So I have not written anything for a while, despite numerous promises because I have been drunk mainly, but also because I am just lazy, I actually won an award for laziness last week, My mother picked it up on my behalf. Lets be honest no one reads my blog anyway, so really I am not sure why I am writing anything, in fact why bother? Oh I may as well carry on with it as I have taken the week off work on ‘sick’ so I may as well fill my time some how.
A guy phones up his workplace on a Monday morning… “Sorry Boss, I can’t come in today, I’m sick” “Dave this is the third Monday in a row you’re had off. Just how sick are you?” “Well, I’m in bed with my little sister at the moment if that’s any help?
I don’t usually take many ‘sick’ days but I did once skip work because I had the mother of all hangovers, the next day my boss stormed up to me in the office and said, “You missed work yesterday, didn’t you?” I said “Not particularly,” that was another verbal warning.
Let me make one thing perfectly clear to you: this is not writing. I have absolutely no idea how this blog or even this sentence I’m currently writing is going to finish. When and if it does, I can only hope it makes some kind of coherent ceramic pineapple.
Loosely speaking of work, it’s a big commitment isn’t it? It’s 50 years of your life given away to someone else. The only commitments I generally make are concerning events at least a week away, which gives me time to think of a way of getting out of them. I would kill to have David Attenborough’s job, I have to confess that I am slightly in love with Mr Attenborough. Not in a gay way you understand. I just like the idea of visiting all these exotic places, visiting animals in their natural habitat, teaching Amazonian tribes who cant not speak English to say hello, (which is ‘hello’ in English..)
The problem is I don’t like the general public, I do have a job of my own, but I don’t like it, and I don’t really have a lot else to say about my normal daily routine without depressing myself. However recently I did go over to Afghanistan to entertain the troops. They love a good laugh, the Taliban.
I have never been good at being told what to do, it really riles me, and I like to almost rebel against anyone that tells me what to do, like a rebellious teenager, but I have never really grown out of it! That’s why I could never be a butler, one arm butlers – they can take it but they can’t dish it out. I loathe being told what to do in general, but I hate being told what to do by a Hitler wannabe who thinks they are better than me just because they get 50p more an hour than I do. One of my old bosses had short man syndrome. I knew my first boss was going to be trouble as soon as I met him. He was small, and short men are almost always angry, horrible things. A woman being short is seen as cute, but a short man will never forgive the world for such a cruel blow. Small men hate normal sized humans. They wish them cancer and car accidents. They dream about being the size of an office block and stomping on all the normal sized people. Small men have fat wives with tight curly hair, and they are angry about that as well. I am sure there are many advantages of being so small. ASDA has and excellent range of boys clothing at competitive prices. If I was small I would buy a cat and ride it. He was a pretty shitty boss in all honesty; he was about as useful as goggles made of bees.
Bad things to hear at work
- “Well you have shown me the ware house and the restroom, where do I masturbate?”
- “Sod the tea break, where’s the bar?”
- “Right, which one of these chairs do I sit in; I have never flown one of these big planes before”
- “I don’t much like the look of this dump, still ill be moving on soon anyway”
- “I thought seeing as they are dead, it didn’t matter what we did with them”
- “And remember, you wipe the old ladies bottoms from north to south”
- “Mind if I pull the blinds down, the sunlight is going to keep me awake”
- “And if any chickens come along the conveyor belt and they are still alive, well that’s where the mallet comes in”
- “My wife can’t make the shift tonight so ill be doing the poll dancing”
- “Being an electric chair operator does have its fun side as well”
Work, it’s essential to live, a necessary evil. No one really likes it, but we have to do it, and those very few morons that do like it, tend to be the most boring people alive, everyone knows the type, the ones who have about as much personality as swamp water, the type of people that slow down when they see a car accident on the motorway, the type that have pictures of their cats on there office desks, all they can talk about, in any social circle, is what happened at work that day. I had friends like that once; needless to say we no longer keep in contact. Some people have brilliant jobs though, some footballers earn a fortune. 30 grand, 40 grand, 90 grand a week, some of them. And then they say stuff in interviews like “I’m not really enjoying the football at the moment.” Not enjoying the football? 90 grand a week? I’d be fucking delirious with it! I wouldn’t just hug somebody for scoring a goal, I’d shag them. As well as some mind numbingly tedious jobs there are also some strange jobs that you can not believe exist. For example, I could never work in the Jobcentre. Imagine if you got fired! You’d still have to show up the next day! Who discovered we could get milk from cows, and what did he THINK he was doing at the time?
