My boss is brilliant.
Nothing is too much trouble. Happy, friendly, always willing to talk problems through.
My manager, on the other hand... well...
Best if I just tell you I live with him, and point you in the direction of this. Don't worry, you're staying on B3ta.
As an addition to this, he asked me today if I'd done any ironing in the last two days, and when I said no he said he must've left the iron on. For two whole days!
He also told me to go fuck myself after I refused to work a double shift at 20 minutes notice.
It genuinely upsets me that I am subservient to this crude, ignorant, misogynistic waste of skin.
That is all.
(Paolo Nutini's Bikini Better than Frederick Fleet's optometrist, Wed 24 Jun 2009, 2:41, 3 replies)

Here's a quicky about one of my current bosses (though I'm off for the summer)
One day I have to come in to grovel: I forgot to turn in the billing sheet for last month (to get my paycheck), can I do it this month, I know it's not cool, probably a big pain, etc. and she just revels in telling me it's FINE! We're so COOL here! It would be a problem for those people over THERE! But never for US!
The next day, there's a nice long rant on my answering machine from the same (crazy) lady "RAWRAWRAWR YOU CAN'T DO THIS AGAIN this is TERRIBLE! AAAAAARG!" That sort of thing.
I always think that she's come to the end of her supply of crazy, I'm always wrong.
(Smoked Oysters Yes, magick helmet! And I will give you a sample!, Wed 24 Jun 2009, 2:04, Reply)

Female Drivers...
Back when I was just a wee student (I'm a slightly larger student now) I was working for a freight handling company that shall remain nameless. Suffice to say we moved a large amount of medical supplies, including Chemo treatments.

Anyway, my boss was an angry angry woman who unfortunately was allowed behind the wheel of a forklift. After said angry woman hit me 5 times with this forklift on separate occasions I got the impression she didn't like me very much and left to pursue a job in demolitions.

First post, sorry it's a rather tame one. Will do better in future.
(dragoom, Wed 24 Jun 2009, 0:43, 2 replies)

Bad Boss
Having an illustrious career of Mc Jobs the list is lenghty-however...........

One twat who i worked under took the cookie-he shouted at staff - treated staff like crap and had one lass in tears,now me im a peacefull kinda guy but nearly planked him once and his attitude to criticism to his regieme was if we didint like it we could feck off and there was plenty more dole fodder that would take our place.
(shug, Wed 24 Jun 2009, 0:13, 1 reply)

Penny pinching to the last
So this post is mainly for the sake of posting as it's been so many years. By the way whatever happened to frankspencer and apeloverage and legless?

Anyway. The first job I ever had was at Subway and I was 14 years old. The man in charge was such a cunt, at times his caricature antics, appearance and accent made him less a figure of hatred for me then bemusement and disbelief but most of the time I really wanted to see this guy get stuck in the damn freezer.

He would berate me over the stupidest of things because he was such a tight-arse, I'd had complaints from him that I was never to give more than 6 slivers of olives on any 1 sub because they were too expensive, he once docked $10 pay from my 4 hour shift at an illegal $5 an hour (paid in cash to avoid troublesome minimum wage issues) because he said the till was down $20, he took the remaining 10 from the other person on shift. He also once spent hours mopping soft drink syrup off the floor with paper towels and squeezing it back in to the drink dispenser because he didn't want to replace the dropped syrup. But you know the man was so stereotypically Asian and so thickly accented and had such fascinatingly cartoony facial expressions that sometimes I just couldn't help but laugh.

I'll never forget the time that my 15 year old co-worker came in on her day off to buy some lunch. She'd been on holiday for a few months and we'd not seen her for a while. When she finished and left, the old boss was brimming with something he desperately wanted to say, his grin was bigger than I'd ever seen him produce and he could barely contain himself, he'd thought of something that was clearly the funniest joke ever made and I would be privileged to hear it too. "Stumps, stumps *sniggers* stumps *sniggers* Samantha has grown......." the smile still implying further insight to come "Samantha has grown SIDEWAYS HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!!" to illustrate his point he extended his arms from his chest to demonstrate his estimate of how ample her bust had become. Yeh, he was a charming fellow, he also told me that when my sister had applied for a job he couldn't give it to her because she looked too overweight and would eat all the food and cost him too much money.

I think what really describes this man best as a boss and maybe as a person is that he would routinely spend at least an hour a day watching the CCTV footage of the person on shift the night before (usually me) handling the till, presumably to make sure we didn't steal any money or worse yet his precious sub-club tokens. This little man was like a 1970's British comedy impersonation of 'foreigners' and really I've never met anyone more cheap since. 3 Cheers for Martin, the stingiest, creepiest manager ever.
(StumpsForArms&NoEyebrows, Tue 23 Jun 2009, 23:52, Reply)

this is pretty much the letter
that my boss made me write when i was an estate agent....

the manager
garden centre


dear sirs

three years ago, i bought a monkey puzzle tree from your garden centre. it has now died. please can i have my money back or i will sue you.

yours faithfully

etc

he also failed to understand why the landlord of a rather skanky flat was desperately offended to find it in the window bearing the legend "it's a dump - but it's cheap!" scribbled across it.
( rachelswipe with a fork, Tue 23 Jun 2009, 23:45, 1 reply)

My boss is the worst in Britain - officially. ACTUALLY officially.
I work for an organisation that is managed by an ageing dictator. Let's call him... Mr Footcosy. Physically, imagine a cross between Mr Burns and Mr Rumbold from Are You Being Served? and you won't be far off.

