It's a Tuesday morning and a new boss has started (the old having taken 'early retirement'). The office periscopes are up to see what the new one is going to be like. I bide my time, knowing that he's bound to show his face sooner or later.
There are a few potential types that seem likely - the 'hide-in-the-office-and-annoy-nobody' type, the 'tell-me-what-you-REALLY, HONESTLY think' huggy-feely type and, worst of all, the Banana Democracy Dictator type.
Hide-in-the-office appears to be on the cards as he hasn't shown his face to the troops yet...
A large box arrives in the office with my name on it.
I'm not expecting anything - except perhaps the small cheque from the management placement agency that I get whenever they supply us a new boss (about three times a year).
A quick recce of the box and its packing slip shows that it's about a company's-worth of client software for a database we don't have. Seconds later the courier arrives with another box, which I divine to be the missing server portion. Uh-oh.
Having not ordered it, I efficiently return it to sender.
Its origin becomes apparent when the new boss bowls up with instructions on how, where and when to install it.
"Oh, I sent that back because I hadn't ordered it," I cry.
"Ah yes. Well, I ordered it yesterday," he chips in quickly, "and I'll be ordering all hardware and software from now on."
BANANA DICTATOR ALERT!
"I see. And what was the software to be used for again?"
"I'm going to get our financial systems moved to alternative software that's far easier to learn and administer." (He's got a mate who works at a small financial systems company that he's letting get a foot in our company). I don't like it.
"I don't see how that would be an advantage given that all our current staff know the software we're using."
"Ah, but this is ISO98000 certified," he enthuses.
"98000?" the PFY cries. "But we're were only up to 9000."
"Well 98000 was a combination of ISO9000 certification and the lesser-known 8000 - which dealt with secure financial transactions," he burbles. "Now make sure this stuff gets uploaded for installation double time."
I smell a grey furry animal with a liking for food scraps.
Just to be sure, I run a quick scan of ISO titles. After having been woken for the third time (ISO stuff is notorious for its insomnia-curing ability), my suspicions are proved correct.
Then I start wondering...that voice is strangely familiar.
I examine the software in more detail. Inside the flashy CD covers are swags of hand-labelled write-once media. Curiouser and curiouser. And, the Web link to the site is a dead-end page with "Site being revamped" on it.
Hmmm... I decide to confront the boss.
"Yes, yes, they're a global company with blue-chip clients so they don't have enough time to install SSL-secured Web pages with Java-enhanced search algorithms," he responds.
Good answer. The sort of response you'd expect from a b...
"My machine's having problems," I mention to him in passing. "I think the floppy drive needs cleaning."
"Really?" he says. "It's probably...um...transient hysterisis loops in the head media."
"You're sure?" I ask, my suspicions confirmed.
"Positive. And you'll need to clear the hysterisis with a resonant magnetic distortion rectifier. Do you have one?"
"No."
"Well, I suppose you could use a hammer and a screwdriver at a pinch," he mutters. "You just slip the screwdriver into the drive until you feel a slight resistance..."
"...And bash the living crap out of it until you're down to the handle?" I ask.
"W-Yes, how do you know?"
"You're a bastard," I reply.
"No I'm not!"
"Yes you are. And you're unregistered..."
"No I'm not - I'm a MMBMFH," he says smugly. A Member of the Masonic Bastard Managers From Hell, no less!
"I see. How does it work then?"
"Well, you form a handful of 'manufacturing' companies, produce dodgy code, then get a job as a manager somewhere (using the references obtained from your companies), then buy up your code as the solution to everything at an artificially inflated price, then accept a rapid redundancy (with benefits) when the whole business slides down the toilet."
"Which only leaves me two questions," I say.
"What's in it for you, and when will the bomb drop? Let's see, A couple of grand 'external consultancy fees', and next Wednesday?"
"Next Wednesday?!"
"Yeah, I'm sure there's a virulent virus on the install media."
"I'll get right on to it!" I cry.
Always good to work with a pro.
So the boss has found out that I was using the four-way processor machine to keep my lunch warm, and isn't happy.
I would've got away with it, too, if I hadn't asked for extra brown sauce and it hadn't leaked from the brown paper bag onto the motherboard of the machine.
R&D aren't happy because they were using the machine for stress-loading some Web page software to see how the machines would handle stacks of connections.
I wasn't all that happy myself - not when I found out that the problem was actually caused by the processor's heat output burning a hole in the bag concerned. A definite mark-down of the hardware performance...
So now the boss is on the warpath, attempting to make sure that no other piece of kit is being used 'inappropriately'.
And wouldn't you know it, he manages to stumble - in his inept way - across the hose that connects the cooling inlet of the chunky old mainframes to the computer room's centralised vacuum-cleaning system.
"WHAT THE HELL IS THIS?!" he screams.
"Ah, it's a centralised vacuum-cleaning system."
"What's it connected to this machine for?"
"Well, you know how temperamental processors are with dust and stuff? I just run the vacuum system through it to make sure none collects inside the machine."
"But that's the machine's INLET!" he squeaks.
I decide to come clean. "Remember when I told you the centralised vacuum-cleaning system was packing up?"
"Yes. And?"
"Well, it did. And, by a one-in-a-million chance, the bag burst when I was there, which is when I noticed that the mainframe was an excellent source of suction."
"You're using the mainframe as a vacuum cleaner?!?" he screams again, worst fears realised.
"Well...yeah."
"Are you insane?! What about the fire risk?"
"No worries. We always empty the machine when dust starts coming out of the floppy drive. Besides, the boards are so sparse the processors rarely even get warm!"
"I don't believe this!" he murmurs sadly, shaking his head.
"So I suppose we shouldn't tell you about the air conditioning ducts then," the PFY mentions gently.
"The air conditioning ducts?" the boss cringes, not really wanting to know the full horror that might await his question, but unable to stop himself.
"Well, we're keeping a bit of kit in them - but only the stuff that runs really hot," the PFY concedes.
"I...," the boss mumbles, having a short out-of-mind experience."Why?"
"Well it runs too hot for the computer room, so if we put it in the cooling ducts, it runs OK."
"And what happens in winter, when the air is hotter?"