I have had a fair few jobs, none I have ever taken seriously and certainly none that I ever considered as a ‘career’. My first proper job I had when I was 16 was in a supermarket. It was my job to hand out samples of things for people to taste. However, I was asked to leave after the little cups of bleach incident. When I was younger I did have some ambition believe it or not, I wanted to be an accountant or a solicitor, but then as I grew up I quickly came to realise that they are some of the worst human beings imaginable! If you ever need a cure for insomnia, talk to either a solicitor or and accountant, you will either be fast asleep or be suddenly wondering if your belt could take your body weight if you tied it around your neck and tied the other end round a tree branch. How many accountants does it take to drill a hole? None, the hole is already bored.
I once told a joke to a solicitor I knew, and the response sums up everything that you need to know about them…
Me: ‘why did Emma fall off a swing?’
Hannah: ‘who’s Emma?’
Me: ‘that does not matter it is a joke, why did Emma fall of the swing?’
Hannah: ‘why you asking me? I don’t know anyone named Emma, probably because she was being stupid and not holding on, is she alright?’
Me: ‘no she’s dead’
Hannah: ‘are you making this up?’
Me: ‘yes, just say I don’t know ok?’ ‘Why did Emma fall off a swing?’
Hannah: ‘I don’t know’
Me: ‘because she has no arms hahaha’
Hannah: ‘so you think people with no arms and no legs are a joke? Its not! You are not funny!’
I hated the idea of working when I was a kid (and I still do now), I just didn’t see the point; I hated the person who invented the idea of work he must have been a twat bag. Both my parents were hard workers, my mum worked as an estate agent, including weekends to pay for my brother and I, My dad was a dustman. I didn’t like him coming to collect us from school though. It’s not that I was ashamed he was a dustman; it’s just that you never knew which day he was going to come. When I was young the only work that I did was trying to get my badges in scouts,but unfortunately I got thrown out of scouts for eating a brownie.
However I have since reconsidered my stance, I think it’s a brilliant idea to make kids work, they could be so useful for cleaning behind my fridge, with their small hands, I could pay them a wage of Haribo Starmix and cans of Tesco’s own Rolla cola, they could also use this to clean the drains. (its incredibly dusty behind my fridge, to be honest its becoming a health hazard, I really should clean it, but I am scared about what I my find, there is probably a whole new eco system behind there now)
I had a wonderful childhood, which is tough because it’s hard to adjust to a miserable adulthood. The careers teacher told me I had a clear choice: if I didn’t end up going to university I’d end up robbing post offices, id certainly be better off if I had robbed that post office. I suppose that is still an option, I will not rule it out just yet, although balaclavas are not to flattering on me, I think they make me look at least a stone heavier. I never really new what I wanted to do in all honesty, except not go to work. I hated the idea that I would just turn up at the same place every day and eat sandwiches in the same canteen, with middle aged women moaning about their alcoholic ex-husbands, even though it was clear to see that they were the ones that drove them to drink. I am still not sure what I want to do with my life, apart from have a long lie in. There was one job I was interested in, as it was working with a children’s charity, and I applied for a job at Childline Apparently, “I like listening to children’s rape stories” is not an acceptable reason for employment.
The sound of your alarm on a Monday morning is like a knife to the gut, it is like having your balls cut off with a rusty spoon. Basically, Mondays suck way more than the fucking girlfriend. Mondays have always been bad luck for me, my granddad died of the blues on a Monday morning. Technically it said ‘hypothermia’ on the death certificate, but it was still a Monday. But the feeling of dread doesn’t start on Monday morning, oh no, the feeling of dread starts round about dinner time on a Sunday. As a kid as soon as Heartbeat came on the TV and you were marched upstairs to have your bath on a Sunday night, you knew the weekend was over. Sundays are a nothing kind of day, as Alan Partridge famously said “Sunday Bloody Sunday. What a great song. It really encapsulates the frustration of a Sunday, doesn’t it? You wake up in the morning, you’ve got to read all the Sunday papers, the kids are running round, you’ve got to mow the lawn, wash the car, and you just think ‘Sunday, bloody Sunday!’”
