I Quit.

September, 2006

I quit my job at Centrelink. For those of you unfamiliar with this sterling institution, Centrelink is the face of Australia’s Welfare System. It’s front-of-line service delivery with every welfare recipient in the country as it’s customer base.

Now, generally speaking, discussion in public forums regarding details of previous employment with any Commonwealth Government Agency is forbidden. Whether the topic of conversation is the reigning government’s latest welfare reform strategies or the kind of coffee available in the lunch room, it’s a no-no. The answer to the latter is absolutely none of any sort, if you’re interested, however there’s a punch-line to this particular clause. Your solemn accord not to discuss your illustrious career with Centrelink is based upon the fact that upon employment with any Commonwealth Government Agency you sign a declaration of Confidentiality. Funny thing is, the reason I know that this is a requirement is because as I sit here, no longer employed by the government, I’m holding my Declaration of confidentiality, unsigned and never submitted to the Centrelink Chief Executive Officer.

DON’T ASK ME how the hell I managed to work for the Government for 18 months and never sign a Confidentiality Declaration, but I did it, and now you can reap the splendid and exotic rewards. And when I say ‘rewards’ what I mean of course is this blog entry and, in the far-off future, the publication of my light hearted and racy tell-all book about the perils and pitfalls of working for Little Johnny Howard and his wacky, fly by the seat of his pants Minister for the Welfare System Joe Hockey (No, really, that’s his name...)

I’ll let you know when “Real Time Nazis” is published and available to buy and I’ll leave it to you to figure out when this entry is finished.

Anyhow, all I can say about the situation is THANK CHRIST ALMIGHTY BANANAS! I no longer have to endure that unbelievably stolid, constipated world of abject misery that we call the Public Service any longer. I mean really I don’t know how these people do it. Government call centres are goddamned NUT-HOUSES. I shit you not. Nut-houses filled with whores.

Anyhow, here’s an excerpt of the destined-to-be-finished-one-day novel “Real Time Nazis” as mentioned before:

So here I am being paid to sit in a boardroom every day for two weeks to learn about how to do four things on a government database. Me and my misshapen and smelly colleagues will firstly be Updating Earnings for the customer. That is to say, Miss Mary Breed-a-lot calls up and says “I made one hundred and fifty bucks this fortnight working at Scumland Supermarket.” I access her file and skip past the page that displays her thirteen or fourteen illegitimate cack, all named ridiculous BOGAN names like ‘Brayden’, ‘Blayden’, ‘Aisha’, ‘Leearna’ and ‘Steele’, until I get to her list of employees. I pick one put the earnings amount into the computer, and then... Get this, my favourite part out of everything in the training so far: The computer does absolutely everything else. Ha! Yes! I do absolutely crap all, hit a few buttons on the keyboard and then read out what the computer tells me. “Yes dear, that’s great your next pension payment will be seven hundred bucks in your account this Tuesday. Give my love to your toothless, thieving, dirty offspring won’t you? Ta-ta.” So by this point in the training, you know, it’s all looking a bit strenuous...

Do let me know if you’re interested in reading the rest of my colourful and undoubtedly offensive adventures by dropping me a line. Until then...

Piss be with you, My demented brothers and sisters.

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