"Oh, we thought we'd cross that bridge when we drive under it - as Teddy Kennedy would say."
Images of fires spreading through the building take their toll on the boss and he wanders off mumbling.
"Machines in the ducting? A little far-fetched isn't it?" I ask.
"Yeah, well, I was pushed for time. Besides, it was either make something up or tell him about us using the financial archive tapes for streamers at last year's Christmas party."
A gasp from the doorway indicates that the boss had returned to the land of the sentient. A quick glance at his face tells me he's going to take the harsh approach to solving this.
"Of course, I blame the management," I cry.
"Me too," the PFY comments, following the Bastard Book of Bludges: "Pass all criticism/responsibility up."
"Yes, I wouldn't like to be in management when the auditors find out we've destroyed our old financial records."
"Me neither," says the PFY. "It might look like the company was trying to hide something from the Inland Revenue."
"Haven't they got an anonymous tip-off line?" I ask.
"You don't scare me!" the boss cries. "I can't be held liable for anything that my predecessors should have known."
"Of course you can't!" I agree. "No, it'll be us for the high jump - followed a few days later by the collapse of the company's core computing because of ignorance on the part of the remaining IT staff. I'd hate to be the manager of that little mess."
"Well, it's the head of IT's fault for not paying more attention, then!" the boss cries.
"Yes," the PFY comments dryly. "I'm sure he's going to take the fall and not just palm the blame onto a subordinate."
"I'll just get my resignation done then," the boss sighs as he stumbles off, a broken man.
"Oh, and can you turn over the chicken and mushroom pie on the applications server for me?" the PFY calls. "I don't like them too crispy..."
"Let's see, under hobbies, he's got philately..." the PFY reads.
"...coin collecting, and, hey, trainspotting. And he's previously worked in...a university and a...bank."
"I see. And does it mention his film career?"
"His film career?"
"Yes, he obviously starred in A Life More Ordinary."
"Mmmm?" the personnel droid mumbles.
"Nothing. Next please," I cry.
"Righto!" the PFY responds, shoving the CV into the shredder. "Next is a...guy from Leeds, whose hobbies are lard sandwich making and chicken worrying and whose musical taste runs to the Bavarian Burping Choir."
"I somehow doubt that your remarks are founded in fact," the droid comments witheringly.
"No," the PFY agrees. "It's actually lard and chip butties.
"That means he's upper-class Leeds."
"My WIFE's from Leeds!" the droid snaps nastily.
"Really," I cry, unable to stop myself, "What position did she play?
"WHAT!?"
"Rugby! You know, only rugby players come from Leeds."
"I think you hit a nerve there," the PFY says after the droid storms out, slightly upset.
Quicker than you can say "fail over to the back-up", we have a replacement droid - the heavy-duty model they usually only send to tell you they'll be happy to accept your resignation.
"Right, let's have a look at these applicants then," he says. picking up the next one. "Let's see, 15 years in IT, management experience, Microsoft certification, several courses in network and systems management..."
"Sounds too technical to me," I mutter.
"How can a manager be TOO technical?!" he asks.
"If they're too technical, they end up interfering."
"I hardly think that's an excuse to..."
"...then they spend all their time repairing the balls-ups they caused, and NONE of their time preparing those full colour 3D graphs on disk usage, cost benefits etc, which Upper Management gets all gooey over. So senior management start wondering who the HELL appointed this incompetent drone in the first place."
"Hmmm. You have a point," the HR-droid says, recognising a threat to job security. "What do you suggest?"
"NEXT!" I cry, shoving the CV into the bin-based encryption device. "I'm sure there's SOMEONE with the right skills."
"OK," the PFY cries, holding up a photo. "Next is THIS gent."
"I SAY!" I blurt, unable to restrain myself. "LOOK AT THOSE SLACKS! What colour is that, do you think? Dusky pink or rampant purple?"
"Looks rampant to me," the PFY says. "A left-handed golfer...?"
"You mean gay?" the HR-droid says. "What the hell does it matter if..."
"Well, it doesn't matter to us, but you know how homophobic our CEO is."
"I can't believe..." he responds, wondering which decade he's in - but then folding - "...I suppose you're right."
"That was a bit dodgy, wasn't it?" the PFY asks later.
"Dodgy isn't the word. For a start, I coloured-in his outfit."
"You bastard!"
"And secondly, he's a mate of the CEO. I can't wait to mention that HR didn't want him because they thought he was gay."
The rest of the day progresses in a similar way, with us rejecting a stack of applicants including anyone who's attended more than one Microsoft training course (might be brainwashed), a bloke who drives a Lada (low expectations), and lastly (I'm proud of this one) a man who lives in Balham (the boredom factor).
"All set for tomorrow?" I ask the PFY at the end of the day.
"Yeah, I've managed to bash out seven CVs that look good enough to pass muster."
"Did you slip them into the 'in' tray at HR?
"Yeah, under your stack - was the self-confessed glue-sniffer one of yours?"
"Yep - I thought we'd be really positive about him so that it doesn't look like we're always vetoing people."
It's funny how, with a little effort, your outlook on your position can change.
So after our stringent CV cull for a new boss we shortlist some potential bosses, one of whom doesn't in fact exist outside our fertile (or is that furtive?) imaginations...
Still, that leaves us with three possibles that the HR hardliner has lined up for interview.
First out of the pan and into the fire is an ex-technical manager whose 'technical' ability extends, with effort, to recognising which way up his Tube pass goes.
We meet in an interview room in the Huggy Feely department and listen to the HR droid rabbit on about what the company does, how widespread it is, what it's worth...
The interviewee's eyes glaze over (after all, he hasn't got a cut-down shoot-em-up game loaded onto his personal disorganiser with which to play the PFY).
Noticing the sudden absence of monotone, I look up to find the HR droid staring at me expectantly.
"Hmmm," I say, feigning deep thought, "just one question - if you were appointed, where would you see your role in the purchasing of technology for use in the company?"
"Good question," he answers, almost succeeding in not sounding condescending. "I would obviously have a great deal to do with the analysis, installation and testing of new equipment. I know how you technical people like to remain focused on the job at hand -- sorting out user problems and that sort of thing - so I'd probably get my hands dirty on the technical side, leaving you free to pursue your helpdesk calls and user enquiries."
