in most cases. They can:

    1. Snitch and risk giving the shirker ammo to use against them.
    2. Insist that this particular task is the obligation of ‘someone else’.

    If in the rare event management decides to call a meeting to clarify job descriptions, they will likely be walking into a room full of fascist tyrants. The borders are set and any attempt to cross them will be met with fierce opposition. Any discussion around duties that sit on the dividing lines will be met with full John McEnroe energy or a heated debate about what on the line constitutes.

    “Okay for Tennis it is in, but in footy it is out mate!”

    “In football it is in!’

    “Footy mate, Rugby league, not bloody soccer!”

    “It’s the same in Rugby union”

    “The same as what?”

    “Ah guys, we’re talking about general housekeeping in the factory.”

    In this sense ‘someone else’ represents “I’m not doing someone else’s job” or “why should I be the one to fix that fuck-up?” The next level is where the imperceptible fixers are called upon for a task that is clearly in the summoners’ list of duties.

    The disgruntled grunts too often invoke the altruistic services of the ‘unseeable cleaner upperers of things left undone’ with false intentions. These slackers call on the helpful munchkins for tasks they themselves should be performing. A most grievous betrayal.

    This might explain the existence of the impish variation of the someone else species. The ones who perpetrate fuckups. These mischievous pixies love to instigate discord by stealthily causing spills, breakages, missing items and all manner of unexplainable mistakes and/or accidents. Having noticed the unscrupulous exploitation of their kindness, some ‘someone elses’ lean into their inner leprechaun and decide to have a little fun.

    I think I’ve confused myself with this metaphor now.

    Many employees would prefer not to take responsibility for their errors. If they are confident nobody saw their balls-up, they will often spout the catchphrase that gave Bart Simpson his 5 seconds of fame – “I didn’t do it”.

    In a busy environment with lots of people coming and going, this ploy just might work. If nobody was injured and the damage/loss doesn’t cost someone their job or shut the place down, no harm no foul I suppose. However, if for any reason you are caught out you may just wish you had owned up.

    That backfire is on you. The more serious ethical line gets crossed when your victimless lie is blamed on someone else. If you harbour ill will towards the patsy, I guess you may just jump for joy. Ditto if you are a selfish asshole with no conscience; as long as it sits at someone else’s feet your misdeed cannot darken your door – you swine!

    Just remember, those playful sprites can become goblins if insulted. It can be a fine line between naughty and nasty. Be careful while pushing your luck.