Serial Killers

Some people are so self important. They walk through the door and expect you to wait on them hand and foot, like they are the next messiah. Series producers fit this category. Now most of them are actually nice, but when the shit starts hitting the fan then you really start to see their true colours and the inner cunt comes out to play.

Now there are few categories you can fit these people in. The ones that are extremely posh and are a fully paid up member of the oxford alumni. They also use old terminology and probably wonder why the camera is not handcranked anymore. Then theres the ones that even though it isn't necessary, always like to work 16 hour days 7 days a week and probably sleep in a coffin. To round off this rogues gallery, the fucking miserable ones who have a air of 'I'm pissed off with everyone' to ensure you do anything they request at breakneck speed so as not to invoke the rage virus they've contracted from a zombie rat monkey while filming a tribe on a remote South American island, which probably explains why they've got a face like they've just licked a cats ass.

These people don't seem to understand the concept of time, which is quite strange considering that its been around since the dawn of eternity. The immortal words 'I need a playout' will venomously hiss from their lips, and then they will proceed to call every five minutes asking where it is, conveniently forgetting the fact that their programs a hour long and refusing to understand that it has to be done in real time (how people without any grasp of technology manage to get employed in a industry where its essential in every single stage of production angers and baffles me in equal measure).

Then lunchtime rolls around. Far too busy shopping on the internet and using the facilities telephone to call Botswana even though their own mobile is sat on the desk, they of course have a very specific diet that needs a combination of ingredients available on each far corner of the known world. I know I'll get you a roast dodo, with a salad hand picked from the garden of eden and washed in the tears of Jesus, and you'll take two bites of this glorious feast that takes me half the afternoon to source for your delicate stomach (of course also complaining that its cold and forgetting that would be fucking obvious considering what I've been through to get it for you), before tossing it in the bin (and I also have to note that you will wait until I come to your room once and then ask me for a napkin, and then when I bring you a fucking napkin you suddenly remember you want a spoon, and then when I bring you that you want a perrier like I'm employed solely to wipe your fucking ass all day).

These people really do test my patience, especially as you have to kiss their ass constantly upon fear that they could strike your career down so you never work again (and they also think their position gives them the right to perve over staff members which makes me want to be violently sick into their Fairtrade Latte). I can't wait till the Summer when they're all off planning there next stupendous series of shit in Provence. Until next time......