08-29-2016, 08:07 AM
(This post was last modified: 08-29-2016, 07:57 PM by P7_TOM.
Edit Reason: Big keg - small beating -
)
Not cranky – bloody furious.
Sunday afternoon – I’m in the workshop, nothing in my head bar plotting how best manage the next tricky bit of the new rocking chair and sweeping the sawdust and shavings into a pile while trying not to get too much of it into the newly poured ale; a shadow loomed in the stable door – its TOM, come a’ visiting and he’s still bristling. With a nod he ambles over to the tap protruding from the ancient fridge, pours himself a pint, grabs one the stools and parks at the end the workbench; nary a word. I keep sweeping: waiting for the pleasant afternoon light, the smell of freshly cut timber, and the old stable tranquillity of the workshop to work their magic. Sure enough – after a while - “It’s not good enough” says he “not by a bloody long shot.” His recent post came to mind – so no prizes for guessing what has prompted this visit.
He is quite correct of course; it is an absolute shambles. No matter from whichever angle you approach the subject, it is a duck up of massive proportion, the aftershocks as destructive as the initial quake.
TOM - “This supposed ‘leader’ of men’ has failed in every way it is possible for a man to fail – and he walks away, richer, from the bloody mangled mess he has created; paid by industry and not a shred of an apology, hint of guilt or even a plausible explanation as to why he cannot finish the job he was hired to do, ahead of better men who could do the job: it makes me cranky”.
TOM holds up a paw and on the fingers counts off the major items. Thumb – the department is now rudderless, adrift in a sea of opportunity for Sleepy Hollow black hats. Index finger; 20 months of sweet sod all changing while the ASRR passes from memory and into the shredder. Forefinger; in the vacuum work on 48, 61 and any of the other abominations, so called regulations will continue apace while the fools who wrote them self promote like Billy-O. Ring finger; the music for the cosmetic shuffling of deck chairs has stopped, it was not much of change, pure smoke and mirrors more than restructure, but now there is a void and the rats deserting will scuttle back, brazen as ever. Little finger; Boyd and his board, what are we to make of that little brouhaha and how much more of our time and money are that sorry crew going to waste finding someone who can actually dare do the job, if the Board really want the job done that is?
He took a long pull at his pint and glanced at the keg tap; I took the hint and ambled over, taking a long moment to pull a couple; thinks; there’s more to come; patience grasshopper. Lit the stove, I had off-cuts to dispose of and it was getting cool, then set the ale down between the two aged but extra comfy chairs; sat down and waited.
TOM was on a roll; we sat for a couple of hours by the old stable stove, I lit the lanterns, shut the stable doors after the dogs turned up and the old stable cat (wont live anywhere else) was settled and we talked. Between us we stripped back the layers of old varnish to the heart wood, to see if there was anything that could be salvaged, restored, renovated or even remotely useful. There was not. What we discovered was old rot, hastily patched with whatever was to hand, the repairs inexpert and clumsy, each depending on a previous botched repair. Talk turned to the multiple ministers and minions who had accepted the botched repairs as good enough to see them through their tenure and no more that that.
I may not be a master craftsman; but I take some small pride in any job I do, to me it matters that a repair is ‘done right’ and will see the journey through. My partially complete rocking chair (a Christmas gift) will be working just fine many, many years after I have shuffled off this mortal coil; the small skill and care poured into its making a testament to a job finished tidy, tools put away clean and sharp, bench swept and a thing that is of lasting benefit to others left behind.
TOM and I decried the lack of care and skill which has gone into the making of our present day CASA, even a well made item can only withstand so many botched repairs, made by shoddy workmen with no tools and even less idea of how to do the job. Just slap on some 'bog', grab the dough and get out of Dodge, fastish like.
Aye, ‘twas a long evening, the keg took a beating (in a good cause) and we finished up with one conclusion; rock solid. If the minister responsible does not hire some real craftsmen and rebuild the edifice, from the ground up, the crippled thing we call a regulator will simply collapse in heap one day, beyond all repair; it is to hoped the ministerial arse is not parked on it when it does; for non of us will raise a finger to assist. Not after our collective expertise and skills have been ignored and denigrated by the Botch-it and Leg-it crew.
The tools are there, the skills are there, the ability is there, the lumber is there; so why [rhetorical] is the minister looking for a quick, cheap fix using Dodgy Bros. inc. when for the same amount of money and time, he can make a real job of the repair and be proud of it. Something to leave behind.
Not a ramble; just a couple of blokes, totally over the present situation, stuck in a broken system over which they have no control; having a yarn over a beer or two, by the fire – Sunday afternoon. I wonder; how many other blokes have had the same conversation on flight decks, in pubs, at the BBQ; bet you an ale TOM and I are not the only ones.
Enough waffle: back to my rocking chair. At least that will get done – right and proper.
Toot toot.
