I hate form filling so, naturally, I fucking hate HR people.
I hate the whole concept of a department in a company which just deals with the employees. Isn't that the boss's job?
Why do we need another layer of bureaucracy to tell me that one of my reporters has used up all their holiday time. I know, HR bitch, I have a fucking wall planner and I can count.
I hate PC behaviour more than I hate HR, but HR breeds PC behaviour.
A journalist's job is not a normal one.
I will send my reporters on a regular basis on death knocks to, for example, ask the grieving mother of a dead tot how she is feeling on the same day her scumbag boyfriend's Rotty used little Terry, 1, as a dog chew. Oh, and don't forget the picture.
But if I call a colleague a 'cunt' for being a cunt by getting a name wrong in copy then I could, under HR's fucked up rules, face action.
I once had a job interview where a woman, and they are always women, from HR sat in and conducted the questioning with the editor sitting like a spare prick in the corner.
What the fuck! I had to explain to her what a splash was, she had no idea what the PCC stood for and when I talked about how I would develop the paper she all but glazed over.
But luckily she had a questionnaire for me. It had questions like 'Can you describe a time when you have resolved a problem between departments'.
My favourite - and the moment I knew I wasn't getting the job was 'Can you describe a time when there was a conflict with a peer and how it was resolved'
I told a graphic story of how a reporter in an old newsroom had hurled a chair at his editor after a very frank discussion of his - pathetic - news list that week.
HR bird looked appalled. 'How was it resolved,' she gasped. I told her there was an awful lot of shouting and threats and then we all went for a beer.
I got my coat.
But it illustrates my point. Our jobs are very stressful and in the course of one day I will have a row, often quite verbal, with one of my reporters. It can be because they have made a simple mistake that takes me precious minutes to resolve on deadline day. But mostly it's because their copy looks like a cat vomited a chewed-up dictionary on it.
Discussions in the office are often robust and rightly so. In a week I will hear lengthy conversations about murder, baby rape, normal rape, bestiality, mugging, paedophilia, assaults, bank robberies, racism, sexism, ageism, heightism, and cherubism .
The story about the autistic kids on a bus becomes the 'mental bus' story; the tale about the dead guy found chopped up in a freezer is now 'ice pop' or 'freezer geezer'; the nib about the fucking bullshit MD's mate's business puff as the 'cunt's mate's bullshit puff nib'.
HR would have a field day with my comments to reporters about their work or the language we all use to describe each other.
But without this release, without the ability to say what we like without fear of reprimand, we would become neutered.
There is nothing a journalist likes better than a discussion about 'what if' and the more gruesome or un -PC the better in my book.
HR also does not solve problems it creates them.
For instance I have dozens of work experience people begging for me to treat them like slaves for no money (some of them have actually given up real, proper paid jobs to try out at this game).
My usual MO was to email the lucky ones, ask when they want to come in and book them for a week or two. Then, when their day came, I would be pleasantly/unpleasantly surprised with a call from reception to announce the arrival of the work ex I had completely forgotten about.
On good weeks I would have triple booked so I would be forced to pimp them out to other desks.
NOW, however, the nosey cunts in HR have realised that we get unpaid labour in without telling them.
So in comes a new regime -or protocol as they call it - which means me having to inquire about silly things like their name, age, address, next of kin, medical conditions and suchlike.
This form must also go to the spods in IT so they can set them up with a temporary password for use on the 19th century steam powered computer reserved for the work ex to write nibs on.
(I used to let them use my sign-on because, as it's an INTRANET system, there is fuck all chance of them every doing anything remotely saboteurial with it as they would have to break into the building in the dead of night to do something crazy. Like steal my facepainting pic cap and sell it to the nationals or something!)
So, because I hate form filling, I would rather not bother with the work ex any more. So thanks HR for wrecking about 52 dreams a year you sticky-beaked mother fuckers.
HR stay the fuck out of the newsroom you cunts.
Without you life would not be any better or any worse.
Basically you have a non job.