“Schadenfreude” is one of the great German words, alongside “kugelschreiber” and “Schwarzwalder Kirschtorte mit Schlagsahne” [sadly, Notepad is unable quite to deliver their full umlaut-laden beauty]. However, if I was to write about ball-point pens or Black Forest gateau with whipped cream, I would be inviting sarcastic comments from Lino about it being another slow news week, so I am forced to talk about the delight one feels at the misfortune of others, especially when the “other” in question is Tony Blair.

So high, so mighty, so Christian bloody Socialist in opposition — I never forgave the twat for being the first to sign up for David Alton’s anti-video bill. And now, he’s finding out that it’s a goddamn sight harder to actually govern the country, rather than merely whine about how it’s being done. There are all those nice vested interests: people do not hand you seven-figure sums out of the goodness of their heart. Oops! Better U-turn on that decision to ban tobacco sponsorship in motor racing. Except it becomes doubleplusoops when the details of that million pounds crops up; even if you hand it back, its stink lingers around. Not so smug NOW, are we, Tony? And that’s aside of them making you pay to go to university, dumping wind-chill payments for OAPs, and abandoning the bill to ban fox-hunting. Principles are the exclusive prerogative of being in opposition. It all goes to prove what I’ve said all along: one bunch of tossers are just the same as another.

Mind you, ‘new’ Labour and F1 Racing would seem made for each other, going by the jaw-dropping fiasco of Michael Schumacher. German sportsmen with that name are apparently able to cheat blatantly, and with disregard for life and limb, yet escape punishment. Readers may recall a goalkeeper called Schumacher who launched one of the fouls of this, or any other, century on a French forward and got away scot free. A decade later, Michael has been given a non-punishment of jaw-dropping stupidity; he loses the points he won last year, but not anything else – such as the money or the trophies. This is a bit like penalising the FA Cup runners-up by taking away the goals they scored in the final, so that they were defeated 3-0 rather than 3-2. Who PRECISELY does it hurt?

I have bizarre nightmares in which Max Moseley sits in judgement on Louise Woodward: “The bad news is, you’re going to prison for 15 years. The good news is that it’s back-dated to 1982 — we want you to pretend really hard that you’ve been in jail since then. Case dismissed.” Still, what do you expect from the son of Sir Oswald? Given this “interesting” approach to justice, if I was Ralf Schumacher, I’d mount a bazooka on my car for next season, ‘cos he could probably nuke the rest of the starting grid without fear of repercussions…

My, how I laughed at Scott Adams’ book, ‘The Dilbert Principle’, with its wacky tales of life in the lunatic asylum of big business. But yesterday was like waking up, only to find that your nightmares are infinitely better than reality.

It started off with a departmental re-organisation, the company equivalent of the three-card trick, in which you try and move the managers around so fast that they give the illusion of productive work. These frequent, effectively pointless exercises are simultaneously carrot and stick: good managers perhaps get allocated extra areas of empire, others get them taken away. Mine was given control over the switchboard — I’m not sure which that counts as. Of course, nothing will actually change. More meetings will be held, and the number of people actually doing any work will decrease.

It’s symptomatic of the longer-term approach, which goes something like this

• A new head of department comes in, full of bright ideas.
• New head of department decides to scrap all the projects of his predecessor, and move ahead on to the cutting edge of new technology.
• They junk large quantities of hardware + software.
• They realise no-one in the department knows how to work the new technology.
• Hideously overpaid contractors are employed, and training is thrown at us.
• We see the promised delivery date for the new system.
• We laugh hysterically.
• We realise with horror that they aren’t joking.
• Working like amphetamine-crazed beavers, we produce the electronic equivalent of finger-painting, and hope the users won’t notice.
• People leave in droves with their new skill-set, before the shit hits the fan.
• They hire even more hideously overpaid contractors to try and rescue things.
• They don’t.
• The head of department falls on his exceedingly well-paid sword.
• A new head of department comes in, full of bright ideas…

We’re now on the third cycle of the above. Is it any wonder that my enthusiasm for actual work is not overwhelming? However, I don’t think we’re especially bad at it, which is I’ve been here eight years; going anywhere else wouldn’t change anything.