"I see," I comment ambivalently. "Well, that concludes my questions - perhaps you'd like to take a tour of our facilities."
"That would be excellent!" he cries happily, assuming that a guided tour means the job's as good as his.
"Fine," the HR droid responds. "I'm sure Simon's assistant would be more than happy to take care of you."
The PFY nods and leads contestant number one away.
Contestant number two arrives and he's much the same as the first, except probably not as technically competent - if that's humanly possible.
I settle down to listen to some more company history...
"I'M SORRY. I must have drifted off!!" I cry, jerking awake with a start. "I've been putting in some late nights on the...uh...high availability...er...tape racking system."
"Any questions for this candidate?" HR droid asks.
"Just the one," I murmur, repeating the question I asked of number one.
"Well I'd have to have a reasonable amount of input in the selection process - verifying that it's value for money, what the company wants, that sort of thing. Outside of that I suppose it's up to you to determine what the users need."
Close, but no cigar.
"Perhaps you'd like a tour of the facilities," HR droid pre-empts. A nod to the PFY is as good as a wink and he's gone in a second.
The third candidate is cut from the same cloth as the first two. He leaves for his tour as the HR droid turns to the remaining applicant's CV. "I have to admit that this one does look impressive," he says, "but I think that if he's any good we probably need to get him and the first applicant back for a second interview."
"Oh, the first applicant won't be coming back," the PFY says casually.
"And why's that?"
"Well, you asked me to, you know - take care of them..."
"Yes - show them around!"
"Oh! I'm afraid I may have misinterpreted your intentions."
"You haven't tested the halon system with someone in the computer room again have you?"
"Uh..."
"My God!" the HR droid cries. "I can't believe this!"
"Neither can I!" I blurt. "Do you know how much halon costs? And what about the ozone layer?"
The HR droid looks like he's set to explode...which is why it's important not to tell him that the PFY just took the candidates out the back way and told them that we'd be in touch shortly after hell froze over.
"I can't believe you thought I meant..."
"That's what I thought you meant!" I cry.
"But we're a company, not some underworld money laundering operation!"
"But what about when the CEO..." the PFY gasps.
I shake my head quickly (as planned) and the PFY shuts up.
Two days later, the appointment has gone through and there's a code of silence between the three people on the appointments team.
He thinks we won't implicate him, and in return he selects, without interview, the candidate that we wanted... who doesn't really exist.
Well, when I say no boss, I really mean no physical boss. The logical boss device has been installed and configured for use -- /dev/roger for short -- and /dev/rroger for when he tells dirty jokes).
He spent his entire first day "meeting the clients", then called in sick on his second day. I've bought about a week's delay before questions start being asked in earnest -- for example, if anyone's actually seen him about. Meantime, he "telecommutes" regularly with the PFY and me.
"Just got an email from him," I tell the PFY. "Looks like he's OK-ed my junket to the States to investigate some...I dunno. I'll make it up when I get back. Has he sent you any email yet?"
"I'm just working on it," the PFY responds. "Looks like I'll be spending a lot of time checking RJ45 sockets on floor-points around the DP pool. In the interests of connectivity."
"You sick perverted bastard!" I murmur enviously.
Our plans are interrupted by the chief accountant.
"Ah, have you seen Roger?" he asks, looking about.
"He's off sick," the PFY replies.
"On his second day?"
"Yeah, apparently he's caught one of those 48-hour viruses. But he's left his home number in case you need to contact him," I say, passing over a bit of paper with an outer London number scrawled on it.
He takes the paper, mentally weighing up the option of dropping the new boss a line, then wanders off.
"He's bound to ring," the PFY murmurs.
"Don't worry about it. "I'm sure he'll have hours of meaningless conversation with the geek manager persona I've loaded into my PC's voice recog and response program."
"Your what?"
"Voice recog and response -- it's a program to listen and respond sort of like a human. Like a sophisticated version of those old Lisa and Psychiatrist packages."
"He'll smell a rat..."
"Not necessarily. The program's configured to confess that it's been taking a large amount of prescription pills to ward off its illness -- some of which might have an adverse effect on its thought processes"
"So it would be like talking to..."
"...Someone with little or no recall of events; a drunk, a druggie, a software vendor who gave you a cast-iron warranty."
"Hmmmm..." the PFY murmurs, unconvinced.
I make a couple of quick calls to ensure my travel and accommodation is booked, confirmed and non-refundable in case the worst happens. And Roger's just suggested I upgrade to business class so that I'm rested and able to take in all the information presented to me when I get there.
But it was doomed to end. And this time it's at the hands of the head of IT, with only a small amount of notice for us to prepare for it. He didn't take too kindly to the boss's idea of users getting support only when they beat the PFY or me in a Quake II Deathmatch. Well, that and the deluge of purchases from the technical bookstore which previous bosses wouldn't buy just because they cost an arm and a leg.
"RIGHT!" the head of IT cries as he bursts in with an IT budget's-worth of literature invoices, "THIS IS THE END!"
"Yes," I sigh, slipping on a black armband. "It's terrible!"
"Cut down in his prime!" the PFY sniffs sympathetically.
"Why do the good ones always die young?" I wail.
"What the hell are you talking about?" the head snaps.
"Roger...!" I gasp, choking back the tears "...Gone!"
"Cut down in his prime!" the PFY repeats.
"What do you mean?" he asks, looking concerned.
I push over our special edition tabloid front page.
"'Computing Manager hit by Software Delivery Van'.
Oh dear...But this isn't the same paper I got this morning."
Bugger it!
"Ah...this is the new late-commuter edition," I respond, thinking faster than a clock-chipped heatsunk PIII, "with last-minute updates."
He peruses the article looking for some indication that it's not the case, while I make a mental note to throw in a couple of death notices into tomorrow's paper to make it look legit.
"Aren't you supposed to be in a taxi now?" the PFY asks, right on schedule.
"Oh, you're RIGHT! MY COURSE!"
"Your course?" the head of IT asks.
"Yes, yes, I'll be late for the plane -- the PFY will fill you in -- it's what Roger would have wanted!" I gasp.