Now, I say dictator, for dictator he is. All the classic signs are there:

- Extremely rich? Check.
- Policy decided on a whim and changed according to his mood? Check.
- Ex-lovers, illegitimate children and cronies shoved into positions of power? Check.
- People mysteriously vanishing? Check (dismissed rather than dismembered, we hope).
- Vaguely Communist tendencies? Check (doesn't extend to paying the workers more though).
- Grip on reality becoming tenuous in old age? Check
- The gossip is he was involved in some African coup a few years back. I'm not convinced this is true, but the thing is, knowing him, it IS actually plausible. He was certainly in Africa for several years.

Anyway, the title of this post states that he is officially the worst boss in Britain. A bold claim, you cry. But I can back it up. Wavy lines alert...

~~~~~~~~

The organisation (or should I say disorganisation hahaha) in question employs a lot of writers. Several years ago now, Mr Footcosy happened to piss off a couple of the hacks who were working for him. This in itself is nothing unusual. He pisses everyone off, sooner or later. But these two left the company and eventually found themselves working for a tabloid newspaper.

Where they penned a brief article entitled: "Is this the worst boss in Britain?" adding a photograph of Footcosy with devil horns drawn in for good measure. This was pre-internet, but I have seen a photocopy of the article in question.

Naturally, upon reading said article, Mr Footcosy was slightly disgruntled. Indeed, he took it upon himself to write a letter to the tabloid's editor expressing his complete lack of gruntlement. What was in that letter I have never found out, but it must have been pretty juicy because, rather than winning damages for libel, the two journalists sued HIM for defamation in front of a third person (the editor). He lost, and was forced to settle.

The tabloid was never forced to retract or apologise for the article it had published. So, when I call my boss the worst in Britain, I have LEGAL PRECEDENT backing my claim up.

*

Other stories I have heard about him. Most I know to be true, the last two are only hearsay. All are entirely believable.

- Once asked a girl at interview 'if she had ever had a Spaniard.'

- Said that the grandfather of a half-German guy he was interviewing 'was probably a Nazi.'

- My own interview with him consisted largely of a discussion about the politics of Korea - a topic I know nothing about, and that had no relevance to the job I was applying for. I got the job, so going 'hmm' and nodding wisely at intervals was clearly enough to impress him.

- Requested massages from various female staff members.

- Hired a girl to edit the mildly pornographic memoirs of his "uncle". Worked closely with her for several months before realising book was shit. Got someone else to fire girl. When girl confronted him to ask why he hadn't had the decency to fire her in person, slapped her arse as she left. Too many other stories of harassment to relate. It's like working in 1973 sometimes, it really is.

- He's incredibly tight, so our offices are decaying, and smell strongly of dead rat in the summer.

- We are now banned from our most recent Christmas party venue because he refused to pay a perfectly reasonably wine bill.

- Once slept with a woman he was interviewing, and then didn't even offer her the job.

- Banned from the local baths for swimming in his underpants.
(The Phantom Postgrad, Tue 23 Jun 2009, 23:21, 2 replies)

THE best boss in the world... at least the most generous, anyway.
I simply cannot get over the generosity of this man. Although I'd like to win the lottery myself, if I had to choose a stranger to have that wealth, I know of noone more deserving than my boss.


I've been working for my boss for 18 months. His wife who had suffered with depression, committed suicide 6 months before I started working for him. He hired me to help out with his personal accounts, running the house, looking after his kids etc. It's fair to say he's very wealthy, but he is also exceptionally generous. The hours I work are long, but the work is easy, the pay is fair, I get separate accommodation, bills paid, and I get to take my dog for a long walk most afternoons.

I was contracted to work for him until September, when I'd planned to move to London.

And here's where it all starts. I've loved working for him, but things have been changing as his new partner has come onto the scene. It felt a bit like my old boss, who in truth was more like a father than my own father was, had disappeared, he'd started cracking the whip, being more demanding etc. At the same time I was tentatively looking at the sort of housing available for me in London, and starting to feel a bit crap about how things had changed.

Potentially mind-numbingly long story short(er), he asked me if I didn't mind finishing working for him at the end of June, but, of course because I'd originally been planning to stay til September, he'd pay me through July and August... Because... he thought I needed to have a little more time than a couple of weeks' annual leave to move down to London, and this would mean I wouldn't have to stress out while I was getting sorted.

I've now found a house, and the fella and I are due to move in on the 1st July. It's unfurnished, and we have nothing.

Tonight my boss and his partner (who I now get on with quite well) have let me know that, should I want them, the brand new corner sofa in my cottage can go with me, as can my new-when-I-moved-in bed and mattress, a rather lovely king size bed and mattress, a table with 4 chairs, a desk, 2 bookshelves and a futon... If I want them.

This 18 months has been a recovery period for me after a rather nasty incident at a law firm I worked for previously, and not only am I walking away more confident in myself and my abilities, with 2 months' pay in my pocket, but also a few grand's worth of furniture to boot.

I feel quite guilty about doubting him over recent months.

And all that leaves me to say is ...

My boss is better than yours, nur nur nee nur nur.
(Psyche finishes work at the end of June! Yay!!!, Tue 23 Jun 2009, 21:52, 7 replies)