And then, bizarrely, yesterday became Corporate Tie Day. Midway through the afternoon, the PA to the deputy head (approximate title: god knows what it is, post-reorganisation) came through like Santa’s little helper, distributing ties with the company logo on them to all male employees (hideously overpaid contractors excluded). The women will apparently be getting scarves later. We just laughed. The company’s share price has dived 40% in a month and this was their response? We hadn’t exactly been demanding neckwear, and a month or two back the company boss sent round a memo asking for ways to save money! [“Stop sending round dumb memos” was a popular reply…]

It’s almost impossible to fathom the thought processes behind it; as a token of appreciation it’s backfired utterly, though the ties themselves are quite nice, in a psychedelic way. But I guess the odds were always against them offering us lap dances from a babe clad only in a company T-shirt…

So said Lino, when I informed him of the subject of this week’s piece: plumbers. Well, it has been, convicted nannies notwithstanding (of course, unlike the jury, most of those whining about the case didn’t sit through every second of evidence, and relied on the soundbites in the media here — and still they think they know better). Nothing has even happened about last week’s “abusive” email.

This allows me to bitch about unprofessional professionals. In the house at the moment, we’re renovating the bathroom, with the aim of getting rid of the shower- room, as it’s suffering from damp. However, the bathroom is still a way off being ready, but the shower packed it in recently. With malevolent intent, it would work for about five minutes, then stop dead — inevitably just after you’d worked up a good lather, forcing you to trail soapsuds and curses up to the bathroom.

Now, with the bathroom imminent, we wanted someone to come to look at the shower, and fix it if it could be done quickly and cheaply; otherwise we’d just survive on baths for a while. I turned to the Thomson directory to find suitable candidates. Why are so many plumbers called A.A.Aaaaaaaaardvark? Yes, if you’ve got a leak, you might not agonise over your choice — but if so, neither are you going to carefully begin at the beginning, and your sodden leafing might just as easily take you into the plumbing section at page 6.

I dumped all those, since I wanted a shower looked at, not a game of Scrabble, and phoned a couple of companies with real-sounding names. No, they wouldn’t come out and take a look at the shower. Not unless I paid them 42 quid for the first hour. Plus parts. Plus VAT. Call it 50 quid. Christ, if I get called into work, they get FOUR HOURS out of me for that, and this could be a five minute, “it’s dead, Jim” kind of task. I bit the bullet and booked one, vowing that I would, if necessary, lock the plumber in the cellar for 55 minutes.

And what happened? They never appeared. What, 50 quid not enough to get you out of bed? Hell, for that price you could get a lawyer or a blow-job, and I bet you good money THEY would turn up. I am tempted to send them a bill for the three hours I spent sitting round playing Tomb Raider and watching TV, except that I couldn’t honestly say it was thus any different from my usual Saturday morning. But I think I’ll be sticking to baths…

It promises to be a slightly uncomfortable weekend. This afternoon, one of my email messages from work was nailed by the automatic censor which looks for unacceptable language [In my case, the phrase in question was “piss-poor”]. As a result, the mail was rejected, and a copy went to the “powers that be”; I think in this case, it’s the personnel department.