"No, I think he would have wanted the van to miss him," the PFY mumbles in the distance.
The gentler arts have not escaped him.
I'm sure he'll do well in the next round of interviews.
"Well, I don't know about YOU," the PFY comments smugly, as he returns to the office reasonably late in the afternoon, "but I've done a very profitable day's work!"
"So have I. Look, a prerelease of Quake III in full operational mode, even though my graphics card isn't supported on that platform!"
The sadness of what I have said stops me in my tracks and reminds me of the furry-toothed geeks who tell computing war stories up at the bar at conferences...I make a mental note to book myself in for some electro-convulsive therapy at a progressive club that I have occasion to visit when the mood grabs me.
"Anyway," I resume, "what are you crowing about?"
"I," the PFY chirps, swaggering like Paul Gascoigne exiting a late-night drinker, "have just recabled an entire floor's worth of machine-to-wall socket patch cables."
"Why?" I ask, innocently, already guessing the answer.
"Perhaps..." he responds, pausing for dramatic effect, "...it's because THESE cables aren't anywhere near Cat-5 spec."
He holds out some patch cables that, I have to admit, I DID get for a suspiciously low price many moons ago...
"Very proactive of you," I counter, admitting defeat on this occasion. "Just tell me it wasn't the third floor."
"Why? They're the ones who complained about the network problems in the first place."
Experience, as they say, is the best teacher, even if the tuition fees are rather high at times. He is young, but he will learn.
"Did you replace Maureen's cable?" I ask.
"Of course."
"Maureen, the serial whiner?"
"You're jok..."
The PFY's response is interrupted by the phone.
"That'll be Maureen," I say "You've broken all the programs on her computer."
"No I haven't!"
"£10 says you have."
"You're on," he replies, confidently.
"You've broken all the programs on my computer!" she whines, over hands-free.
I grab the tenner from the PFY, trying not to look smug.
"I only replaced your networking cable," the PFY replies.
"It must have broken my programs," she replies "They were working all right this morning."
"What's not working?" the PFY asks.
"All my programs. The machine won't let me in!"
"Have you got your screensaver password correct?"
"Yes."
"And the CAPS LOCK light isn't on?"
"N...yes. But it's always on!" she lies.
"Try pressing the caps lock key to turn it off, then try again."
"It's not going to work...Oh, the machine's fixed now"
"Now that your CAPS LOCK light is off?"
"Yes, but I gave the wire a wiggle before I tried again. It's probably the wire..."
She rings off and the PFY hangs up, shaking his head.
"Double or quits she rings back within 10 minutes?"
"OK!"
Ten minutes and another £10 later, the PFY is trying to help Maureen understand why the new cable could not have deleted all the files she was working on this morning. Another 10 minutes and £20 after that, the PFY is explaining to Maureen that a new cable can't break her e-mail, and the reason she has no e-mail is because no one's sending her any. The PFY promises to send her a test message.
Five minutes and £40 later the PFY says he's not playing double or quits any more, and is explaining that HE misspelled 'verification', and that it's not the cable introducing spelling mistakes into the network traffic.
"What the hell am I going to do?" the PFY asks, after the new boss comes in (very harassed) to ask what the hell the PFY has done to this woman's machine.
"What is your sin?" I ask.
"NOTHING! I just replaced her cable! If I'd known, I would've avoided her like the plague!"
"She'd have've noticed that everyone else's machines have fewer problems than hers -- now that they have new cables..."
"Well how do we fix her problem?" the PFY pleads.
"We don't," I say, picking up the phone, "We relocate it."
I call the boss back in and tell him that we've just found out that some of the cables were faulty. Being green and keen, he offers to take her up a new one. The poor bastard. Later, as the PFY and I are leaving, we hear the boss helping Maureen through her caps lock login dilemma again...
"I s'pose I owe you a pint then?" the PFY asks.
"MANY pints!"
Experience -- a great teacher, but the tutition fees...
So I'm peering inside a PC at the PFY's request - apparently he's seen something he doesn't like. And if he doesn't like it, it must be in bad shape...
I proceed to check off everything in the diagnostic list. "Hard drive, check; P-II 300, check; 128 Meg Memory, check; 512K L2 Cache, che..."
I pause. What would appear, at first glance, to be an L2 cache module is, in fact, a plastic replica of the real thing. I test this observation by removing it from the running machine. I reboot, and get the same diagnostic report.
"We've been ripped off!" I gasp to the PFY, after noticing the company's inventory sticker on the side of the machine.
"Who'd you get these from?"
"I...," the PFY responds, "...didn't get them from anywhere."
"Well, I didn't order them, we're the only people cleared to purchase computing equip...THE BEANCOUNTERS!"
"You guessed it," the PFY commented. "They ordered the kit themselves because the stuff we buy is 'too expensive' -- they can get these £200 cheaper."
"And a few components shorter..."
"Then they whack an inventory sticker on it and put it in use. Only, these ones don't appear to be working so well..."
"Hangs, crashes, that sort of thing?"
"Uh-huh."
"It's clock chipped, isn't it?" I ask, knowing the answer.
"Yep - and they try to get away with it by running a six-volt cooling fan at about nine volts through a couple of resistors."
"Off the 12-volt line?"
"The 11.7-volt line on this model, yes."
Sigh.
"And, don't tell me, they want us to fix it now?"
The PFY gestures to a pile of machines in the corner.
"Stuff em!" I yell, making an executive decision that's bound to annoy some executives.
"What's all this?" the boss asks, right on time, having been wound up by one of the senior bean counters, who's come for immoral support.
"It's a non-approved computing purchase."
"Approved, non-approved; what's the difference? It needs a service!" he blurts.
"Approved equipment is equipment that we've checked, kit that's passed field and benchmark tests."
"My laptop hasn't passed your tests, and it's running OK!" the head beancounter chips in. "Although the backlight's a bit dim."
I skip the obvious response - fish in a barrel and all that...
"It may well be OK but, unless it's passed our tests, we're not required to service it," I murmur, as the PFY pulls out the IT Departmental Policy Document, indicating the pertinent portion of text. The boss is powerless to counter that one.
