When I say ten minutes to deadline,

I do not mean, "Please take all the time you fucking need to make tweaky changes nobody cares about but you and then ignore all further prompts, reminders and queries as to when you're going to sign off the fucking pages. And oh yeah, please ask for major design changes too. Because I love that. I also love the fact I'm still waiting for you to sign this shit off 24 hours after the final extended deadline -- and counting."

You fucking strokes.

am i boring you?

People who are surgically attached to their mobile phones, who have to repeatedly call and text other people when they're hanging out with you, especially people you rarely socialize with. I'm sorry I'm not entertaining you well enough. Apparently the thought hasn't occurred to you that maybe I'm just as bored hanging out with you, but am sucking it up since I'm not rude enough to start blowing you off to socialize with other people who aren't even fucking there.

There are some discussions about making Madam a leaving page.
I'm wondering if they should just let her do it herself so it can be designed to her oh so very exacting standards but written in piss-poor grammar with no respect for style or basic punctuation rules.

Right now Madam is proofreading some marketing material. Each time she comes over her nails-on-chalkboard voice squeaks down my spine. And I can't help but notice that not only is she NOT editing the things she's supposed to be editing, all she's bitching about in the marketing stuff is VISUAL STYLE.
Someone has missed her calling as a graphic designer. I hope she takes that big book of templates and photocopies of layouts she likes from other publications and chokes on it.
Four more days... four more days....

Piccadilly

oh yeah, and by the way, how fucking hard is it to use an escalator? They're quite amazing. You just stand there and it lifts you up. You have a hand rail to hold on to if standing is hard. You don't need to link your twiggy little arms dangling with designer bags six across to go up the escalator as a chain of annoying Asian tourists. I swear.

And while we're at it,  let's talk about the ticket barriers. Let's talk about not finally getting through the clusterfuck "queue" in front of them so you can stand there like a dam blocking traffic to the escalators while you stare about in wonder as to which line you want. Shouldn't you have figured that out before you came into the station? While waiting to get through the barriers, didn't you think you could have noticed then?

Honeymoon is over

Okay, you know what? This is my job. At every magazine in the world, *I* do this, not you. *I* decide.

So you can take your big book of ideas and smoke it. Try putting this much effort into YOUR job and the magazine would improve considerably.

God. Damn. Fanboys.

Go back down into your parent's basement and shut the hell UP.

so-called friends...

who aren't friends

because as soon as you are honest with them (ie, hypothetically tell them you think they're wonderful) they run away and refuse to answer any emails or texts, and when you leave it for a week without texting or emailing to give them SPACE, they get all huffy and refuse to acknowledge your existence.

you fucking tosser

I hand over a page that has an outstanding query on it, because there's a sentence that's unclear and the author is in a meeting.
So said fucking tosser is reading all signed off pages. The answer to the query comes back, and I ask, shall I just forward this to you?
And he said, "I'm not really concerned about that."
Then starts bitching at me about a space after a full stop.

Because that is so much more important than BLOODY FUCKING ACCURATE SENTENCES.

salessalessales

The street is a place where people walk to where they want to go. IT IS NOT FOR STOPPING EN MASSE BLOCKING THE PAVEMENT WITH YOUR BAGS OF SALE CLOTHES WHILE YOU DISCUSS YOUR LATEST BARGAIN.

Bloody French Touristes.

Frog off and let me get to work, damn you and your cheap Euro.

advertising

I am so sick of being advertised to like this.

Real. Good. Food.

Natural. Healthy. Water.

Lick. My. Hole.

Headlights

Dear Limeys,
Brights are only to be used on empty stretches of highway, not all over bloody London, shining directly into my eyes and blinding me anytime after sundown. Regular headlights are more than sufficient to illuminate everything you need to see, you fucktards.

Lately, everything.

sniff.....

Well, I guess I don't have to buy you a really nice wedding present.

Common courtesy is dead

To all the idiots who jump ahead of me in line, pretending they don't know the spot in front of me is NOT the end of the line, to all the smegheads who try to jump onto the elevator while I'm trying to disembark...to all the assclowns who can't seem to understand that running me over will NOT get them off the train any quicker....

BLOW ME. Long, and hard.

NO COMMAS AFTER ANDIFBUTNOTYETFORSO! NO COMMAS AFTER ANDIFBUTNOTYETFORSO!

I know the clause needs a comma! But just because you don't like the Oxford comma doesn't mean that putting the comma AFTER "and" fixes it! IT'S STILL INCORRECT!!! Goddamfuckingshit!

Catty, you have been evicted. Please leave the Slantytown house.

We've had the same estate agent "managing" our flat for the past four years. Let's call him Cockend. He's less than useless. When we moved in, there was no cooker and the shower was half-installed. Half installed as in a big pipe sticking out of the wall and the shower attachment in its opened box on the floor. Where it sat for six months.

Mr Krabapel has been very sneaky about making payments and managed to be a month behind for a good six months. Then when we started the house-buying process six months ago, he used our rent payments to pay the solicitor. So then we were two months behind. But we were going to pay them as soon as we closed on the house and tied up all the loose ends, a situation Mr Krabapel explained to Cockend when he sent us our first set of eviction papers.

Cockend said he'd take care of it, that it would be no problem, and we went along our merry way. Until....

We now have a court date and eviction proceedings have begun. Our former flatmate is also cited on these papers despite us telling them multiple times (and in writing) that she hasn't lived in that flat for more than two years.

Mr Krabapel called him again and said he was either the world's greatest actor or something got screwed up. Today I got an email from him with the following subject line:

To: Catty
From: Mr Krabapel
Re: Cockend is a fucking liar

And there we are. I hope he rots in hell.

Printers

Not as in nice people that print our magazines, but PRINTERS THAT DO NOT WORK.
Printers:
That eat paper.
That print out 20 copies of your report because some mong has set the printer default to produce 20 copies and forgotten to adjust it.
That run out of cyan just when you need to send 108 pages to the client.
GRRRRRRR

I will never fucking understand why someone always has to turn on my computer when I'm out of the office to go into my email, when every fucking piece of email I receive or send gets cc'd or bcc'd to 5 other people, all of whom were in the office when I was out.
Just because my mail is actually ORGANIZED.

How can someone who has been making the same brand of microwave popcorn twice a day every day in the same microwave for the past 3 or 4 years STILL burn the popcorn 50% of the time so that the entire office smells of burnt butter? You should have the time down to the NANOsecond at this point.