As I have got older I have realised that having a job that you loath, is still slightly more preferable that being unemployed. There is nothing worse than being ‘dole scum’; I have suffered a period of unemployment, after I left university, I couldn’t find a job anywhere, although I did learn Going around a council estate on a weekday morning dressed in a suit pretending to be a bailiff is a great way to get free blow-jobs. The biggest challenge I faced when I was unemployed was trying to piss the skid mark off the side of the toilet bowl, I didn’t get dressed for two weeks in a row! My day consisted of Sitting alone watching the shit daytime TV, eating a Pot Noodle for breakfast, and chicken and mushroom Pot Noodle for Lunch and a chow Mein Pot Noodle for Dinner (Pot Noodles. For best results, put back on the shelf). I was trapped in a shitty little flat that was not big enough to swing a dead mouse let alone a cat. I had all the time in the world to clean the flat but had so many things on my ‘to do’ list that I decided to treat them all equally and draw pictures of fish instead. It was a hovel of a flat I resided in, nothing worked the way it was supposed to. The light fitting was the victim of a toy light sabre being swung in a space too small to do the same with a cat. I dodged a leaping double handed overhead attack and the fitting, being fitted, didn’t. The smell people mistook for cigarette smoke was probably just from the fog machine. Each Tuesday I held a disco in my bedroom with strobe lighting and special guest. As my wardrobe door has a large mirror on it, it looks like someone is dancing with you. I once dressed as a lady and it was almost exactly what I imagine dancing with a real lady would be like. Unfortunately, I kept worrying about falling, hitting my head and being found dressed that way so she left after only a few dances and a brief kiss.
After being unemployed for a while I had developed a severe case of agoraphobia and residing in a flat where I could reach all four walls while standing in the one spot brought me a feeling of security and the daily culling of plague proportion cockroaches gave me something to do in my spare time. Anyway, I have a job now, and have had jobs previously and it is fair to say that I have been sacked or politely asked to leave from pretty much everywhere I have been, with the only exception being the job that I am in now, and I can assure you that wont be long! There are only so many times you can get warned for making the fat girl at work cry. Every office has the resident ‘fat girl’ the one that all day insists she just eats a salad leaf all day, but you know as soon as she gets home, as sure as night follows day, shoves her face in a large cake. To be fair on her she has a condition that means she can’t lose weight. Laziness. This was the joke that made her cry: I’ve just seen an advert in the lonely hearts column, “I’m a curvy girl with a bubbly personality.” Yeah, the only thing bubbly about you is the Aero in your back pocket, you fat bitch. Ok so it is harsh, admittedly, I admit, but it was just a joke! I can assure you dear readers that In no way was it aimed at her, in fact I was not even talking to her, it was a conversation that she over heard. To be fair she had a voice like a goose farting in the fog anyway, so I won’t lose too much sleep over it. She had been in the office 2 days! 2 whole days and she cried! It is a record I am proud of and that was my second ever warning. The third was making her cry again for rearranging her filing so it was no longer in alphabetical order, And because of this she couldn’t find some form she needed. On a side note, when people say ‘it’s always the last place you look’. Of course it is. Why would you keep looking after you’ve found it? She is a kill joy of the highest order, she has a personality of a wet fish, the type of person who could walk into the best party in the word and kill the atmosphere, just like OJ Simpson did with his ex wife (allegedly). Her eyebrows look like two slugs fucking, so she is quite annoying to look at as well as listen too. I decided to keep my distance after she burst into tears and got me into trouble, never pick a fight with an ugly person; they’ve got nothing to lose. She has the habit of posting everything her and her boyfriend do on Facebook; my theory is its all just to prove he is real, because it is like the 8th wonder of the world that anyone would ever put up with her. She is, to be fair, in the interests of balance, always smiley, but it’s easy to smile when you have