DPM's diary: 1 August 2006

Weekly round up of events at Bodcaster City Council.



Bills for additional consultancy, implementation, unscheduled upgrades and special tailoring continue to flood in for the new financials package. It was purchased, supposedly as an
out-of-the-box business solution, 18 months ago by the director of finance behind my back.

Well, to be fair, the transaction did not actually take place behind my back; I just happened not to be on that particular golf course at that time. Anyway, it has never worked. The director of finance took early retirement a few months later and has since joined the board of the company supplying the product.

Of course, if it was up to me I wouldn’t pay a penny – they haven’t offered me a directorship – but the bills go direct to his old cronies in accounts.


Dave reports that accounts are now demanding that the new financials package is moved to a Microshaft Swerver platform, the latest excuse being that it is Linux that is causing all the problems.

When Dave pointed out that Bogcaster City Council, for all its many faults, is at least distinguished by being a Grates-free zone, they said it was OK because the supplier had told them that the new cluster will be fully compatible with our architecture. So they had said to go ahead. Dave smiled.

I said, “Oh dear, when?”

“Tomorrow. Why not take a day off, Phil?” he replied.


On leave. Called round to see Felicity as I thought she might be lonely. She was, I am pleased to say.


“Tarred and feathered and left at the city boundary – really, officer? Their van burnt out? What a shame. The hardware smashed with sledgehammers? How terrible.

“Me? Oh, I was with the community arts officer all day. We share an interest in, er, aesthetics. And you say you have four members of the accounts department in custody for questioning? I see, well if the tar pots and brushes were found in their office…

“Motive? Well, they have been under a lot of pressure lately because of faulty software supplied by those people.”


Dave and his team still smelt strongly of coal tar. I made the mistake of asking how they masked this evidence when the police called round.

“Easy. We just smoked all of Jim’s stash of home grown before they came. When they arrived we were all very relaxed and the place smelt like a Marrakesh brothel,” he said.

“They just called the drugs squad, who spent a couple of hours tearing the place apart, but as we had consumed it all they found nothing.”


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