famly + work, never work
when i was 18 i dearly wanted to work but had no a/levels or experiance... Mumzy let me have a job in the family business (along with almost every other realative on her side of the family...)
all went well, i loved the job and more importantly was good at it - even if it was just a basic office job!
After six months however, thanks to huge personal issue that i won;t be going into she informed my supervisor to sack me. But not untill the next week when she and the rest of my family where in france on holiday. A holiday i was told i wasn't invited on.
I moved out that week, and five years on we still haven't spoke. Can't beat a useless parent for worlds worst boss
*bit of topic i know, but needed to vent somewhere... sorry x
(Emily Salvage, Tue 23 Jun 2009, 21:33, 4 replies)

The Boss
I have very little faith in my boss. In fact I have no faith at all.

Apparently he started the company from scratch and was even the first to turn the lights on in the new office. Early on in his career, he was a total git. The slightest indiscretion or showing the slightest doubt in him resulted in a disciplinary or worse. But as he matured he became more forgiving. As long as you had faith in him, and proved it, everything was going to be ok.

Later in life his son started working for the company (Tch, nepotism)! He was ok, kinda hippyish, but had good ideals. The staff always had time to listen to what he had to say. In fact, he came up with some great ideas!

I really wanted to believe in the pair of them. I wanted to believe that they would make everything ok. But then I started to have doubts. How could so many things be bad and so few good when he was in charge?

I lost all faith in him.

Now, when everything is going good, I don't think of him. But when everything is going bad I still blame him.
(Big Smurf Brush me daddy-O, Tue 23 Jun 2009, 21:25, 4 replies)

My brother recently
married a german girl, daniela. Typically Germanic, flaxen haired, long legged and most certainly not at the back of the queue when the big noses were handed out. I met an interesting mix of people at her wedding, most notably her great uncle - a veteran of WW2.

This old codger (in his 90's but still sharp as a razor) made the time in the bar late on fly by as he told us war stories. As many of you may know, this can be tedious beyond belief, especially after the first 15. But this was riveting stuff, some of the things this guy experienced were far beyond anything I'd heard previously of the time.

The most outraegeous one centred on a former commanding officer of the "Rechte Garde" his Hauptmann T. Dorant. This man was a true believer in the genocide, he was so sure and certain in his convictions that not only did he follow orders without questioning them, he seemed to enjoy the carnage and killing. A proper bastard.

not only the civilians suffered under hauptmann theo, the german soldiers suffered too. he was a complete hygene freak, the soldiers had to be scrubbed, the uniforms pressed, the shoes shined at all times. The old timer told us how theo once, acting on impulse, shot a dove, because it fouled on his uniform. he frequently whipped members of his squadron. His fervour and dedication later led to the founding of a special unit in the Bundeswehr, dedicated to upholding the ridiculously high standards expected. The B.O. SS.
(Fausted Sticking his faust where the sun don't shine, Tue 23 Jun 2009, 20:13, 5 replies)

Money Grabbing Cockmunchers
Also known as Financial Advisors. My first real job was working for such people up in London. I was part of the back office admin team, separate from the main office where the advisors themselves sat, smugging it up like the self-satisfied tossbags they were. Our manager was a fairly decent person, but the company director was one of the biggest arseholes I've ever known. Here are just some examples of his dickheadery;

- The company name was in two parts. The first, naturally, was the Director's surname, the second was taken from the name of the building the office was in. That way, when people saw the address XXX YYY, Floor 5 YYY House, their natural assumption was that the company owned the entire building, rather than renting out a small office on one floor of it.
To this day I can't decide whether this is an example of exceptional genius or utter twattery.

- While I was with the company a young lass joined us for two week's work experience. Her dad was an old friend of the Director's, and he'd asked if she could be shown the ropes of the financial industry, where she was hoping to work once she graduated. Instead, the Director took full advantage of having his own little unpaid office gimp, and got her filing all the old documents from previous years.
Understandably not pleased with being left to do all the boring old jobs nobody else could be arsed to do (and after some encouragement from myself and other admin staff), she left after four days and finished her work experience somewhere else.

- My colleage Anthony told me one day about the time he'd been writing up an email when the Director strolled up to him and asked what he was doing.
"I'm just sending AXA an email to let them know that Mr Johnson isn't a client of ours anymore." Anthony told him.
"No need for that," the Director replied, "if they don't know he's left us, they'll keep paying us commission."

"Isn't that, kind of, y'know, fraud?" I asked Anthony when he told me about this.
"Yes," he said, "Yes it is."

- One of the team of advisors was the Director's son. He was one of the smuggest little pricks I've ever seen. His wank bank probably consists of nothing but pictures of his own over-inflated head, that's how much he was in love with himself.
Predictably, he wasn't even that great at the job, but naturally everyone had to treat him like royalty, because he was Daddy's little boy.

- I eventually left the company after several months, basically on the Director's whim. You see, I was employed on a temporary-to-permanent basis, only in all the time I was there none of the bosses ever got round to filling in the necessary paperwork for taking me on permanently.
