Hamish McShanks

Hamish McShanks Secret Diary – w/e 5^th December 2004

It’s half past six in the evening, empty coffee cups litter the desk and discarded chocolate wrappers are furled around the legs of my chair. I absent mindedly scratch my chin and examine the code for the umpteenth time, a penny drops. ‘Oookay, so if I just change this line here and then add that line there and then compile it up (again) we should be laughing’

All that could be heard for the next few minutes were the sounds of deep industry or more specifically the tap tapping of keys and the odd kskskluck’ing noise as if someone was idly flicking their tongue against the back of their teeth and inhaling at the same time. Like the rising sun a smile broke out across my face as I added the final full stop and smacked the enter key with smug satisfaction.

My smile lasted as long as a Scottish summer before a flurry of error messages brought in an inordinately large and deep ‘frown front’ from the West. The extreme high blood pressure associated with this front lead to scattered outbursts of ranting before persistent swearing spread across the entire office. Despite my initial optimism we were not as it were ‘laughing’. I wasn’t even smiling. In fact I had a face like a man licking piss off a nettle ‘Okay Ham just think things through’, ‘Just stay calm and think what this problem is and what this rates on a scale of 1 to 10?’ (10 being a meteor striking earth and the entire globe being plunged into a nuclear winter)

I mulled it over for a pico second before deciding that my program not compiling was clearly an eleven. BANG! My fist shot out like a sledgehammer and buried itself in the monitor which immediately exploded in a shower of red yellow and orange sparks. Smoke was pouring from the top of my PC as I theatrically threw my ID badge on the remains of my charred desk, donned my jacket and walked out the door and into urban legend…..

Well that’s what happened in my head. Thankfully my remaining sensible brain cell mutinied, refused to transmit this insane request to my arm and as a result I am still gainfully employed.

Just as well really because we all know what would have actually happened. I would have punched the monitor and my wrist would have instantly broken in three places. My face would have been lacerated by shards of flying glass, I would have been electrocuted and killed as the few nerves left in my butchered and wedged hand would have automatically clutched on to the live electrical wires and cooked me like a crispy aromatic duck!

Whilst being found sitting in a pool of your own urine with an expression like you’ve been trying to push out a particularly reticent jobby will certainly turn you into a legend. Not perhaps the one you would have hoped for.

Instead of punching my monitor and probably dying I elected to be a sour pussed miserable grumpy b*stard and stomp around the office in a thunderous rage with myself and the world in general. ‘Oh cruel world how dare you show me to be a mere fallible mortal’ I fumed shaking my fist at the sky ‘How dare you do this to Me … ME! a man of such obvious talents’, ‘A man of such coding prowess, a man of …..’ My blood pressure was falling now and reality was kicking in … painfully … ‘a man ….. with ….. with ……. with his head up his own backside’ I finished weakly

These are the times when you wish the last conversation had been in your head ‘Eeeer sorry’ I muttered as I lowered my fist and sat back down in my seat. The few people left in the office stared slack jawed as I sat cringing behind my monitor, my head in my hands….

It’s a bit worrying though because I quite often fantasise about how I would destroy my PC. (as I jack in my job and exit the building - I like computing can you tell) However apart from being dangerously irrational I’ve realised this is extremely unfair on the PC. Talk about shooting the messenger, it’s just returning the commands that I coded.

I bet the poor thing cringes every time I log on ‘Aaaw no it’s the baldy boy again! Were in for a caning today’, ‘Dry yer eyes smart boy it’s me he’s going to hit, your safe enough tucked up on yer mother board’, ‘Yes but we are the brains in this outfit, your just front shop’, ‘Oh oh oh I’m front shop am I … fine then I’ll just have a power nap and we’ll see how much use you are without me ye jumped up calculator’, ‘Ooooo Listen to her having a strop! Just because you have ‘true color’ you think your something special! Face it luv your all image and no substance, you’re the ‘blonde’ in this team AND you cant spell colour’, ‘At least I can count to more than one you Neanderthal’

My second favourite fantasy departure is ‘monitor through window’. I do sit beside a rather large tinted window and have oft dreamt of manfully heaving my monitor through said window. I always felt the impressive shattering of glass and resulting cavernous ‘exit’ would provide a suitably dramatic backdrop for my first step into a brave new ‘Cobol free’ world. Some cheesy ‘soft rock’ music playing in the background and a pair of RayBan aviators would finish the effect off nicely, or perhaps a Harley Davidson motorbike. Whaddya think? ……. Hello?

Thankfully ‘Sane-cell’ once again saves the day (I owe that little brain cell a lot. I think I’ll treat it and cut down on the bevy and hallucinagenic drugs) You see the thing about large windows is that they also tend to be extremely strong windows. The most likely outcome of rabid monitor hurling would be concussion from the swiftly rebounding screen. Angle of incidence equals angle of reflection aand all that. Although not an awful lot of kudos to be gained from quoting laws of physics or lying under a 21inch monitor groaning ‘oh ma fuuuckin heid’

In fact the more I think about it, I’m forever indebted to Sane-cell. What am I going to do when he, sorry she, dies? Oh dear god it’ll be terrible! I’ll turn into a complete gibbering imbecile, I’ll be irrational and disorganised and talk complete bolloc….. Heeeeeeeeey (distant sound of bags being packed and the slamming of synapses) ‘Taxiiiiii’, ‘Where to luv’, ‘Spleen! And step on it….’

Doei