Fifteen minutes later, the beancounter's dropped his machine off for testing. Fifteen minutes after that, we've dropped it from ceiling height onto a table.
"Did it leave a mark?" I ask.
"A small one," the PFY notes, looking at the testbench top.
"But you'd better test it again, to be sure..."
Sadly, the owner enters the room shortly thereafter, in time to witness us throwing darts at his machine.
"WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING?"
"Floating point tests," I murmur. "All that's left now is the Spec Int."
"Spec Int?" he asks, gazing at the dented remains of his machine.
"Yes, it's a benchmark rating."
"I KNOW WHAT IT IS!" he shouts.
"Well, we're just about to test it now."
"And HOW are you going to do that?"
"I'm going to see if INTegrates with another SPECies - namely, the dog from next door's building site."
"This is bloody ridiculous! Give me my machine!" he snaps. Which, incidentally, is exactly what the hinge at the back of the unit does as it plummets to the ground.
"IS there a floormark test?" the PFY asks. "That's a new one on me."
Surprisingly enough, the beancounter storms off without responding, destined, it appears, for the head of IT's office.
"OK: large pile of excrement in close proximity to wind movement device. We've got machines to test! Quickly now, pass them up to me, and make sure you note the benchmark each one leaves, and let's be thorough!"
"Quite right" the PFY concurs. "Wouldn't do to be unprofessional, would it?"
Bored, bored, bored. I'm bored. The PFY's on holiday, and there's no-one in the building who's any match for him at Quake II. There's only one thing for it. I'm just going to have to make my own fun.
"They're bloody magic!" the head of security remarks joyfully, in response to my enquiry about our new proximity activated access cards. "The users don't have to ferret around in their wallets for their swipe cards, and we don't have problems with dirty swipe readers -- they're brilliant! And we can track people throughout the building. It's great!"
"And it's helpful to us too," the head of personnel blurts excitedly, "interfacing it to the phone system so that your phone automatically diverts to whichever room you're in at the moment is a godsend!"
"So I take it we're all happy and I should go ahead and pay the invoices from the telecomms and security people?"
The boss considers it for a slight moment, weighing up the trolleyload of brownie points he stands to gain from this decision before casting the deciding vote...
"The tracking WILL be used only by security, won't it?"
"OF COURSE!" I cry -- knowing that the vendor's product is no match for the tracking software we've been using for the last two years.
"There'll be only two viewing stations -- the Head of Security's office and the Ground Floor Security desk."
"In that case, where do I sign?" he asks, smiling.
Smiles break out all round as the boss slaps his OK on the bottom of the fairly modest invoices.
"What does 'TEST SITE' mean exactly?" he asks, slightly concerned at some fine print on the contract.
"It means we get the software at a discounted rate because we agree to notify them of any problems in the product."
"PROBLEMS with the product?" the boss asks warily.
"Yes, you know like we have with ALL the kit -- only this time the vendor WANTS us to tell them about it, and they'll fix them!"
"And they're giving us a DISCOUNT for this?!" he cries, not believing our good fortune. I reassure him, he seems satisfied.
Not wanting to waste any time, I grab the approved invoices and take them up to accounts.
The sad thing about systems like this is that they normally never reach their full potential until someone like me, with time on his hands, thinks outside the square, for the good of all. Well, for a bit of a laugh, anyway.
I wait a couple of tedium-filled days until security has collected the old access cards and decommissioned the swipe readers before putting my plan into action. First, modify the phone system's 'Follow Me' function to call the LAST room you were in, instead of the current one...
Next, vary the proximity on doors so that you have to be right on top of one before it releases.
The stage is set, the characters ready...
I choose the CCTV monitoring the door with the least proximity sense, which happens to be beside the coffee machine, slap a video into the recorder and wait for the boss.
Half an hour of impatience is rewarded when the boss wanders through the door, and makes himself a very hot black coffee. I crank the sensors depth to 0mm and the boss ploughs into the door with his steaming styrofoam.
Beautiful!
I unlock the door to let him out, then phone him as he leaves the room -- he knows it's for him because he's reported the late 'follow me' to me twice already...and ploughs into the door again. I think I might be onto a 'Funniest Video' winner here.
A loud thud announces the boss's arrival at Mission Control along with a faint trickle of red on the glass at around nose height.
I hate myself, I really do.
It's not pretty. The boss is ranting at me, which upsets my concentration so much I overwrite the video I've just made. Bugger!
"AND ANOTHER THING! WHY THE HELL DOES MY PAGER GO OFF EXACTLY 30 SECONDS AFTER I ENTER THE BLOODY LOO!?" he snaps.
"I... it must be a bug," I respond, wondering if security is extracting a portion of urine from the boss as well...
"HAVE YOU NOTED IT?" he asks.
"Well, we usually let the user do that on the bugs noteboard"
"RIGHT! Where's that then?"
My conscience is making noises but, NO! I WANT THAT PRIZE!
"Ah, on the wall beside the coffee machine" I respond, rewinding the videotape"
One thud later he's gone.
Two thuds later, they take him away in a wraparound suit.
And the worst of it is, I'm still bored...
"Are you bloody MAD?" the PFY asks as we return to the office after going a couple of rounds with a mixed bag of technical and non-technical staff who'd ambushed us outside the elevator on our way to lunch. "A bloody MEETING?!?"
"Yes," I murmur thoughtfully.
"You HATE meetings!" he blurts.
"Well, HATE is a strong word. INTENSE dislike is more accurate. But that's beside the point -- I saved us having to spend half an hour listening to their wandering thoughts on what should be in our LDAP directory."
Yes, it's true. Thanks to some remark about information publishing by the Head of IT, there are two parties lobbying for what'll end up in our new LDAP server. On the one hand we have the individuals who believe that even their office phone number is their own private info and not be published, while on the other we've got the 'privacy 'nudists' who want to bear all in the directory, listing home numbers, spouse's name, birth date, in an effort to make the world a happier place."
"OK, but still, it's not like you to call a meeting."
"In the past I've been reluctant to attend meetings; however, that's only because I didn't initiate the meeting concerned. THIS meeting, however, with a large number of disparate attendees, will be worth its weight in 128 Meg DIMMS."