Then one day the Director decided that paying agency fees on top of my wages was too much of a drain on his precious funds, so told the Assistant Director to tell the Office Manager to tell me not to bother coming back tomorrow. Never mind that I was effectively the only person who knew how to do my job properly, the other guy having left a week or so before, and his replacement still not fully trained.
This rather cuntish move wasn't well recieved by my co-workers. The office manager spent most of our meeting apologising profusely to me (and later went out and bought me a bottle of Jack Daniels by way of apology), and Anthony stormed into the Assistant Director's office and had a big rant at her about how it could have been avoided if someone had just taken the time to fill out the right forms.
As for me, I just walked back to my desk, dumped a load of papers in the bin, pocketed all the stationery I could find, and then sat reading b3ta till 5:00. Truth be told, I was glad to see the back of the place.

So there you have it. My account of one of the slimiest, money-loving bosses ever. Everyone I was on friendly terms with when I worked there has since left the company, with their own tales of dissatisfaction. I had a brief look on google just now, hoping the company would turn out be a casualty of the recession but, vultures that they are, it appears they're doing better than ever. Gits.
(Uncle Comrade, Tue 23 Jun 2009, 20:10, Reply)

Mr Fucking Fawlty
The Resident Loon's tale reminds me of my very first taste of the world of work. When I was 14 on Saturday nights, I'd do the potwash at a local independent hotel and it was pure mayhem.

The double doors from the restaurant would open and the owner would skitter in, sack everyone, then skitter out cursing God, life and his luck to be in possession of such a shithouse. The chef would call him a cunt and launch a real, metal, sharp, scary fuck-off knife at his disappearing form, his timing to perfection (luckily) as it embedded itself in the swinging doors. After 10 minutes of waiters in and out, barked orders, cursing etc, the owner would re-appear, face purple with rage:
"What the fuck are you cunts still doing here??? I told you all to fuck off, didn't I?"

At this point the head chef, a bear of a man,would make a big show of dropping whatever he was working on and start heading round the hotplate to kill the owner. The owner would scurry off, there'd be more mayhem, waiters in tears, plates of food launched across the kitchen etc, then 2 pints of cold lager would appear, dropped off by a pretty barmaid. They'd sit there in full view of the whole kitchen for a few minutes, before the owner would stick his head around the door again, and announce loudly that they were for the only 2 people in the building who actually worked properly, weren't cunts, and who still had a job ie, me and my mate Dave doing the pot-wash.

Astounded, we would bury our head in the piles of pans and plough on as the battle raged around us.

Fast forward an hour and a half, everything would be tranquil,smiles all round, hotel owner sitting going through the chits with the chef, beer for everyone, nothing more said about the the mass sackings. This would happen EVERY week.

Being 14 and honest we opened our wages one week and found £12 rather than the usual £6.00, so Dave and I thought we'd best tell the owner he'd made a mistake. (Yeah, I know, innocent and un-corrupted) He looked up from a pile of papers, scowled at us, and said
"Do you not want it?"
"Um, yes,but we only did one shift"
"I know, happy birthday, now fuck off" and shoo-ed us out of the office.
This would happen on and off for no apparent reason, we never again questioned it, naturally.

Last heard of on the run from the tax man after selling the hotel to a major chain, whose accounts team spent months trying to unpick all of his shady dealings, unfortunately AFTER they had paid him for the place. My hero!
(Rsoles, Tue 23 Jun 2009, 19:51, 2 replies)

rumble in the jungle
In my old job i had 2 co owners of the company so effectivley 2 bosses. One was fine and the normal , the other could have his moments . This is about the latter.

As some of you may know i used to work in a used car dealership. I was out the back doing all the real work . At this particular time i had a nyoung lad working alongside me ,and for a young `un he was a good worker.
This particular day we had finished grooming a car and put it out on the yard when boss numberf2 asked us to come out front.

He started ranting about what a shit job he thought that we had done on this car berore he came out with the now immortal phrase.

"Muhammed Ali was great this car is not , its more George Foreman !!! Sort it out!!!!"

In all fairness we HAD got all the greasy stains out of the seats........
(welgar, Tue 23 Jun 2009, 18:34, 1 reply)

Chronicles of a Pretentious Self Righteous Turd!
I worked for a man on several occasions who was definitely knitting with only one needle, and could have an entire book devoted to some of his workplace antics. Somehow he has managed to keep the company going for 25 years, something that can be attributed to the string of intelligent designers he employs, annoys the fuck out of and then slags off when they resign. Myself and a former colleague had a great time playing around with the 25 years of keeping your promises rosette image he made us stick on our work emails but that is another story...

My boss Mike, I wouldn't do the injustice to anyone elses name, had a wide repetoire of stupid idioms that were only half and/or wrongly remembered, would give unwelcome personal and relationship advice for problems he thought you had. What really pissed me off was his never-ending quest for complete and total adoration from everyone.