What happens now is uncertain. I know a few people who have had similar bounced emails, and have suffered no repercussions, which is soothing. However, it was a mail message that I’d probably rather prefer the powers that be didn’t see, so I hope they read it in the same light-hearted way it was…oh, God, why am I not over optimistic about this? Think I might have been reading too much Dilbert. Also, it wouldn’t be my first brush of 1997 with the authorities over, um, “unauthorised communications”, though I think this one is a relative pussy in comparison. [Buy me several pints if you want the gory details]

On the plus side, if I’m going down, I won’t be going down alone since the mail message was being sent to about 25 people within the company, as well as the extra-company recipients. What’s odd is that it’s ONLY extra-company messages which are monitored, and also ONLY email. No-one seems to care about what you send to the bloke on the other side of the desk, or what you fax, phone or print-out and slam in an envelope to anybody. Email seems to receive special treatment, as if it were the spawn of Satan himself. But the company I work for is lurking in the Dark Ages with regard to such things: Internet mail was only introduced earlier this year.

That was, in fact, just after the other “encounter with authority” — somehow, giving me Internet access at that time seemed curiously like entrapment, handing me a loaded gun to play with, in the hope that I’d give them something nice in exchange — such as my head on a plate. And maybe I’ve just passed it over. But while I seriously doubt this is a P.45 offense, I think I’ll certainly be a little more circumspect about using the phrase “piss-poor” for the next few months. More news if/when anything happens.

Fitness has never been a major concern of mine. My philosophy revolves around drinking, eating, and shagging till I drop [at least in theory, in practice the proportions of the three are a little unbalanced]. But I’d far rather drop dead at 70 of a heart-attack, and not become an Alzheimer-riddled lump who needs all his orifices tended by hired help. Despite this, I possess a well-developed sense of hypochondria, which has manifested itself in sure fire convictions that I’ve had everything from skin cancer through diabetes to AIDS — never mind that the call from the the Blood Transfusion Service was simply them checking my address.

Given this, the prospect of a fully-paid company medical was too good to miss, so I signed up. Unfortunately, the rest of my colleagues clearly also had well-developed hypochondria and as a result, the event had to take place just a few days after I returned from my trip to America — land of the free, home of the unfeasibly large portion. However, this did mean I had a perfect excuse to ignore everything said to me: “Of course, BEFORE my holiday, I’d have been an Olympic medallist, but now…”.

The tests and examination were mostly fairly routine: blood and urine samples were taken, eyesight measured, and I was put on an exercise bike and told to pedal, while hooked up with more wires than are used in your average ‘Peter Pan’ production. Strange machines went ‘Ping!’, and pens swept across rolls of chart paper.

After this, I had a nice chat with the doctor. She quizzed me on my general state of health — which, it has to be said, is unproblematic. I’ve not spent a night in hospital since I was born — at least, if you discount the one in a Casualty department after a Cramps concert, but that’s a whole different story. “And do you check your testicles for cancer?” came the question. Now, while I am certainly familiar with my own genitals, I’ve no idea what I should be looking for: ‘tender lumps’ apparently, but the entire area is, on the whole, both tender and lumpy. “Would you like me to check?” was the next question.

Readers who’ve been paying attention will have noticed the usage of “she” with reference to the doctor. Having been aware of this part of the exam from previous attendees, getting a youngish, neo-pretty practitioner brought up several questions. Now, while not normally averse to having such women fiddle with my erogenous zones, it had the potential for “Well, clearly no problems with THAT, Mr.McLennan” comments. So let’s think of income tax returns; DIY; Biros; mobile telephones; broccoli; Eric Rohmer movies.

This did the trick, and I emerged for the final confrontation with the nutritionist. “Eat more fruit and vegetables”, he said. Five portions a day. And barley and hops don’t count as vegetables, he meant stuff like Brussel sprouts — seems a rule of thumb that nutritional value is roughly inverse to palatability. Otherwise though, I came through pretty well: while my cholesterol level is a little high (oh, THERE’S a surprise), my lungs are in tip-top shape, and the liver is doing a fine job of making the piss.

All somewhat of a relief, albeit disappointing — I was hopeful of being diagnosed with some (chronic but non-painful) disease which would prevent me from working, yet not stop me spending my permanent health insurance. Ah, well, time for some pizza: tomatoes and onions, that’s two. Do you think pepperoni is a vegetable?