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Profile for Colonel Dracula:
Profile Info:

Stuff I have posted on the main page for shits'n'giggles:

My entry for the "Re-create an album cover" comp

My Jack-o-lantern for halloween (I grew it myself)

A quick doodle

My neighbours puppy

And what the talented Evilscary did on Halloween:

Robert Goulet in Paint


Recent front page messages:


none

Best answers to questions:

» I Quit!

I have had more crap jobs than you can wave a shitty stick at
and one of the things I have learnt is that your oh so funny leaving stunt didn't stick it to the company or that manager you hated, it stuck it to your ex-work mates who hate the same job/manager that you do but don't have the luxury of fucking off to university, a better job, or the chance to mince around the world for 12 months.

The one thing all of my shitty jobs have had in common is that I have always got on with the people I worked with who did the same job. I have had managers and team leaders who I would have broken my feet on before I tired of kicking them in the genitals, but I have always managed to find some esprit de corps with my fellow wage slaves.

Which is why I am still amazed when people who I considered to be good friends have on their leaving day, fucked me good'n'proper with their "smash the establishment" actions. I'm sure they still boast about it down the pub, lets have a selection of some of my favourite ass-rapings by past colleagues:

Boast: "Ha ha, when I left the shop I worked in during the summer before uni, I stole loads of money and fags"

Reality: The police questioned me, the nice old owner didn’t make a profit that year and his insurance premiums went up. He went bankrupt 2 years later. Ha fucking ha.

Boast: "When I left my shitty lab job, I flushed away a load of samples"

Reality: I had to work 3 weekends on the trot to help some PhD students who were almost suicidal at the thought of 4 years of work literally flushed down the drain. Well done joker, we had a good laugh at that one (once Karen stopped crying).

Boast: "When I left my crap office job in the financial services, I deleted a hundred pending pension/mortgage/life assurance applications, I wish I could have seen my managers face..."

Reality: You cunting cunt. Who do you think had to log them back on the system? Who do you think had to explain and grovel to all the financial advisers and customers who wanted to know where their information and work had gone? "Yes" I would like to add you as a Facebook friend as I can now hunt you down and gut you like the backstabbing cunt you are.

Boast: "I spent a year as a trainee accountant, didn’t like it much as they kept sending me to college and I failed all my exams because I couldn’t be bothered. Before I walked out I sent a group email to all the clients saying that they were all being investigated by the Inland Revenue for massive tax evasion"

Reality: Actually not a problem. You are such an unemployable retard you cocked it up and it was bounced back to sender, we reported you to the ACCA and you will never work in anything but the hottest and noisiest of jobs. Of course, had you succeeded you would most probably have crippled a small practice that had bent over backwards to help you.

Moral of the story: So before you format the company server, please think of the people you like and are leaving behind.
(Thu 22nd May 2008, 15:40, More)

» Customers from Hell

I created the customer from hell (sort of)
10 years ago I had a stopgap job at my local airport working behind the bar. After a few weeks the head manager realised that I could add up, string a sentence together and more importantly wasn’t stealing from the till so they put me in charge of the thieving retards that worked there.

Now the thing you have to understand is that when a job starts at 4am and pays £4.74 per hour with no overtime rate you don’t exactly attract the cream of the available workforce, and one morning I was introduced to a new member of the bar staff who I had the pleasure of showing the ropes. He was 18, scruffy and to be blunt, thick as a donkeys cock.

I showed him how to pour a pint and how to use the till. I also explained that every other customer will complain that the prices are extortionate and that they will explain that the same drink is half the price at their local pub, at which point you should put on your most charming smile and say “Ah, but you cant catch a plane from your local”. If you said it right you would get a laugh every time and turn a grumpy complaining customer into a happy holidaymaker who might even give you a tip for cheering him up.

So the shutters go up and we start serving the first customers of the day. A large tough looking man with his extended family approached the bar and made his order. The new lad took the order with no problems and stated the total cost; at which the customer looked aghast and complained that it was twice what it would cost him down his local. The new lad looked at me and I nodded, he turned to the customer and said “Ah yes…but...um…why don’t you FUCK OFF DOWN YOUR LOCAL THEN”. There was a split second of silence during which my draw dropped through the floor and then the customer exploded into apoplectic rage, his wife joined in and their terrified kids hid under a table and started crying. Security ran in and had to restrain the man from climbing over the bar and tearing me apart to get at the new lad who was cowering in the back room. Luckily this was before 9/11 so nobody got shot or held for 28 days without charge.

We both ended up in the airport general managers office with members of the security staff giving their account of what happened. The new lad was crying like a baby with tears & snot running down his face, when asked why he had insulted the customer he pointed at me and sobbed “He told me to say it”. Unfortunately I wasn’t fired as it was only 6am and I had another 7 hours before the next shift arrived. The new lad went home.
(Fri 5th Sep 2008, 12:50, More)

» Public Transport Trauma

Sleeping beauty?
On a Ryan Air no frills flight from Dublin back to Bristol, I found myself sitting next to some David Brent type suit who was boring the arse off the poor Irish lad in the window seat about the importance of his job and how respected by everyone he was. The obnoxious bastard wasn’t being quiet about it either, pretty much everyone on the plane was a captive audience for this wannabe Gordon Gecko and I could see heads turning and mutterings of “oh shut the fuck up” which were either ignored or didn’t make it past his internal monologue.