At a time when I had problems with a pair of old ladies so entrenched into their ways that you would sooner put a stake through their heart than attempt to reason with them, he proved exceptionally dense. After an extremely unsuccessful meeting to resolve the problem between them and myself I sent an email at how disappointed I was that the meeting went in the direction of whomever shouted the loudest, but that I was more interested in getting my work done than pursuing the grudge. This got forwarded onto the MD, Mike. Mike doesn't read; I have yet to determine whether he can or if he is so convinced of his omniscience that he does not need to, and decided I had threatened the staff and the Sub(human)manager - off to the office I go! He starts off badly, 'I don't like long emails' that may have something to do with my cruelty in picking the most cumbersome words I can whenever I know an email will go his way, and soon launches into the trouble I can get into for threatening colleagues and gave the immortal line 'I know people don't think I know anything, but I've got my ear to the ground; I know which way the wind is blowing'.

It was at this point I asked him if he had read my email, rather perplexed by my reaction to his macho-man routine (I was trying not to laugh) began attempting to regain the intiative decided perhaps to give a quick flick through. Realising he had perhaps gone the wrong way he proceeded to change the subject. Onto one of his personal favourites when he wants to talk to me off the clock. My marriage.

I got married young at 20, and I'm still married at 23 happily with one child, and it really irked him because he decided I needed his guidance (maybe he fancied himself Yoda that day? we'll never know), and politely declined since he had little knowledge about myself, my plans and my fiancé. When I returned from America to work there my wife was 5 months pregnant, and very quickly some nasty gossip was around that I was unhappy, wanted out and had urged my wife to get an abortion - and I always had a good idea who started it.

Mike was always keen to remind me marriages nowadays fail, preparing statistics and bizarre scenarios that involved my wife in a way I found to be very insulting ('got to watch those American women, they're all big cheaters' I asked him if he had ever been romantically involved with an American and since he said no I had to take his advice at 'face value', the clear subtext being - bullshit). I quite often made it clear I did not want these conversations on several occasions, which he interpretted as 'try again later'.

So here we were again. 'Has the novelty worn off being married yet?' and similar inane statements like 'you should keep an eye on that wife of yours' and felt that having never met my wife was no obstacle to criticising her. After a crushing 15 minutes of this and my patience finally expended our chat came to a close with a patronising clip around the back of my head and a 'just remember what I told you' that had nearly cost him the function of his legs but fortunately resulted in a rather limp 'don't be an ass' which still mortally wounded the c*nt.

Still, come the christmas party my wife really went to town, looked beautiful and being native american was a stark contrast to Mike's hyperbland spouse with all the conversational value and attractiveness of a carpet tile. I personally did not like the leers she received from Mike or Robocop - the turdish salesdrone - but it was still one of those rare moments of pleasure I had it that time there.

Do not miss the place. Still, moved away, got a new job which royally pissed him off because I had not told him when I would be moving.
(Bad Magic ain't that cute... but its wrong!, Tue 23 Jun 2009, 17:52, Reply)

Feet.
Many moons ago I was a nurse. I then changed careers and went to work in advertising. At one particular advertising agency I worked for they sent us two South African Creative Directors to "whip us into shape." Both of them were pretty odious, full of themselves, and not very good creatively, but one of them was a misogynistic pain in the rear. This story relates to him, let's call him "Mark," for want of a better name. Mark marches into my office one day and says, "Woofie, you used to be a nurse didn't you?" To which I replied, "yes." "Well, will you pare my corns for me? My feet are clean and I have a blade with me." My mouth nearly hit the floor. I was a writer and this "ass" was asking me to pare his corns. I also hate feet! Luckily, the office manager heard the conversation and intervened, making him an appointment with a local chiropodist. I think this has to be the strangest request I've ever had from a boss, and since advertising is a pretty strange business, that's saying something.
(Woofie, Tue 23 Jun 2009, 17:15, 1 reply)

My last boss
was a right eccentric who was completely camp as fuck. He would mince around the place in fishnets, bizarre makeup and a suspiciously Joan Collins-esque hair-do. He was more concerned with partying and having a good time than doing anything of any worth. In the end, I had to shoot him before taking the entire castle back to Transexual, Transylvania.

In his defence, though, he did cook a good Meat Loaf...
(RVD420 has his world coming down on, Tue 23 Jun 2009, 17:14, 2 replies)

My boss
He loved his bad jokes, really, he did.

He once wore a shirt to work saying "Born to pun".

And then he wore it out to a nightclub that evening, which oddly, had a power cut.

Did that bother my boss?

Nah, he was quite happy to continue dancing in the dark.
( jim_bob can herd cats., Tue 23 Jun 2009, 17:07, 1 reply)

Restaurant owners tend to be mad.
Back when I was in my early twenties I did a stint of a few years working in various restaurants. In general, I find that the owners tend to either be their own best bar customers or have some other major crack in their psyche- they're generally seriously messed up people. For instance...

John owned a small tavern in a small town in Upstate NY near a horse track. It was a sort of medium-quality restaurant and a dive bar, but the food was pretty good and it was kept clean (mostly by me). I worked back in the kitchen, doing everything from washing dishes to prep cooking to stocking the bar to mopping the floors. It was shit work, but at least it kept me fed that summer.

The only thing was that John and his wife liked to drink. A lot. And John also had a fondness for other chemicals as well.