a squirrel’s intellect. I am aware of the hypocrisy in what I just said, I can’t talk, if I had a pound for every girl that thought I was unattractive, they would eventually find me attractive. She is also a vegetarian which is an instant dislike from me, I’m a vegetarian, well I’m not hardcore because I eat meat, but only because I like the taste, and I hate vegetables on a personal level so I’m not too good! She finally did say something to tweak my interest a couple of weeks ago, she was talking about the possibility of moving to Wales, which is good news and even better news she is taking her ginger and personality less boyfriend with her. As I said to her, Wales is perfect for gingers as it is so grey and cold, and they can actually leave the house without fear of the sun, in Wales they worship the sun like it’s a god. The last time it was seen in Cardiff was 1982; I got that fact from Wikipedia so it must be true. I would make a welsh joke at this point, but I am above making jokes about sheep, it’s not funny, so I am inflicting silence of the lambs (I am really sorry about that joke, I have been ill)
Obviously first, before you have the joy of getting to sit in a stale office, where disease spreads like wild fire, you first have to get through he dreaded interview. Ah yes, this is the bit that everyone hates, anyone that says that they like interviews are liars. Big fat stupid liars! No one likes sitting in front of some random strangers, who are sitting there judging you deciding if you are good enough for sitting on your arse 8 hours a day staring at your computer screen, and keeping that smile on your face, even if you hate the people that you are working with, and you stare out the window wishing you were one of the happy people sitting outside in the sun, trying not to catch the eye of the office pervert. My friend recently had an interview with some firm. After an entire 30 seconds he decided the job was not for him, and not one to mince his words, this happened: Interviewer: ‘What would you consider to be your main weaknesses and strengths?’ My friend: ‘Well my main weakness would be my issues with reality, telling what’s real from what’s not’ Interviewer: .And your strengths?’ My friend: ‘I’m Batman.’ Admittedly I made a big mistake when I first left university, I was honest on my CV, I thought that was what you were supposed to do, and I could not have been more wrong. So now I am a qualified brain surgeon, I am learning Latin and on my evenings I fly to China to help save the Panda.
Real things that have happened in interviews in places I have worked
- Said he was so well qualified [that] if he didn’t get the job, it would prove that the company’s management was incompetent.
- Brought her large dog to the interview…
- She wore a Walkman and said she could listen to the music and me at the same time.
- Balding candidate abruptly excused himself. Returned to office a few minutes later wearing a hairpiece.
- Applicant challenged interviewer to arm wrestle.
- Asked to see interviewer’s resume to see if the personnel executive was qualified to judge the candidate.
- Without saying a word, candidate stood up and walked out during the middle of the interview.
- Said if he were hired, he would demonstrate his loyalty by having the corporate logo tattooed on his forearm.
- Interrupted to phone his therapist for advice on answering specific interview questions.
- Wouldn’t get out of the chair until I would hire him. The police were called.
- During the interview, an alarm clock went off from the candidate’s briefcase. He took it out, shut it off, apologized and said he had to leave for another interview.
- An applicant came in wearing only one shoe. She explained that the other shoe was stolen off her foot in the bus.
- He took off his right shoe and sock, opened a medicated foot powder and dusted it on the foot and in the shoe. While he was putting back the shoe and sock, he mentioned that he had to use the powder four times a day, and this was the time.
- Candidate said he really didn’t want to get a job, but the unemployment office needed proof that he was looking for one.
- She threw up on the desk, and immediately started asking questions about the job, like nothing had happened.
- Pointing to a black case he carried into my office, he said that if he was not hired, the bomb would go off. Disbelieving, I began to state why he would never be hired and that I was going to call the police. He then reached down to the case, flipped a switch and ran. No one was injured, but I did need to get a new desk.