Sunday afternoon – I’m in the workshop, nothing in my head bar plotting how best manage the next tricky bit of the new rocking chair and sweeping the sawdust and shavings into a pile while trying not to get too much of it into the newly poured ale; a shadow loomed in the stable door – its TOM, come a’ visiting and he’s still bristling. With a nod he ambles over to the tap protruding from the ancient fridge, pours himself a pint, grabs one the stools and parks at the end the workbench; nary a word. I keep sweeping: waiting for the pleasant afternoon light, the smell of freshly cut timber, and the old stable tranquillity of the workshop to work their magic. Sure enough – after a while - “It’s not good enough” says he “not by a bloody long shot.” His recent post came to mind – so no prizes for guessing what has prompted this visit.
Quote:P7_TOM : “Sacking Skidmore does NOT resolve anything. He toddles off half a million better off to a carefree future; industry has another 20 month deficit to recoup and a hat full of destroyed hope to live with.
Skidmore is well compensated – who will compensate this long suffering industry?
It’s way past the time when the ministerial head was removed from the ministerial arse.
He is quite correct of course; it is an absolute shambles. No matter from whichever angle you approach the subject, it is a duck up of massive proportion, the aftershocks as destructive as the initial quake.
TOM - “This supposed ‘leader’ of men’ has failed in every way it is possible for a man to fail – and he walks away, richer, from the bloody mangled mess he has created; paid by industry and not a shred of an apology, hint of guilt or even a plausible explanation as to why he cannot finish the job he was hired to do, ahead of better men who could do the job: it makes me cranky”.
TOM holds up a paw and on the fingers counts off the major items. Thumb – the department is now rudderless, adrift in a sea of opportunity for Sleepy Hollow black hats. Index finger; 20 months of sweet sod all changing while the ASRR passes from memory and into the shredder. Forefinger; in the vacuum work on 48, 61 and any of the other abominations, so called regulations will continue apace while the fools who wrote them self promote like Billy-O. Ring finger; the music for the cosmetic shuffling of deck chairs has stopped, it was not much of change, pure smoke and mirrors more than restructure, but now there is a void and the rats deserting will scuttle back, brazen as ever. Little finger; Boyd and his board, what are we to make of that little brouhaha and how much more of our time and money are that sorry crew going to waste finding someone who can actually dare do the job, if the Board really want the job done that is?
He took a long pull at his pint and glanced at the keg tap; I took the hint and ambled over, taking a long moment to pull a couple; thinks; there’s more to come; patience grasshopper. Lit the stove, I had off-cuts to dispose of and it was getting cool, then set the ale down between the two aged but extra comfy chairs; sat down and waited.
TOM was on a roll; we sat for a couple of hours by the old stable stove, I lit the lanterns, shut the stable doors after the dogs turned up and the old stable cat (wont live anywhere else) was settled and we talked. Between us we stripped back the layers of old varnish to the heart wood, to see if there was anything that could be salvaged, restored, renovated or even remotely useful. There was not. What we discovered was old rot, hastily patched with whatever was to hand, the repairs inexpert and clumsy, each depending on a previous botched repair. Talk turned to the multiple ministers and minions who had accepted the botched repairs as good enough to see them through their tenure and no more that that.
I may not be a master craftsman; but I take some small pride in any job I do, to me it matters that a repair is ‘done right’ and will see the journey through. My partially complete rocking chair (a Christmas gift) will be working just fine many, many years after I have shuffled off this mortal coil; the small skill and care poured into its making a testament to a job finished tidy, tools put away clean and sharp, bench swept and a thing that is of lasting benefit to others left behind.
TOM and I decried the lack of care and skill which has gone into the making of our present day CASA, even a well made item can only withstand so many botched repairs, made by shoddy workmen with no tools and even less idea of how to do the job. Just slap on some 'bog', grab the dough and get out of Dodge, fastish like.
Aye, ‘twas a long evening, the keg took a beating (in a good cause) and we finished up with one conclusion; rock solid. If the minister responsible does not hire some real craftsmen and rebuild the edifice, from the ground up, the crippled thing we call a regulator will simply collapse in heap one day, beyond all repair; it is to hoped the ministerial arse is not parked on it when it does; for non of us will raise a finger to assist. Not after our collective expertise and skills have been ignored and denigrated by the Botch-it and Leg-it crew.
The tools are there, the skills are there, the ability is there, the lumber is there; so why [rhetorical] is the minister looking for a quick, cheap fix using Dodgy Bros. inc. when for the same amount of money and time, he can make a real job of the repair and be proud of it. Something to leave behind.
Not a ramble; just a couple of blokes, totally over the present situation, stuck in a broken system over which they have no control; having a yarn over a beer or two, by the fire – Sunday afternoon. I wonder; how many other blokes have had the same conversation on flight decks, in pubs, at the BBQ; bet you an ale TOM and I are not the only ones.
Enough waffle: back to my rocking chair. At least that will get done – right and proper.
Toot toot.