One night the kitchen was slammed with orders and we were working hard to get stuff out as fast as possible. John was on the grill and took a quick bathroom break, and shortly after started getting increasingly erratic. He was slinging food around at a manic rate and getting angrier by the second, screaming at the waitresses and at me as he worked. It was probably around 90F or more in that kitchen, which didn't help.

I was grabbing pans and dishes as fast as I could and washing them and returning them, but apparently I wasn't fast enough. John came over and started screaming in my face, and for emphasis he was holding a 10" chef knife under my nose. He concluded his tirade with "You're fired! Get the fuck out of my kitchen!"

Some things do not need to be repeated, I fucked off instantly.

I was living in a rented room, and my only transport was my feet and my bicycle. The next morning I went out on a job hunt, canvassing every place within a three mile radius- about as far as I really wanted to ride my bike. I filled out applications everywhere, and about lunch time I gave up and went to the pizza place in town. I grimly put down a couple of dollars for a slice, knowing full well that I didn't have anything to spare. Mel, the owner, noticed my expression and came out from the back to sit with me. "Everything all right?"

I put down the pizza. "Actually, no. It's all shit at the moment. John got cranked up on something last night and went crazy in the kitchen and fired me."

Mel burst out laughing. I glared at him. "Thanks, that helps a lot."

"Didn't you know? He does that all the time. You know how many times he fired his own brother? Just show up tonight like nothing happened."

"Are you nuts? Mel, he was holding a knife in my face!"

"Yeah, he does that. I saw him throw out all of the customers one night while he was holding that knife. An hour later he was passed out on the pool table. Everyone knows he does that shit. Just go back this afternoon and work."

I finished my food and thought about it for a moment, and it started to really get under my skin. A fucking game? Getting screamed at like that is normal? What the fuck! What kind of madhouse am I living in where the people just accept this?

On the other hand, I didn't have another job.

Full of adrenaline and testosterone and quite prepared to grab a skillet and administer a full-arm spang, I walked into the kitchen. John was there, digging through the refrigerator for something. I stopped a few feet away, my fingers on the handle of a hot pan. "So John, what time do you need me today?"

He glanced over his shoulder. "Oh, hey. Come back in about two hours- the races will be just about to let out then. Meanwhile go have a beer on me." And he found the tomatoes and closed the refrigerator and cheerfully sliced them up for the sandwiches he was making.

No memory at all of firing me. Hot fucking damn. No recollection of putting a knife in my face or anything. Good god.

On the other hand, I didn't have another job...
( The Resident Loon Not a demographic. Do not measure., Tue 23 Jun 2009, 16:59, 1 reply)

My Boss
Was "Born to run" small to medium sized firms




Im sorry
(Is this a good idea? ... Yes this is definitely a good idea, Tue 23 Jun 2009, 16:52, 3 replies)

Best boss I ever had
Donald. A great guy, hard-nosed businessman and THE most charming man I have ever known. I knew I wanted to work with him as soon as we met.

When I went for interview with the board of the holding group for my job as European technical sales liaison manager I decided to be a little belligerent after Donald asked me what I could "bring to the party"*. So I asked each one in turn what they 'brought to the party'. Each answered in some detail (never get an accountant to detail his job FFS) and, when it came to Donald's turn (I didn't know at the time he was the de facto owner) he just smiled and said "I'm charming". I got the job just on the fact I had the balls to interview the board!

We had many many adventures together in the wilds of the former eastern bloc (see my posts abou expenses, bullet holes in cars etc) but the one that springs to mind is the time that we were in Paris about to close a very large deal with a French car company (not renault).
I could hear him swearing intermittently about the internet connection going down, then ranting over the in-house phone about it, getting reconnected, the line going down etc etc ad nauseam for about an hour.
I then heard "BOLLOCKS!" shouted in his best glaswegian accent, then the door slamming and him ranting his way down the stairs to the front desk.
Then I heard a few muffled screams. "Oh shit" I said to myself, "he's gone fucking postal" and ran down to see the carnage.
There was Donald, tearing a strip off the concierge, berating him for the crapness of connection, how important the internet was, how much this deal would cost if we lost it etc etc. The concierge was taking none of this in at all, probably because Donald was standing there, in a small boutique hotel (on the Boulevard des Italiennes if anyone's interested) at 7 pm STARK BOLLOCK NAKED!!

I ushered him upstairs, apologised to the concierge in my schoolboy French (what is the French for 'he's a bit mental'?) and got the connection sorted.

The working breakfast at the hotel with the buyers of the aforementioned company was a tad strained as the hotel staff all pointed and giggled. After the meeting I asked him about his 'plan'** when he went down to reception naked.
His reply was "It worked didn't it? Anyway I got three room numbers pushed under my door last night".

Great guy.

He died suddenly 12 days ago. We're burying him tomorrow at midday, the dress code is no black, cheery colours only.

RIP Donald, the world's going to be a lot less fun without you.



*And party it was! The absolute epitome of the work hard play hard ethos. Great days.

** "What the fuck were you thinking, you mental twat!?"
(Captain Placid 24/7 ball gags, brownie mix and clown porn, Tue 23 Jun 2009, 16:12, 6 replies)

My boss was recently in a car crash and lost his arm
He’s a nice boss, so we all chipped in for a present to aid his recouperation.

Being a practical man he asked for a prosphetic arm and a week’s rehab at a nerve pain institute.

We couldn’t afford that – far too expensive. So we went half way on both his requests.