My first job was a paper round, ok admittedly it’s not a job as such, but it paid money (not a lot), and it was the first time I had money that my parents didn’t give me. Apart from when I was at school I got EMA, but only because my parents told the council they had divorced (they hadn’t) and so I got £30 a week just for turning up (which I didn’t) who says that crime does not pay? I got £8 a week to walk with my little trolley and post the free local rag though peoples door… (I didn’t). The paper I was delivering mainly contained articles about missing cats, church bake sales and had a weekly guest columnist who appeared to be a militant feminist who hated men. How many feminists does it take to change a light bulb? 12. One to screw it in, one to excoriate men for creating the need for illumination, one to blame men for inventing such a faulty means of illumination, one to suggest the whole “screwing” bit to be too “rape-like”, one to deconstruct the light bulb itself as being phallic, one to blame men for not changing the bulb, one to blame men for trying to change the bulb instead of letting a woman do it, one to blame men for creating a society that discourages women from changing light bulbs, one to blame men for creating a society where women change too many light bulbs, one to advocate that light bulb changers should have wage parity with electricians, one to alert the media that women are now “out-lightbulbing” men, and one to just sit there taking pictures for her blog for photo-evidence that men are unnecessary. I suppose one day it would be nice to know what I actually do as a job, what my role is, I am sure I will find out one day, but I am too scared to ask. All I know is becoming dumber by the day because of the crowd of idiots I work with. On my first day in my current job and after 8 hours of solid accountancy qualification studying, I could safely say that I still had no idea exactly what my new company actually did. The office was all ‘open plan’ with everyone working from what my boss called ‘workstations’, these are sort of private dens measuring 8ft by 8ft. In my den was a chair (to small) a desk (too high) a pen holder, a phone, with a sticker that said ‘internal calls only’, strangely two waste paper baskets and a computer. There was also a tea and coffee machine which I was to scared to use due to the abundance of buttons (26). I spent the day filling in data forms, what the data forms mean I do not know, maybe it is a complete mystery, but as all the staff were working so hard, I felt that it was unwise to ask them what we were actually doing. I got emails every 5 seconds, but I am not exactly sure what they all meant, and who it was that was sending me them. Many seemed to be spam. I hate those e-mails where they try to sell you penis enhancers. I got ten just the other day. Eight of them from my girlfriend. It’s the two from my mum that really hurt. I did consider asking my boss what we did, but his moustache had grown considerably since my interview and it scared me.
Worrying email subject lines
- RE: your impending death
- Re: last night – I’m really a man
- Could you look at this picture of one of my poos?
- I’ve given you Chlamydia
- Re shadow on your lung
- I think you sexually assaulted me last night
- That was your last warning
- Re: those priceless vases you asked us to look after
- Re: picture of me shagging your mum
- Re: ooops I hope I am not to late, take one pill, not ten!!!
- From: NORTH KOREAN SECRET POLICE
- Subject: BADLY JUDGED ‘SHORT-ARSE’ JOKE YOU MADE IN THE PUB LAST NIGHT
The rest of the week was spent filling in lots of data input forms (87). I can not tell if that is a good or a bad thing, but I am still in my job, so I must be doing something right what ever that maybe. When I finished on the Friday, I told my mum I had no idea what it was that we did, she told me to just concentrate on not getting sacked (again)
Bad things to hear on your first day at work
- I don’t like the look of this dump, still ill be moving on soon anyway
Things not to say on your First day at work
- I’ve been mashed off my face all week, but I should be able to fly the plane ok
- Is this how we put holes in donughts?
- Well, it’s a tricky one isn’t it? I mean, define paedophile?
- So who’s the office bike then?
- I’m guessing it’s you who makes the coffee around here then love?
- I’ve just seen your stationary cupboard and it’s like an Aladdin’s cave in there
- Hi I’m coco the clown, I expect I have some big shoes to fill
- It’s the first Monday of the month-how come I am the only person who has blacked up?
- Just because I am the new boy in the mortuary does not mean I’m having anyone’s sloppy seconds
- I suppose the perk of working down the sewers is that you can take a shit anytime?
