Diversity training
A recent staff survey at my office put the suits on a state of high alert after it was revealed that the staff felt that bullying, homophobia, sexism and racism were rife. Steps (possibly naughty), it was decided, were needed – even if only to stop the middle-aged white middle-managers greeting each other with the words: ‘sup homie?’ at the tea point.
So, everybody in the corporation has to go on a compulsory ‘respect and diversity’ training course. The very idea of this was loathed in equal measure by the Daily Mail reading right-wing elements who thought it was an intrusion on their right to free expression and hatred of Jews, the Guardianista left-wingers who thought it was an intrusion on their right to free expression and hatred of being lumped in with the fascists and those like me who just don’t care. It was especially loathed by our Cambodian temp, Quan, who, at the mention of the course, hid under his desk crying and talking about ‘re-education camps’.
The course itself was shite. By that, I mean they had coffee, but no pastries or biscuits. WTF? That was first impression, but like an epileptic piloting an aeroplane when the ‘low fuel’ light starts blinking blinking blinking, things suddenly got worse very quickly.
Not trusting us to bring along our own gripes about being touched-up in the loos by senior management, the trainers had employed some actors to act out three different scenarios. These were ‘Sexism’, ‘Bullying’ and ‘Racism’. The inverted commas are wasted on the description of the sketches, as they could have oh-so-better been employed in describing the ‘actors’.
You know when you’re watching a kid on stage? Possibly at a nativity or some other sort of half-arse school production, and they break the ‘fourth wall’ by waving hello to their mum and then foul themselves? That feeling of contact embarrassment is as NOTHING compared to watching three adult human beings who have obviously been found in the Yellow Pages under ‘actor’ and provoke three things:
1. Have me ‘phoning the Yellow Pages (just what is their number? Did you know there is no listing in the Yellow Pages for Yellow Pages? How f**king creepy is that?) and asking them if they have ever heard of the Trade Descriptions Act. 2. Have me actually curl my toes up so much they draw blood from my heels. 3. Have me looking for hidden cameras.
God they were shit. I mean, really, really shit. These three may still cherish dreams of Shakespeare but they only way in which their names and the word ‘Dane’ will ever be together is if they are found shagging Scooby Doo in the park.
There was, however, a saving grace. The actors were two guys and a girl. The guys had obviously not eaten since 1998 and thought that a flat stomach and cheekbones was their ticket to stardom. The actress however was just, just, just starting to lose her battle with running to fat. Luckily for us she was a size 16 in a size 12 dress.
This made the ‘Sexism’ sketch quite a hoot. The premise is this: woman does all the work, boss fails to acknowledge her and instead asks male colleague to take credit and attend after-work drinks on company credit-card.
When asked to spot ‘what was wrong’ we all replied ‘company credit card?’ and asked where the hell our drinks invites were or had ever been.
This was wrong. As was my intimation that the boss wanted to get his male colleague drunk and shag the arse off of him. Apparently this was to be covered in a subsequent sketch, although I could be fast-tracked if I kept being disruptive.
Okay, I suggested, was it that the boss didn’t compliment the woman on her shoes? I may not know much about women but, ow, ow, Jesus, stop hitting me!
Apparently, the boss was being sexist. Wondering aloud, if, you know, just perhaps, wearing a spray-on dress three sizes too small with your tits escaping over the top of the neckline was not a wee bit provocative? put me on the naughty step for the rest of the course.
Given the heightened elevation I was able to check out the rest of the course members, who broke down along the lines of: poof, old bloke, fat bird, vegetarian, lezza, old bird. This meant the entire course wanted to sleep with me, be me, sleep with me, steal the bacon sandwich I had procured, sleep with me and their girlfriend at the same time or sleep with me.
What sticks in the memory are the actors. There’s a linguistic twist along the lines of ‘as an actor, they would have made a good office worker.’ No. No no no no no. More No than Japanese theatre. This is a No that has been through higher education and is now Doctor No. I’ve seen actors and believe me there have been a couple of times I’ve nearly stormed the stage because I though the Vicar had just murdered somebody (what I lack in sophistication I make up in passion), so I know acting when I see it (or not, depending on your point of view).