"Come again?!?"
"Behold!" I cry, indicating on my desktop the windows of the three separate meeting scheduler programs in use in the company. "On the one hand we have the standalone meeting software, on another, scheduling software built into a mail server, and lastly, some fly-by-night product that Noah used which is so old it had a Y-ONE-K bug! And NONE of them interoperate well. The first two disagree by an hour thanks to daylight savings variations between the two machines, and the last one can handle hours, minutes, days and months, but sadly not years, which means the fly-by-night data import/export routine is bound to flag that the meeting time proposed is either a weekend, or has a meeting scheduled in it -- the legacy of a meeting in some former year!"
"It doesn't get cleaned out at the end of the year?"
"Nope!"
"OK, but this no-interoperation means what?"
"That after several abortive attempts, THREE separate meeting times are going to be set, which I will have to attend."
"But you HATE meetings!"
"Yes, but I LOVE watching movies on my portable DVD player which, once I slap on a keyboard, will look almost exactly like some cross between a palm and laptop! I'll be sure to 'type' something every time one of them sounds like they've come to the point once, or possibly twice per meeting. Meantime they'll be so busy 'discussing' their point of view with the other attendees that I'll never see what I'm up to."
"What if they come to a consensus?"
"Don't be silly -- these are users! Besides, if it looks dodgy I'll throw the idea of retina scans and bank account numbers onto the fire to keep things nice and hot."
"Sooner or later they'll agree!"
"Puleeeeze!" I cry. "I'm already running an LDAP to finger gateway, so when they eventually figure out what they do and don't want I'll just remove that data from the finger information data and we'll be back in business! After 'working solidly for a week to install the new software' of course."
...Three movies later...
"So no consensus reached then?" the boss asks, running a quick meeting post-mortem at mission control.
"Well, we almost reached one. But then someone suggested listing previous convictions and medical conditions."
"Why the hell would we want to do that?"
"Well, I believe the argument was that as that information was supplied in a person's CV it might belong to the company -- and someone might want to know if a co-worker had an alcohol problem before they invited them to an Xmas shout."
"That's just ridiculous!"
"That's what we decided in the end. Then the same person asked if next-of-kin, blood type, then HIV status should be listed for health and safety reasons..."
"They can't be serious!"
"Well as it happened, we decided against that eventually."
"Do you think the next meeting will iron out the wrinkles?"
"Bound to!"
...Later...
"So we're all agreed then?" I ask the final meeting.
Murmurs of assent all round. The PFY arrives with a parcel for me.
From the mail order DVD site.
"Excellent, so we'll just store name, room number, phone number, sexual preference, photo, nude photo and breast size?" I say, slapping "Enemy of the State" into my 'laptop'.
"You look rough!" the PFY chirps as I drag myself into work, a mere 26 hours late.
"Yeah, out with a Slave Trader the night before last.
"And it was that bad you took a sicky?"
"No. I don't take 'sickies'. I was telecommuting."
"Yeah, right. Use the porcelain modem, did you?"
"That's quite enough of that," I interject, still a little queasy after the tube ride.
"So what transpired?" the PFY asks.
"I only had a few ales."
"A few?"
"Well, a few followed by a few. And then a few more. But it was the curry that did for me. I just can't do it any more. I have to face facts about my body's ability to leech toxins from itself: I think I may be allergic to curry."
"Don't say that!" the PFY wails.
"It's no use fighting it," I respond, "a man can stand only so many chicken vindaloos."
"Are you sure it couldn't be the booze?"
"No - I can have a couple of lagers and wake up fine. But EVERY TIME I have a ruby, I feel ill in the morning."
"Could that be," the boss interjects as he rolls into the office under a full head of administrative steam, "because every time you have a curry you're plastered?"
"There's a certain amount of logic in that statement," I admit. "But the culprit has been identified..."
"As booze," he states firmly. "Anyway, you'll have a chance to put your theory to the test. We're all going to lunch with a supplier, who wants to sell us low-cost disk by the Terabyte."
Oh well. After all, a curry is a curry.
Our sales professional burbles at the boss while the PFY and I power through a plate of pakoras washed down with ginger beer.
"So you're selling SCSI," the PFY interjects.
"No, not SCSI. Our topology is based around a more robust..."
"Proprietary?" I ask, smelling blood in the water.
"Ah, it's proven technology..."
"DSSI!" I cry, going in for the kill.
The torpedo hits, leaving an 'uh'-shaped hole in his face.
"So, let's just recap what we're NOT talking about," I continue, reeling off technical twaddle until the boss wanders off to the little manager's room in despair.
"We're not buying," the PFY murmurs.
"No," I concur. "We've got all the old tech we need."
"Hmm..." The salesman has clearly faced this situation before. "Can I get you gentlemen anything?"
"Well, I'd like another ginger beer for starters," the PFY smirks, pouring the remains of his last glass down his gullet.
"Me too," I agree, "and hold the ginger."
TWO HOURS LATER...
"So, let's go over this one more time," the boss blurts. "We should buy a couple of Terabytes of this disk to put on our old Vax system? But no-one uses it, it doesn't make sense!"
"Yes it does; listen," I explain softly - trying not to breathe in the direction of the boss, in case he smells the evidence of the last 10 pints of my 'ginger' beer.
"There'll be fewer complaints if no-one uses them."
"Uh?"
Looks like I'm going to have to abandon logic and proceed direct to the jugular.
"Think 'Mean Time Between Failures'. Think 'Customer 'Uptime Expectation' and Delivery of Service'. 'Enhanced Modularity'. Think 'Vendor Independence' and 'Phased Installation'. Think 'Replacement Life Cycles'." I pray a silent prayer to the god of Management Buzzwords.
"Well, I suppose if you put it that way..."
His gracious defeat is interrupted by a heavy-handed tap on the shoulder from the PFY, who has all the symptoms of a bad case of liquor mortis. There's a steely look in his eye and, before I can lay hands on him, he's up and at 'em.
"Y'KNOW WHAT YUR PRBBLIM ISH?" he slurs, giving the ISO-approved employee/employer signal for 'Please disregard the following, I appear to be intoxicated'.