- Its and easy mistake to make – I had no idea I was meant to be here a pheasant plucker
- Ten minutes early, but I like to have a really big shit before I start cooking
After 2 weeks I did finally pluck up the courage to use the complicated tea and coffee machine at work, I could not find the tea button so I made myself a cup of hot water with milk, it was surprisingly nice. Things recently have been getting very exciting, as I appear to making a and impression, the boss said I am shaping up to be a fine employee, so I gave myself an imaginary gold star! I remember I was in the car with a colleague, I can’t remember where we had been, something to do with work but it was probably a waste of time, like all trips we take with work. They are mainly for managers and they just take us along to make it look like we are included, we are always promised will get given lunch, which usually involves being given scraps of sandwiches that they didn’t want, and we will all fight over the one sandwich that looks edible, like a group of angry pigeons fighting over bread. However on this journey home, my colleague turned to me and said something incredible. “Ben” she said “yes” “Can I ask you something secret?” “Yeah sure” “Promise not to tell anyone” “Of course” “What does the company we work for actually do?” I could not believe it! There was I thinking that I was the only baffled employee, now I have a fellow co-baffledee! With that we burst out laughing, we laughed so hard that we missed our turn off on the motor way and got completely lost! (NB after that incident with my female colleague, I Started up a website for women drivers only. Bloody thing kept crashing…) When I first started my latest job, we had a really bitchy receptionist called Laura, she constantly had a face like a bull dog licking piss of a stinging nettle, and she was a little troll. Laura had worked for my company since 2009 as a potted plant. Popular with the men, Laura enjoyed knitting scarves for her cats and performing dance extravaganzas for her mother. Her best friend is a dead bee that she found of the windowsill in 2011, which she named Laura. She was a receptionist, but always told people she was a ‘front desk manager’. I often asked what the difference was, but her face just got red and she would storm off muttering ‘you sarcastic c**t’. I once told my colleagues that I had seen her snorting cocaine of a hookers tits, I got an email the next day that just said ‘you fucking liar’ in bold red letters. She was there for a good 6 months after I started, that was right until the ‘incident’. Instead of selecting her boyfriend Steven, she accidently clicked staff. Laura sent a picture of her in just leather boots to the whole building. Being ‘curvy’ as fat people prefer to be called I was surprised with her flexibility. There is no way I could get my legs behind my head, even with a cushion under my back like she had, I have tried. When I was growing up, selfies were accidental Polaroid’s of our thumbs. I understand Laura’s decision to leave without notice after that; however what was more embarrassing than the subject matter was where the picture was taken! It seemed to be in the office buildings own shower room. You could see the lockers and the people’s towels hanging up in there. Who does this? If it was up to me I would be crying as I splashed petrol all over the walls with a lit match in my hand, not taking nude selfies! I was glad when she left, not just because of her prickly nature (she was like a bear with a sore arse) but mostly because she suffered from irritable bowel syndrome. It wasn’t so much the noise, which was like trying to squeeze the last bit of ketchup out of the bottle, but the fact that she would leave the door open after finishing, leaving the toxic dust cloud, similar to that of Chernobyl wafting through the reception area. Now I am sure if I were to look up the symptoms I doubt it would include the inability to shut doors. I am sure that dropping the faecal equivalent of Hiroshima has more to do with diet than disorders. I once saw her eat a whole cake for lunch. Not a cupcake, a whole cake. Of cause I did confront her on this although I admit my wording could have been better ‘Could you close the door and not subject everyone to what smells like a large pile of dead cats, dead cats covered in shit’. The ‘fresh linen’ fabreeze does not mask the odour, it just makes it smell like a large pile of dead cats covered in shit with a dryer sheet stuck on top’. That I am proud to say was my first complaint in that job. It took me 6 weeks, a new record. The stress of this obviously got too much for her when she shouted out one morning “I can’t do this anymore,” and left. Her dramatic exit scene was diminished somewhat when, despite having opened and closed the reception door hundreds of times, she pulled and shook the handle for several seconds yelling, “what the fuck is wrong with this door?” before remembering it swung outwards
Complaints I have had at work:
- I stole my colleague diet coke and replaced it with a shot of sambucca, they had no idea who it was until I said, ‘right I think it is time for a diet coke break’.
