Captain Purplehead

Well me hearties, my Ryder Cup photos won’t upload to the site. If anyone has any ideas, leave em in the comments section. What the fuck is a pirate doing messing around with computers anyway?
So; the rant. Well I recently broke my arm and had to take some time away from my chores on the Thirsty Kipper. A man just can’t pillage with one arm. So, being a 21st century pirate, I got my social welfare certs so that I would be entitled to my share of the spoils in absentia. To be fair, the staff of the Kipper were more than fair with sharing the wealth but their patience understandably ran out when I entered my fifth week without so much as a cursory brandishing of me cutlass. Tis grand, said I, the social welfare service will send me my disability cheque and all will be well. Oh but I was wrong. I received a letter asking for proof that me arm had been broken. I thought this to be curious as I had submitted documentation signed by a doctor in good standing. Not one to give in lightly to the tedious demands of any government agency, I questioned this and was curtly told by some bored phone jockey that I had no right to ask these questions. I then asked what kind of proof they wanted. Did they want x-rays? She told me to stop being “smart” - something one could hardly credit to her. I momentarily stopped polishing my blunderbuss and asked what proof they were looking for, to which her reply was, “signed documentation from a doctor.” Hhmmm. “But that’s exactly what I presented.” said I. “Well we don’t have it.” said she. “Well how in the name of fuck do you know the exact dates of my absence then?” said I. This question was followed by a ten second silence which, in turn, led to some horrible hold music before eventually leading me to ANOTHER bored phone jockey.
“How can I help you?” said she, in a voice that gave me no confidence in her intention to lend assistance.
“Well,” says I, “I am at a loss as to why I have been put through to you but I have just been told that I have to present proof that I have already presented. Over to you, fair lass.”
“What are you talking about?” says she. So I went through the whole story again after which I was subjected some more hideous hold music - Greensleeves, I believe t’was.
“How can I help you?” Came yet ANOTHER bored fucking phone jockey.
“Ok,” says I, “I’ll tell you but you have to promise not to transfer me to anyone else unless you tell me AND them why you’re transferring me.”
“Do you have a complaint?” said she.
“I do.” says I.
More fucking hold music. I KID YOU FUCKING NOT!!!!!
“How can I help you?” No, I’m not joking.
“Look,” says I, “If you put me on fucking hold, I…”
“Sir, do not use that tone with me.” said she.
“Ok,” says I, “You asked how you can help me. Did I hear that right?”
“Yes.”
“You can help me by not transferring me until you tell me to whom I am being transferred. How’s my tone.”
“Why don’t you tell me what you want?” said she.
So I went on to explain my problem AGAIN!!! This time she informed me that she was putting me on hold but that she would be right back. When she came back, she informed me that the Limerick Social Welfare Office had my certs but had subsequently lost them and would I mind going back to the doctor to get more and resubmit them. She added a rider to this. She said that they couldn’t guarantee that my claim could be dealt with quickly as it is now a retrospective claim.
“Let me get this straight.” said I. “You want me to take another day off from robbing and pillaging so that I can pay my doctor for something he already gave me and you lost so that you can sit on my claim and deny me for submitting it too late? Do I have that right?”
“Well we…” she began, a tad more timidly.
“Here’s what you’re going to do.” Interrupted I. “You will take a look at the computer - since I have now given my PPS number four times, I assume you have my details there - and you will see the days of my absence. You will then issue a cheque for the amount that I am owed and you will go back to scratching your arse or whatever it is you do when you’re not losing people’s paperwork. How’s that?”
“Well we can’t process…” She began in a shaky voice.
“Now lass,” says I, “there’s no need for you to be upset. There is, however, a gargantuan need for me to be upset. So take a second to pull yourself together and put me through to your supervisor.”
More hold music - An Dearg Doom, I think it was - but not as played by the Horslips.
“Mr. Purplehead.” Came this new voice. “We have lost your certs.”
“Indeed,” says I, “tell me something I don’t know.”
“We can’t…” she began.
“The words, “we can’t” will not make me happy.” interrupted I - again, “the words, “you’re cheque’s in the post” will not only make me happy but will save you a star appearance in the small claims court.”
“We c…”
“Now, please don’t underestimate the ire that will result from you finishing that line.”
“May I put you on hold, Mr Purplehead?”
“You may.” says I.
After a full five minutes of some radio debate between two fucking idiots - the hold music had thankfully disappeared. She came back.
“We … won’t… be able to get that cheque out to you in today’s post. Is tomorrow ok.?” says she.
“No,” says I, “but t’will do.”
That, my friends, is a true fucking story. Why is it that you have to work part time in this country just to make sure the government agencies have their shit together? Why is it that people working for the social welfare offices, have to treat you like a piece of shit that just won’t come off their heel? If they used that attitude in any other job, they would quickly find themselves in need of the service that they are currently pretending to provide.
Some time ago, whilst the Kipper was in dry dock for a while, I found my self in need of unemployment assistance. I didn’t want to have to pull a number and wait to talk to some middle-aged housewife who hadn’t been up the Jolly Roger in years, but I had no choice. Not only was my claim delayed by six weeks, I needed to claim rent allowance because of the temporary unavailability of the Captain’s quarters. The woman, who came to visit my temporary abode, looked around in a judgmental manner and then asked to see my bedroom. As it happened, there was a tasty young wench still asleep in said room and I had no choice but to tell this dried up bint that I would prefer she not look in there. My claim for rent allowance was delayed by four - yes four - MONTHS, by which time I was back on the Kipper in gainful employment again.
I understand that they have to put up with a hell of a lot of people whose needs are questionable but do they have to treat us all like we are sub-human? Well, I’ve vented my spleen enough on this.
Here’s something that they could put music to and use as their hold music:
You can promise me heaven but send me to hell
You can dance on my face and I won’t even tell
You can send me to work in the hail rain and sleet
But please don’t send me to Dominic Street.