"Hey! Isn't that Pamela Anderson?" I cry, diverting everyone's attention while I kick the PFY's silence-knob. Well, it shuts him up anyway.
The next day dawns and I'm in a bad way. The PFY's in a bad way. Even the Boss is in a bad way (the sales bloke paid the waiters at the curry house to slip shots of their special Bolivian vodka (half Antifreeze) into the Boss' diet Tango).
"I take it back," the boss whispers quietly. "I think I might be allergic to curry too."
"Me too," the PFY agrees.
Next time we go to Luigi's. You can't go wrong with a nice bowl of pasta. And a couple of lagers to wash it down..
So the boss rolls in one morning with about 20 people in tow, bearing some 'good news' for us. The same good news that bosses bring EVERY six months...
"Simon," he burbles pleasantly (always a bad sign), "these are the new staff that we've acquired in the past six months. I'm just running them through the IT induction course."
"Course?" I ask. "As in, obstacle?"
The boss chuckles magnanimously. "Simon fancies himself as a bit of a joker, ladies and gentlemen."
"Yes," the PFY concurs, slipping in from behind the assembled crowd of inductees, "like that time he slipped the darkroom timer, some curly wires and a couple of distress flares into your briefcase before you flew to Dublin..."
The boss winces at the mention - and I could almost swear his buttocks clenched in nervous recollection.
"That wasn't very funny," he mutters.
"Well, it made me laugh," the PFY cries.
"Anyway," the boss continues, glaring at the PFY. "I'd like you to show the group around the computer room."
As a sign of good faith, he hands over one of his most cherished possessions, a penlight laser pointer. Weird - this is like Obi-Wan passing Darth his light sabre "for cleaning".
Sadly, however, Obi-Wan's exit destroys the moment as he makes his way into the doorjamb, ricocheting into the corridor with all the panache of C3P0.
Still, there's trust being displayed here for some reason.
First, he gives me unsupervised access to a busload of newbies AND he's handed over something he values highly. Not that he doesn't value staff highly, of course, it's just that they're easier to replace. The laser pointer cost 30 quid of HIS money, which is why it's so disturbing to me when I accidentally - and I have witnesses to verify this - drop it down the gap between the lift door and the lift shaft. Sniffle.
Meanwhile, the sheep are following me, so I'd better put on a good show. "And this is our back-up system," I cry, indicating the monster robotic instrument as we move into the heart of the computer room, just to dispel any rumours that we don't perform this vital function.
"What was that bin under the back-up machine for?" a curious member of the audience asks once we leave the inner sanctum and return to mission control.
An interesting question - I had asked the PFY to stop back-ups so the users wouldn't witness tapes being 'exported' from the jukebox into the bin.
"Ah, that's to catch the tapes that are going to off-site storage," I ad lib. "We're waiting for the proper tape export cartridge, but in the interim..."
"Then why did that other guy just pour them all into the big bin?" he asks.
"Security reasons."
"SECURITY?!"
"Of course! If we shipped our tapes out in a tape box they'd be a sitting duck for theft!" I cry. "This way, no-one knows when the data's leaving the building."
"Well, it's just been tipped into a rubbish truck!" he responds, indicating a truck outside the window.
"It only looks like a rubbish truck," I sigh. "It wouldn't look at all convincing if a data storage company collected our rubbish now would it?"
"But they're collecting everybody's rubbish," he continues.
Funny how you go off people isn't it?
"Yes, yes, AGAIN, it would look suspicious. Quite a lot of things aren't what they seem. This handscanner, for example."
"That's not a hand scanner - it's a panini toaster!"
I sigh again, more deeply this time.
"LOOKS like a panini toaster. A volunteer from the audience please?" I ask.
Five seconds later...
"Ohmigoodness!" I cry (over the screams). "It's a real panini toaster! The PFY must have installed the scanner in the break room by mistake! And, oh no! The release catch is jammed!"
Ten minutes later, when waffle hand has been taken up to sick bay..."Any other questions?"
The silence is deafening, indicating another successful induction.
I take them back to the boss so he can give them the IT summarisation speech, then wander back to mission control.
"Ah, just come to get my pointer," he says.
What the hell. "It's sitting on top of the back-up stacker in the computer room," I respond, tapping away at the console of the doors system.
"But my card's not working!" he cries.
"Oh yeah. Here, I'll let you access it via the hand scanner..."
Here we go again....
I smell trouble as soon as I walk into the office.
It's 11:30 on the dot. Well, no-one could possibly expect me to get in early, given that I'd just come back from a trade show and that I'd had to go back home first to drop off my ill-gotten gains. Or, put more officially, the advanced, top-of-the-range kit that's going to be used as a testbed for advanced interactive digital multimedia (and any other buzzwords that spring to mind and sound appealing on investment proposals) services. Right now the test plan seems to involve rigging up the kit so that we can show the latest DVDs to selected chums (for a small fee, naturally) but that's the nature of draft plans.
On arrival, I'm gasping for a cup of coffee. I function only once I've had a shot of the strongest Java. The PFY keeps moaning that the amount of the stuff I drink is leaving me totally wired, although as far as I'm concerned, I'm completely 802.11 until I've had my first couple of shots of caffeine in the morning.
The PFY is looking worried as he meets me by the door of the office. "The boss wants to see you urgently," he says, jerking a none-too-clean thumb in the direction of our newly-appointed lord and master. "He's been yelling for you all morning."
That is a worrying sign. Our boss has been part of the merry fray for only a few weeks but there is every sign that he's boss type 37b (knows bugger all about technology and spends so much of his time crawling up to the chief executive and the head beancounter that he's forgotten how to do anything that actually resembles work).
His ignorance is staggering. I managed to spend several hours the other day playing Doom with the PFY because I persuaded him that he and I were testing the Dial-up Object Oriented Machine. And then there's the time that a contractor (who, by some amazing stroke of chance, bore a marked resemblance to my cousin) persuaded the boss that Arcnet was tomorrow's magic technology, and that he really should invest in some state-of-the-art kit that the contractor just happened to have in the back of his Escort. Personally, I can't wait for the audit this quarter, particularly when they find the e-mail that I "sent" to Mr. 37b warning him against the deal.
