Friday, 8 October 2010

three small words

when you see a banker out on the street, on public transport or self-destructing in, nine times out of ten you probably don't know you've seen one. there are tell-tale signs, oh yes. they'll probably be in an unjustifiably expensive suit and tie. they'll be talking loudly so everyone knows they make a lot of money. they'll probably try and flirt with you despite you and all your friends clearly displaying aggressive disinterest and pointing out the wedding ring on their dangerously rapey finger. that sort of thing.

the one thing that you might've thought would be a dead giveaway, probably isn't. if you see someone out and about wearing the Uniform of a bank, they probably aren't to blame for the shit that leaves your purse half empty every day. if they're in a uniform they are most likely a receptionist. or a branch worker. or a cleaner. or an.... audio visual technician at head office. hello.

hyper rich investment bankers have earned the human right to wear their own clothes to work. we peasants, however, have to bear the constant embarrassment of a cheap, airless polyester suit with a shirt/tie combo that makes a Jeremy Kyle guest look tasteful and interesting.

yeah, if you see someone in a bank uniform, before you make a snap judgement as to whether they're a world-fucker, check their eyes. more than likely you'll see the infinite sadness of someone who goes to work every morning only to be moaned at by some over-rich over-fed over-confident asshole, because the asshole doesn't know how to use the room booking software properly. or how to shit inside the toilet bowl. or what button to press on their computer to make the letter 'A' appear. the uniformed are so marked against their accord; like 'thief' branded on the forehead of a petty medieval criminal. and they probably earn less than you.

those in uniforms are no more to blame for your mortgage troubles than an IT network technician at Sony Records HQ is responsible for the crushing inner torment you go through when you're strapped down and forced to listen to a lady gaga song. they probably hate their job and the idiots they work for as much as you hate everything their plastic bell-boy costume stands for.

except phones4u sales staff. those guys are prominently wankers.

look for those dead eyes. chances are they've the constant anguish of their soul dribbling out, memory by memory, every hour they're at work. any remaining sense of self pumped out of their ear by the air-sterilising unit conveniently positioned next to their head. if it's near the end of the day give them a cuddle. it is very likely they've spent the day with accountants and crave some form of human interaction.

it can have an excessive effect, that torment. for example; this morning I went to do my daily AV checks in the VIP suites (meeting rooms reserved for the very wealthy clients, because in the bank world if you're richer you're a more deserving human). as I walked past the receptionist her eyes focused on somewhere nearby my left ear and, as a sorrowful tear fell from her lifeless glance, she said to me without punctuation, "morning did you have a nice weekend" ...

it is friday today.

even the basic ability to make small talk totally failed. she couldn't make sense of the week. time had become even more abstract than the concept of time already is. I wanted to rest my hand on her shoulder and tell her it's okay, she's not going through this on her own, but there's probably some corporate-branded document somewhere that tells us basic personal contact is automatically regarded as sexual harassment by robotic soul police. she'll have to wait until she's out of the confines of our work facility before she gets respite from her vicious circle. sad.

come on people of the outside world, give us a hug. we need it.
look at this blog again. that's not the writing of a mentally healthy person.

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