We clubbed together and bought him a prostitute.
( SpankyHanky, Tue 23 Jun 2009, 16:00, 2 replies)

My Boss
always wears really sharp suits, walks round the office in dead expensive shades, and always smells really nice and manly (but in a refreshing-doing-a-bit-of-surf-boarding-before-driving-his-Ferrari-round-Monte-Carlo-sort-of-way).

His name is Hugo...
(Big Grant, Tue 23 Jun 2009, 15:44, 1 reply)

Senile seniority
Of all the bosses I’ve ever had, one deserves special mention for his complete and utter buffoonery. Working in a completely humourless “professional” firm meant that moments of lightheartedness were few and far between, but the old duffer unintentionally provided many.

On the face of it, he was very much the affable white haired gent in his sixties who’d made his own way in life and was senior partner in the firm that bore his name. His smiling, grandfatherly face adorned quarterly newsletters and greeted new members of staff alike, carefully cultivating a family firm image.

Once through the door however, it didn’t take long to figure out that far from being a cuddly grandpa, “M” was a forgetful, boorish and rage inducing old giffer. I hadn’t been there long when the phone rang.

*ring-ring* “Hello? Pop down Charlie”

He actually meant “drop everything and come to my office right now”, for if you failed to appear within two minutes, he’d phone you again with the same request. And again and again.

If you turned up any later than 8:55 or left later than 18:00, M would assume that you were twiddling your thumbs with boredom and would drive you batshit with never ending demands.

*ring-ring* “Hello? I need a list of debtors. Pop down with it will you, Chelsea?”

*ring-ring* “Hello? Will you get me a list of who is coming to the cricket next week, no rush…anytime in the next five minutes will do”.

*ring-ring* “Hello? And get me a cup of coffee while you’re at it too”.

How we avoided being lynched or sued I have no idea. Several months on and M was recruiting a new receptionist cum secretary. He wanted a good candidate, so decided to vet the applications himself. He really showed his mettle this time.

The first candidate duly showed up and baulked at the sight of the narrow, treacherous steps to M’s office. The poor woman was obviously physically handicapped and stood a somewhat skewed four feet six tall in her heels.

“This job involves carrying files up and down stairs quite often” barked M, substituting the word “coffee” for “file”.

“It does say on my CV that I’m registered disabled” replied the unfortunate, shrivelled woman, “if you’d read my CV carefully you would have avoided wasting my time and yours” she continued.

“Ah. I see. I thought when you said you were disabled, it just meant you were a bit short, arf!”

The poor woman was duly sent on her way. It would never have worked out. You needed the patience of a saint.

*ring-ring* “Hello? Chester? I need you to pop down right away”.

Duly summoned, I walked into the office to find M sat there looking bewildered as usual.

“I’ve had my suit returned from the dry cleaners, but they didn’t send back my trousers. I need you to find out where they are” he commanded.

“Have you got the number?” I ventured.

“No. I’ve forgotten which dry cleaners I sent it to and my secretary has lost the receipt. You can use the Yellow Pages” he dismissed.

And that was it, I spent the afternoon phoning round dry cleaners trying to track down a pair of trousers.

Three days later he turns up at work wearing them.

“I didn’t put them in with my jacket. They were hanging in my wardrobe the whole time! That was lucky, wasn't it? Arf!”
(ChestyLaRue, Tue 23 Jun 2009, 15:39, 3 replies)

Turkish Delight
My last boss was a bit of a xenophobic bigot, who didn't like people eating Turkish Delight because it was a bit "Muslim".

He even put up a sign on the break room door: "EAST TREAT BANNED".
(Vice Admiral Sir Charles Cockbrush KCB MBE DSO, who is finding it increasingly difficult to log into b3ta.com wants to duck your aunt and kick your puppy, Tue 23 Jun 2009, 14:36, 7 replies)

Someone earlier
was talking about expensive commas.

I work for a publishing company, and I used to have a boss who would flip out if he found something published with an italicised space.
( browser still relating boring anecdotes into a void on, Tue 23 Jun 2009, 14:14, Reply)

Foundry Work
My dad told me about this fella from his days working in a foundry in Coventry. This was the sixtees, the summer of free love if you had cash, or if you were skint like my dad, the summer of being up to your armpits in grime, molten metal, terrible noises and the daily excitement of knowing you could be rushed to hospital in the back of an ambulance missing a part of a limb. It was an American firm my dad worked for with head offices over in Denver. As such, the evil uber swine who ran the plant was an American they had flown in. This bloke was a complete arsehole. If there was a rushed order, he’d be known to get one of his many underlings to take the batteries out of the big clock they had in the place so the foundry workers would find themselves working half an hour or so of inadvertant and unpaid ‘overtime’.

And he’d go off on one at the slightest provocation. Completely blow his gasket, rage and fume, and almost always sack some poor fucker on the spot for daring to be too tired or too ill or too overworked to operate as a normal functioning human beign in an incredibly physical, stressful, and mentally demanding job. This overlord of the foundry had a name, but because of his monumental rages everyone knew him by his nickname: Steam. Because you could almost see the steam shoot out his ears when he got mentalist angry.

My dad, being a huge scary looking fucker who could crush cars with his bare hands and also having a funny Italian accent and a pregnant wife at home who depended on his wage, was a regular target for Steam’s nefarious schemes. My dad would regularly find himself performing petty tasks for Steam’s enjoyment – he even had my dad up in his office a few times with a duster, polishing his furniture until it gleamed. Just because Steam liked the thought of having this giant of a man doing something he thought was demeaning, something he thought made my dad look like a raging homosexual (Steam liked the gays as much as he liked the immigrants; weird, really – what with him coming from abroad himself).