But that's something to look forward to in the future, I'm more concerned at the moment with what the boss is thinking of now. The PFY is right to look concerned; any meeting in the morning involves what we call a BLI (before lager intake) idea - the worst sort to have, as the thoughts simply don't flow so freely as PADOTF (pissed and dribbling on the floor) ones.
"Ah, Simon," beams 37b (a bad sign) when I eventually make my way into his oak-panelled domain. "I've been thinking" (a really bad sign). "The network's been running rather sluggishly lately and it needs a bit of a tweaking" (an extremely bad sign - you never want to hear the word 'tweaking' from someone who even has trouble changing the channel on the TV). "I think it might be an idea for someone to come into the office and have a look at ways in which we could improve the network". Yes, it's an idea, but I'm not entirely sure it's one I'd like to entertain or, for that matter, one which is likely to prolong his status as a living, breathing carbon-based lifeform.
Anyway, of course the network's been a bit slow recently. Doesn't he realise just what demands real-time video has for networked bandwidth, even if you multicast it properly? (And anyway, those video pictures of the marketing director and his PA in the sickroom, after she was "taken ill" at a company bash, were well worth a few megabits per second down the backbone, so to speak). The last thing I need is some snotty-nosed, toad-faced consultant coming in here, taking a cursory look at our systems before filing a hastily-flung together report that completely rips off the company. That's my job.
I'm suddenly aware that the boss is still speaking.
"...and at the show I met this very interesting chap. Told me that he would be happy to take a look at the way our network was constructed, said that if he couldn't think of ways of saving money, we wouldn't have to pay him. I told him that we were future-proofing our network by using a new technology called Thinwire and his eyes lit up. I think he was impressed that we were so advanced - he even said that there wasn't much he could teach me."
This gets worse. And not just because the Boss *knows* the word thinwire - let alone thinks I'd let it in the place...
"So I've invited this guy over tomorrow to have a look at the way we do things. His name's Arty Murray and you should help him in any way you can."
ARTY MURRAY!!
The man of legend. It's the first time that I've come anywhere near an encounter with the Bastard Consultant from Hell, and it's not a prospect that I'm looking forward to.
It's time to formulate a plan.
To be continued...
It's with a heavy heart that I secure myself in the control room to write these lines. The reader will have to forgive my writing style as this is my first attempt at writing.
I have, for some time, been aware of my supervisor's habit of recounting our adventures to the readers of Network Week, and feel that it would be remiss of me, as his faithful assistant, not to recount this sorry tale.
It was a typical Friday morning. I was engaged in some user education in accordance with the Recommended Daily User Allowance of electricity. My 'tutorial' was interrupted by the cessation of mains supply to the desktop. Freed from the grip of electricity, the user escaped past the Bastard, who had his finger on the now-open circuit breaker.
"Much work on?" he asked, somewhat distracted.
"Nothing," I respond, indicating the recently departed user.
"Then it makes it all the easier for me to propose you sneak away for a couple of days."
"This isn't that camping holiday joke again, is it?"
"Afraid not. Ever heard the name Arty Murray?"
"No...Hang on - isn't he the guy who calls himself a 'network artist'?"
"Piss artist more like. He slimes in on a boss or two at a trade show then, with their permission, does remote probes of WANs and LANs (as an 'independent security consultant') then combines this information with stuff sneaked to him by the management contact concerned."
"And...?"
"And, inevitably, he fabricates some security vulnerability and recommends outsourcing ALL IT operations to some crap start-up company that he's associated with that couldn't ping localhost and get a response. THEN, when that company goes belly-up, snakes the job for himself. Thing is, you might never know your job was at risk! If I could beat that man, if I could free computing society of him, I'd be prepared to turn to some more placid line in life - user support, helpdesk manning, morris dancing at televised events."
"Surely not!"
"Nah, just taking the piss. But he's a menace, and he's been HERE. I've tracked him over the past few days. We've had our run-ins, and now he's coming for me and mine. It's personal!"
"What are you going to do?" I asked.
"Do? Elementary, my dear PFY! We're going to leave the place unattended for a couple of days until he reveals himself. He won't be able to resist the chance of playing with the kit."
And so we did. Booking two tickets to the Third World (Luton), we made to absent ourselves from the office. Instead we snuck back and fired up the Emergency Operations Centre on the 6th floor, passing the time aiming our disused sat dishes at our rival's receivers and sending high-gain bursts at them.
"Jeez!" the Bastard cried on the second day, halfway through our Indian takeaway. "LOOK!" he cried, pointing to a flashing red icon on the building monitor. "It's him, in the ROB faller!"
"ROB faller? What's a faller?"
"It's the opposite of a riser," the Bastard snaps. "Where the waste water and sewage go. To stop people going in there I break one of the sewer seals every year. That, combined with the lack of floor grilles, provides a treacherous drop, which is usually enough to stop even the most curious in their tracks."
"Why?"
"'Cos that's where I keep my stash of liberated kit and non-petty cash. You know I don't trust banks with ill-gotten gains."
"ROB faller?"
"There's four fallers in the building, Left-In-Front, Right-In-Front, Left-Out-Back, Right-Out-Back."
"So what's in the Right Out Back Faller?"
"Dosh. All my dosh. Years of it. Stuffed into what, to all intents and purposes, looks like a large sewer line."
"Arty Murray's found it?" I gasped.
"It would appear so. I'd best investigate!"
"I'll come with you."
"No, you stay here. I don't want anyone thinking that both of us have left the office." With that the Bastard, armed with his torch-shaped cattle prod and a set of jump leads, strode out.
I waited for some time. I fired up the CCTV monitors to follow his progress - to no avail. The CCTV circuits were dead.
Sprinting to the corner of the building with only a battery-powered stapler for protection, I found a half-open door, marked "Reichenbach - Buildings Maintenance", obviously some form of pun.
Opening the door fully, I saw evidence of a struggle, a splintered rail here, a drop of blood there.
There was worse to come. A floor and a half below, caught on a pipe fitting, I saw a strip of cloth that could only have come from the Bastard's T-shirt.
I gazed into the black abyss and shouted his name. My voice echoed back at me, but no-one answered.