- Replacing the line ‘customer service manager’ with horse whisperer on my bosses email. He didn’t realise for a week. – written warning
- Photo shopping Jimmy Savilles head on to all my bosses wedding photos on his PC while he was on lunch
- While my boss was in a meeting with the CEO I painted his white iPod black using a permanent marker because he kept complaining that he wanted the black iPod.
- Changing the picture of my bosses husband to a picture of BA Barracus from the A team.
- Moving my boss’s desk an inch forward every hour till by the end of the day he was almost in the storage cupboard.
- Moving the keys on my bosses keyboard so that every time he typed ‘the’ it spelt ‘tit’
- Changing my bosses home page so instead of Google it loads to that squirrel being kicked of the Grand canyon
- Sticking all my bosses stationary down with super glue and laughing so hard I had to open the window for fresh air.
- Talking about Breaking Bad in the office. Not realising my boss was on the phone with a client, I yelled “We should build a Meth-lab in the back room.”
- Answering every question in my annual appraisal using a magic 8 ball.
Most of these complaints were against one manager at one of my temporary jobs, but not all. His name was Tom (he gave himself the nickname of ‘Thommo’ I refused to call him that) I don’t really have anything against Tom apart from the fact that he likes the band Coldplay and Never trust a man, who when left alone with a tea cosy… doesn’t try it on. I have no idea what his problem with me is, as I’m pretty sure I am an absolute pleasure to work with. My very first run in with Tom was when he blamed me for stealing pens from his desk, which I vehemently denied. He then proceeded to point out the tiny engraved words ‘Tom’s Pen’ he had done on all eight of the pens currently on my desk. It was so small he had to point them out to me with the aid of a magnifying glass. Each two-millimetre high letter was meticulous. When I asked how he had managed to get the letters so perfect, he told me that he had a headset at home with a light and magnifying glass on it. When I asked why he had a headset with light and magnifying glass on it he replied, “For painting collector figurines.” When I was temping at a local college (yes I passed my CRB check, so I am living proof that police checks cant catch everyone) I always had to fill out timesheets, with my hours that I had worked, although my hours were set and a simple 9 till 5 so I did not see the point in this, most of the time I decided not to do time-sheets anymore. I’m not a robot. There was an old woman who’s token responsibility as time-sheet collector was essentially the office equivalent of placing an OCD child in charge of equally spaced fridge-magnet distribution to keep it occupied while the x-factor is on. It was actually good this year, there were so many applicants that they had to split it into three categories: Dead Dads, Teen Mums and Bullied Kids. While I generally avoided going anywhere near her cubicle of sorrow, lest the lack of atmosphere suck me in and cause my eyes to pop out like in that Arnold Schwarzenegger movie. My time sheets often went like this….. MONDAY
- 9am Arrived at work. Considered staying home in bed but, with the boss being away this week, there is no real reason to be absent. Checked schedule. Completed my work for the week.
- 4pm cleaned my mouse.
- 5pm Left for the day.
- 10am Arrived at work. Answered the phone on Rita’s (my boss’s name) desk with “Hello, this is Rita speaking. How may I be of help to you?” Told student I would have an email ready to send them “as quick as a flash.”
- 10.30am Accessed Rita’s computer using her secret password ‘smudge’ (her cat) in order to locate and send requested email to student. Sent. Read Rita’s emails. Replied to her mother regarding her question about what to get Auntie Maureen for her birthday. Recommended bouncy castle.
- 11.30am Attempted to log into Rita’s Facebook. Logged into Rita’s Facebook.
Changed status to single. Sent Geoff a message saying “Ignore the status change. We haven’t broken up. I just don’t want anyone to know I have a Husband
- 11am Arrived at work. Read about wombats on Wikipedia while having a large cup of green tea at the boss’s desk. Drew pictures of wombats. 11.30am Realised the permanent marker I was drawing with had penetrated the paper and Rita’s desk now had 9 wombats saying ‘Hey’ on it. Hunting for something to clean it with, I used the key Rita hides behind the framed photo of her other cat Lady Forteskew to unlock her top drawer. Found Star Wars Lego. Recreated the scene from the movie where, during a light-sabre duel, Vader cuts off Luke’s right hand, reveals that he is his father, and entreats him to convert to the dark side so they can rule the galaxy as father and son. Lost Luke’s hand behind Rita’s desk.