So, one time when my dad was up in Steam’s office and after he’d given the place a good spring clean, my dad emptied half a bottle of Brasso into Steam’s coffee. Steam came in, saw my dad, and ordered him back down to the foundry floor as “this isn’t a holiday camp – you’re here to work,” as he took a big pull on his now cool cup of beans. Apparently Steam went a strange colour, made a sound like a duck being strangled, and immediately lost control of his bowls and shat himself in a series of noisy, horrible, tempestuous farts. Shit actually ran down both his trouser legs. Steam went running from the room, leaving a weird vapor trail of poo, rushing round the offices much to the secret amusement of the bank of secretarial staff who were also treated like, well, shit by this man, and Steam eventually ended up in the bogs where he remained for the rest of the day. Cursing, farting, shitting, and begging for an end to his misery. And from that day on this fella, born in the USA who’d seen an end to his Glory Days, had a new nickname. The boss was known as

Loose Ring Steam.
( SpankyHanky, Tue 23 Jun 2009, 13:20, 2 replies)

Oooh, wage slave nostalgia !
First boss - job as a cashier at a bingo hall. Hated the supervisor, who was technically my boss, because she was a gossipy miserable bag who decided to make me a scapegoat for her ineptitude - basically because she didn't like a younger more capable woman coming into the job (I was eighteen, and after abit of training, really took to the role.) After a year or so of her bullying, I caught food poisoning from uncooked pork from the place's kitchen. I was pretty ill - salmonella it was, so I found out from the doctor later on, not just the occasional vomit.
Bitch wouldn't let me go home although I was dead on my feet, so I threw up behind the cashier desk, called myself a cab and told her to stick the fucking job.
Two weeks later when I went to collect my final wages, the manager draws me into his office and begs me to stay, as unbeknown to me I was the only cashier not making huge shortages on the takings every night. Told him to stick it too. He never once acknowledged any of my requests for advice or assistance about her bullying so, fuck him very much.
Luckily I had been dj'ing for some years by that time so I didn't exactly need the job for the money.
Second boss - some bint at a chocolate factory where I wrapped easter eggs all day (dj'ing all night. Very rock n roll, lol). She was alright, but the amount of makeup she wore would scare Barbara Cartland. Because we all had to wear white overalls, hairnets and hats for hygiene reasons, this woman painted the only area of her body visible to the world as some sort of badge of individuality I imagine. When she changed into her street clothes at then end of our knackering shifts however, she unfortunately looked like a hooker fallen on bad times.
Third boss - working at a bowling alley as a ten pin teacher by day, dj'ing still by night. He was hardly ever seen, and when he was seen, would open the bar up to the employees after hours and sell us cheap booze. Then drive us to the nearest motorway service station for a fry up breakfast at four a.m. Nice bloke.
Fourth boss - another bingo hall. Boss being my immediate head of department. Shagged him. He thought he was god's gift to woman cos he had a big one. Not as big as the guy I'd just packed in however. lol.
Then I became virtually blind one afternoon. I was already blind in one eye, I then lost most of my sight in the other in a couple of seconds whilst drying my hair one day. Sounds weird but it's true. Boss dumped me forthwith, that very same day, as the tail end to my tearful "I have gone blind, the hospital say I need time off to see if the sight will come back" conversation to him in the office at work. "I suppose I'll have to get someone else in for tonight then," he grumbled, "And by the way, you're dumped."
Nice guy, not. Business and shagging - no mixie.

Voluntary work after that as the sight didn't return and few people want to retrain a blind bint - last boss was a guy called Morrison Cherrie - boss of a volunteer centre somewhere in Kent. Champion bloke - supported me in every way he could, trusted me to do my job, cracking principles and a brilliant sense of humour - and wasn't averse to a bottle of wine last thing on a friday afternoon.
Current boss - myself. Apart from Morrison, I'm the best boss I ever had. ;)
(womanwhocanonlylivewithdogs, Tue 23 Jun 2009, 13:10, 2 replies)

Paul
(or: Tightwad fuckery in Washington DC.)

So, I am walking out of the restaurant of the Crowne Plaza in DC after meeting my boss on a business trip as the waiter accosted me, saying ‘Excuse me sir, what did I do wrong?’

‘Um…nothing… I don’t know what you mean’

‘Well,. Your bill was $120, you only left a two dollar tip’

‘Um…I didn’t pay, I was having dinner with my boss, he paid’

‘Well, Did I offend him?’

‘I don’t know, I don’t think so’

‘In that case sir, I suggest you don’t eat here again tomorrow night’

‘No, I am sure it is just a misunderstanding, here, take this as your tip, I’m sure he will pay me back’ and I handed over a twenty dollar bill.

Did my boss pay me back?

Did he fuck.

‘I’m not obliged to pay these bloody Americans anything, if they don’t earn enough they should get another job’.

Thanks, Paul, you tight-fisted bastard.

Still, at least I got my fingers wet in your daughter at your third (or possibly 4th, I don't remember anymore) wedding. Didn’t know about that, did you?
( scarpe We Stole Bikes, Tue 23 Jun 2009, 13:02, 26 replies)

Sally
Sally was the most self centred person I have ever had the misfortune to work for.

I could go on and on about the unbelievable lack of empathy she had for anyone ever.

But I will just say this:

When she heard that a colleague’s 17 year old son had terminal cancer, she said ‘Why do these things always happen to me’

Is anymore explanation really needed?
( scarpe We Stole Bikes, Tue 23 Jun 2009, 13:00, 6 replies)