After about 15 minutes of this my brain said to my body “Well you can stay but I’m outta here” and I promptly fell asleep, something I rarely do on public transport. I must have slept for about 30 minutes because I woke up and we were just coming into land. The atmosphere on the plane had changed, people were giggling and I could see the stewards at the front of the plane were in fits of laughter. I was a bit groggy, I had a crick in my neck and I had to wipe the drool off my chin but the bloke next to me had shut up which was a bonus.

As soon as we landed and were able to get off, the suit next to me got up quick as a flash, shot me a dirty look and was the first off the plane accompanied by sarcastic calls of “byeee” from the other passengers. People were looking at me and nodding with approving looks on their faces, an air stewardess shot me a really saucy smile and a male steward patted me on the back as I left the plane. A bit confused, I made my way down the steps, across the tarmac and into the baggage claim area. Somebody said “there he is” and people started to come up to me, patting my back and generally wanting to speak to me. “What the fuck?” I enquired of my new admirers…

Apparently, after I had entered the land of nod, the arse next to me kept up his tirade of self-appreciation, but I had fallen asleep in a really weird position. My head was back and at an angle, my jaw hung open and my eyes appeared to have rolled back into their sockets. Word had spread around the plane and people were getting up to use the toilet just so they could get a look at the loud monotonous fucker who was making their flight a misery and the bloke next to him who had died of boredom.

Eventually, a large Irish gentleman stopped in the aisle next to me and said loudly and firmly to the suit, “Poor fellow, didn’t stand a chance sat next to you did he?” which was followed by howls of laughter from passengers and crew alike. Or so I was told.

Apologies for being a bit off topic. It’s hardly “The worst public transport experience ever”, nobody got stabbed or mugged or puked on, but it’s all I’ve got.
(Thu 29th May 2008, 17:24, More)

» Council Cunts

Colonel Dracula: Part man, Part Homeowner, ALL ACCOUNTANT
All I wanted to do was pay my council tax by direct debit. I didn’t realise this would involve a Kafka-esque bureaucratic nightmare. After what seemed like days of my life wasted completing forms and listening to hold music I snapped and informed the numptey on the helpline:

"Ha ha! You fool! You fell victim to one of the classic blunders! The most famous is never get involved in a land war in Asia, but only slightly less well-known is this: never go in against an accountant when money is on the line! Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha! Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha! Ha ha ha... " I then hung up (I really hope that call was "recorded for training purposes!")

I abandoned the halcyon notion of paying by direct debit and decided to pay monthly through my Internet bank account. Now this is where I get my revenge: I always pay at least 10 days late.

10 x £100 instalments per year.

10 days each chargeable month payment withheld = 100 days payment withheld each year.

5.75% bank interest x (£100 x 100/365) = £1.57 profit each year. £1.26 after 20% tax deducted at source.

Click "I like this" if you think I have beaten North Somerset District Council in the weakest possible way.
(Thu 26th Jul 2007, 15:20, More)

» Bastard Colleagues

Mini Michelle
Michelle was five foot nothing high and a complete pain in the arse. Working in an office with her for 7 hours a day was like working with a furious spitting feral cat, every time the phone rang she would throw whatever she was holding down and exclaim “Oh for FUCKS SAKE!” before picking up the receiver. She also claimed to be the world’s biggest fan of Manchester United Football Club. In fact, she wouldn’t shut up about it. Most of the lads in the office were Bristol City fans, and whenever they had a chat it would invariably turn to football and how Bristol City were doing, at which point Michelle would pipe up “Not as good as Man U”, and “Man U would kick their arses” and “Why don’t you support a proper team, like Man U”….

Now Michelle came from Trowbridge, a town near Bath, and we worked in an office in Bristol. According to Google maps, Trowbridge is 197 miles away from Manchester, so Man U was hardly her local team. One day when she was spouting on about Man U, I called her a “Glory hunting wanker”, much to the amusement of everyone in the office. Looking totally gobsmacked she explained; “ACTUALLY, my dad comes from Scotland, so THAT’s why I support Man U!”. (For anyone who is interested, the Scottish Border is 131 miles away from Manchester).

One day the shit hit the fan. We all had what looked like a white Toblerone box on top of our monitors with our names on. One of the lads in the office had cut a face out of a newspaper and glued it to Michelle’s name, and she was going mental; “RAPIST! It’s that rapist! That’s disgusting! Who did this?! This is bullying! I’m taking it to a tribunal!” Eventually our manager got involved: -

Manager: “What’s going on?”
Michelle: “Somebody stuck a picture of that rapist on my monitor! I want this taken to a tribunal!”
Manager: [Looks at Michelle’s monitor] “That’s Roy Keane”
Michelle: “Yeah, that RAPIST”
Manager: “No…he’s the captain of Man United”
Michelle: …..”oh”……

That was the last we heard about Man U for a while.
(Thu 24th Jan 2008, 15:10, More)
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