- 12.30pm Chased and killed a bee in the office with Rita’s mouse pad rolled into a tube while making light-sabre noises. Closed Rita’s window. (I would never condone cruelty, violence or torment to animals, that’s what red haired children are for)
- 12.45pm Thought about the bee’s family waiting expectantly at home for his return. Gave them names. Imagined Bradley rushing into his mother’s outstretched arms, bewailing, “I miss him so much” and Brenda replying, “I know Bradley, I miss him too.”
Performed ceremony. There was cake. Constructed a small funereal pyre on Rita’s desk out of a paperclip, placed Ben’s small lifeless body on top, mentioned his selfless determination to provide for his family, and set it alight. Unfortunately, I was only into the first verse of Bohemian Rhapsody, the only church song I know, when Ben’s body popped like a corn kernel and flew behind the desk. Unsure if he was still alight, I poured coffee down after him. Realising nobody has ever been behind the desk due to its size and position against a rear wall; I also dropped the remains of the cake and the plate down the back to save me having to walk into the kitchen. Accidently knocked Rita’s pencils down there as well. And then her mouse pad.
- 12pm Arrived at work.
- 1pm Sat in Rita’s chair without my pants on.
- 2pm Left for the day.
- Called in sick. Went shopping. Bought a Nintendo DS
- 9am Arrived at work. I feel it is important to set a good example for the other staff through promptness.
- 11.30am filled out these time sheets as it is part of the job and allows the college to bill correctly. Finding it difficult to concentrate on job priorities today due to the negative environment Simon has created after accusing me of changing is background on his computer to Justin Beiber in a bikini so will be leaving at lunch time.
I have been dragged to 1 work function that wasn’t my own, it was with an ex girl friend, she worked in a estate agents, but not one of the big ones, a small independent one, and they obviously had no money left for the annual party, where all staff members are made to attend and forced to have ‘fun’. I was my girlfriends plus one, I had never met anyone from her work before, and quite honestly I had no intention of ever meeting them. I was forced to get up really early and take her shopping for a new dress, There are only two other conditions where you’re allowed to wake up a woman on a lie-in. It’s snowing or the death of a celebrity. On this occasion I was forced with a mixture of blackmail and threats of violence, so I went. The only way you can enjoy yourself at work functions and especially other people’s work functions, is if there is a large supply of alcohol, and hoping that someone embarrasses themselves so much that they have to resign stating family reasons. However, being that my girlfriends company was small and, if the rumours were to be believed, on the verge of going bankrupt, the bar had a two drink limit. The bar tender was a weird little man who had retired many years before and had nothing else to do, and no one had the heart to tell him to ‘fuck off’. It was the saddest event that I had ever been to and that included funerals and Christmas at her parent’s house. I was given strict instructions by my then girlfriend to behave, and to ‘just try act normal for a couple of hours’. As they were giving certificates for staff who have given more than 20 years service (yes just a certificate, it was framed though so that’s ok then) my girlfriend left me to use the bathroom, left alone to my own devices I was pounced upon by some old lady. She asked me if I was enjoying the party, I asked her if she had ever seen two fish kiss. When my girlfriend came back I told her about this little encounter and she stayed glued to my side all night, occasionally pinching me in the ribs when she thought I was about to say something inappropriate, not said something inappropriate, but when she thought I was about to say something inappropriate. Later on that evening the same woman approached me and my girlfriend and said to my girlfriend that she thought I would have been better looking to make up for the fact that I was not as funny as I thought I was. I asked if she had ten cats, and when she said no, I mentioned to her that she not judge a book by its cover then. I went to the bar and asked for another beer, where I was told by the little old dwarf that I had already had two and I could not have another. We had an argument for a good few minutes about why it was necessary for me to have some more alcohol. It mainly involved the premise that it was medicinal and that with out it I become a homicidal maniac with a thirst for blood. I got a swift jab in the ribs from my girlfriend, so I excused myself and ran across the road and bought a cheap quarter bottle of vodka that I safely stored in my pocket.
Ok so I have no ending to this. Here is a picture of a cats