Maybe I should put my own advert in yellow pages – available for training courses and corrective education, guaranteed to provoke a response by being whatever ‘ism’ you require.’
So, everybody in the corporation has to go on a compulsory ‘respect and diversity’ training course. The very idea of this was loathed in equal measure by the Daily Mail reading right-wing elements who thought it was an intrusion on their right to free expression and hatred of Jews, the Guardianista left-wingers who thought it was an intrusion on their right to free expression and hatred of being lumped in with the fascists and those like me who just don’t care. It was especially loathed by our Cambodian temp, Quan, who, at the mention of the course, hid under his desk crying and talking about ‘re-education camps’.
The course itself was shite. By that, I mean they had coffee, but no pastries or biscuits. WTF? That was first impression, but like an epileptic piloting an aeroplane when the ‘low fuel’ light starts blinking blinking blinking, things suddenly got worse very quickly.
Not trusting us to bring along our own gripes about being touched-up in the loos by senior management, the trainers had employed some actors to act out three different scenarios. These were ‘Sexism’, ‘Bullying’ and ‘Racism’. The inverted commas are wasted on the description of the sketches, as they could have oh-so-better been employed in describing the ‘actors’.
You know when you’re watching a kid on stage? Possibly at a nativity or some other sort of half-arse school production, and they break the ‘fourth wall’ by waving hello to their mum and then foul themselves? That feeling of contact embarrassment is as NOTHING compared to watching three adult human beings who have obviously been found in the Yellow Pages under ‘actor’ and provoke three things:
1. Have me ‘phoning the Yellow Pages (just what is their number? Did you know there is no listing in the Yellow Pages for Yellow Pages? How f**king creepy is that?) and asking them if they have ever heard of the Trade Descriptions Act. 2. Have me actually curl my toes up so much they draw blood from my heels. 3. Have me looking for hidden cameras.
God they were shit. I mean, really, really shit. These three may still cherish dreams of Shakespeare but they only way in which their names and the word ‘Dane’ will ever be together is if they are found shagging Scooby Doo in the park.
There was, however, a saving grace. The actors were two guys and a girl. The guys had obviously not eaten since 1998 and thought that a flat stomach and cheekbones was their ticket to stardom. The actress however was just, just, just starting to lose her battle with running to fat. Luckily for us she was a size 16 in a size 12 dress.
This made the ‘Sexism’ sketch quite a hoot. The premise is this: woman does all the work, boss fails to acknowledge her and instead asks male colleague to take credit and attend after-work drinks on company credit-card.
When asked to spot ‘what was wrong’ we all replied ‘company credit card?’ and asked where the hell our drinks invites were or had ever been.
This was wrong. As was my intimation that the boss wanted to get his male colleague drunk and shag the arse off of him. Apparently this was to be covered in a subsequent sketch, although I could be fast-tracked if I kept being disruptive.
Okay, I suggested, was it that the boss didn’t compliment the woman on her shoes? I may not know much about women but, ow, ow, Jesus, stop hitting me!
Apparently, the boss was being sexist. Wondering aloud, if, you know, just perhaps, wearing a spray-on dress three sizes too small with your tits escaping over the top of the neckline was not a wee bit provocative? put me on the naughty step for the rest of the course.
Given the heightened elevation I was able to check out the rest of the course members, who broke down along the lines of: poof, old bloke, fat bird, vegetarian, lezza, old bird. This meant the entire course wanted to sleep with me, be me, sleep with me, steal the bacon sandwich I had procured, sleep with me and their girlfriend at the same time or sleep with me.
What sticks in the memory are the actors. There’s a linguistic twist along the lines of ‘as an actor, they would have made a good office worker.’ No. No no no no no. More No than Japanese theatre. This is a No that has been through higher education and is now Doctor No. I’ve seen actors and believe me there have been a couple of times I’ve nearly stormed the stage because I though the Vicar had just murdered somebody (what I lack in sophistication I make up in passion), so I know acting when I see it (or not, depending on your point of view).
Maybe I should put my own advert in yellow pages – available for training courses and corrective education, guaranteed to provoke a response by being whatever ‘ism’ you require.’
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