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- a member for 1 year, 10 months and 5 days
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- has posted 8 stories and 11 replies on question of the week
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» The Boss
There's always a deal...
I've read a couple of Pooflake's descriptions of the Warehouse management at a certain warehouse, but as I was office based, here's one of the office managers (I ain't going to hope to match PF for vitriolic style or metaphoric panache though).
Not long after our team was brought together (merging two site's teams into one) it was decided we'd all go for a curry, so there's about 20 of us in the curry house and I find myself opposite the manager in question (who shall remain Mike).
As we're perusing the menus and deciding upon starters, rice, naans etc. he leans over to one of his new cronies and says "order up twenty poppadoms but tell them we want a deal fro a bulk order and we want them for 20p each" [instead of 25p]
So to sum up, this sentence alone means:
1) A grand saving of £2 off a £200-odd restaurant bill.
2) The staff of the place who are about to cook your dinner think you are a tosser (and so god knows what they do to the food) and
3) All your staff think you are a twunt of the first order, and not only that, but that you haven't got the guts to be a twat yourself, you have to get a minion to do it.
The fact that I stayed there another 7 years is more testament to my idleness and high tolerance of shite than his getting any better as a manager.
GL
Oh, and he ALWAYS pronounced "specific" without the 's'
And at least three of his staff cited him as the reason for leaving in their exit interviews, myself included - it was only his planned retirement being weeks away that stopped him getting fired.
(Fri 19th Jun 2009, 15:19, More)
There's always a deal...
I've read a couple of Pooflake's descriptions of the Warehouse management at a certain warehouse, but as I was office based, here's one of the office managers (I ain't going to hope to match PF for vitriolic style or metaphoric panache though).
Not long after our team was brought together (merging two site's teams into one) it was decided we'd all go for a curry, so there's about 20 of us in the curry house and I find myself opposite the manager in question (who shall remain Mike).
As we're perusing the menus and deciding upon starters, rice, naans etc. he leans over to one of his new cronies and says "order up twenty poppadoms but tell them we want a deal fro a bulk order and we want them for 20p each" [instead of 25p]
So to sum up, this sentence alone means:
1) A grand saving of £2 off a £200-odd restaurant bill.
2) The staff of the place who are about to cook your dinner think you are a tosser (and so god knows what they do to the food) and
3) All your staff think you are a twunt of the first order, and not only that, but that you haven't got the guts to be a twat yourself, you have to get a minion to do it.
The fact that I stayed there another 7 years is more testament to my idleness and high tolerance of shite than his getting any better as a manager.
GL
Oh, and he ALWAYS pronounced "specific" without the 's'
And at least three of his staff cited him as the reason for leaving in their exit interviews, myself included - it was only his planned retirement being weeks away that stopped him getting fired.
(Fri 19th Jun 2009, 15:19, More)
» Buses
I was taking the bus home one day
When this youngish woman in a catsuit got on. She didn't seem to have enough money for the fare, but the driver let her on anyway. She was followed by this bloke in a blue suit and a long brown trenchcoat.
So far so straightforward, but then, as we went through the Blackwall tunnel (although it could well have been a tunnel in Cardiff) we must have hit a pothole or something because there was all of a sudden lights flashing outside, sparks and general odd spacey-timey effects.
ALl of a sudden we find ourselves in the middle of the desert on an alien planet. The weird bloke in the suit claims he's some kind of doctor, but he didn't help with my sprained ankle. And the woman in the catsuit annouces she's Lady Fruitella-Tottington or some such and decides she's in charge.
After that a whole bunch of alien flying metal things come swarming towards the bus and I start to regret taking a bus anywhere near an Easter Bank Holiday.
If only I'd done it forty years earlier I'd at least there's have been some singing and dancing and I'd have got to meet a young Una Stubbs.
GL
(Fri 26th Jun 2009, 10:23, More)
I was taking the bus home one day
When this youngish woman in a catsuit got on. She didn't seem to have enough money for the fare, but the driver let her on anyway. She was followed by this bloke in a blue suit and a long brown trenchcoat.
So far so straightforward, but then, as we went through the Blackwall tunnel (although it could well have been a tunnel in Cardiff) we must have hit a pothole or something because there was all of a sudden lights flashing outside, sparks and general odd spacey-timey effects.
ALl of a sudden we find ourselves in the middle of the desert on an alien planet. The weird bloke in the suit claims he's some kind of doctor, but he didn't help with my sprained ankle. And the woman in the catsuit annouces she's Lady Fruitella-Tottington or some such and decides she's in charge.
After that a whole bunch of alien flying metal things come swarming towards the bus and I start to regret taking a bus anywhere near an Easter Bank Holiday.
If only I'd done it forty years earlier I'd at least there's have been some singing and dancing and I'd have got to meet a young Una Stubbs.
GL
(Fri 26th Jun 2009, 10:23, More)
» The Boss
"guitar groups are on the way out" **
My first job from Uni was at a firm that made & sold posters to other students, if you've ever seen a poster sale at a uni advertised with yellow & black plastic signs, that will have been us.
Sometime in the mid-late 90s we had a certain chap named Robin working there. He used to drive an old British Rail van and was something of an artist. Seeing an opportunity he approached my boss with some of his original art with a view to making some posters of them, and was promptly rebuffed with "It's all good, but it won't sell".
Turns out it was this fellow:
en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Banksy
GL
** De-Ris: en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Decca_audition
(Fri 19th Jun 2009, 15:45, More)
"guitar groups are on the way out" **
My first job from Uni was at a firm that made & sold posters to other students, if you've ever seen a poster sale at a uni advertised with yellow & black plastic signs, that will have been us.
Sometime in the mid-late 90s we had a certain chap named Robin working there. He used to drive an old British Rail van and was something of an artist. Seeing an opportunity he approached my boss with some of his original art with a view to making some posters of them, and was promptly rebuffed with "It's all good, but it won't sell".
Turns out it was this fellow:
en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Banksy
GL
** De-Ris: en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Decca_audition
(Fri 19th Jun 2009, 15:45, More)
» The Boss
A Long time ago at a certain car warehouse (again)
Before all the wankers in management there, there was the guy who opened the building way back in the early 1990s.
He had his desk in the corner of the office so anyone could approach him, he knew everyone by name and while he could be strict, he was never less than fair. Sure he had his favourites, but it didn't stop him praising those outside his 'inner circle'. If he made a suggestion (as in "GoodLord, we're making you redundant but there are some new, French-speaking positions being made, I suggest you get your CV up to date and bring it in") you knew it was a suggestion worth following.
Then he went and got cancer and died. Opened the floodgates for all the wankers, arselickers and fucksticks that followed in his footsteps.
Life's a bastard at times.
GL
(Fri 19th Jun 2009, 16:30, More)
A Long time ago at a certain car warehouse (again)
Before all the wankers in management there, there was the guy who opened the building way back in the early 1990s.
He had his desk in the corner of the office so anyone could approach him, he knew everyone by name and while he could be strict, he was never less than fair. Sure he had his favourites, but it didn't stop him praising those outside his 'inner circle'. If he made a suggestion (as in "GoodLord, we're making you redundant but there are some new, French-speaking positions being made, I suggest you get your CV up to date and bring it in") you knew it was a suggestion worth following.
Then he went and got cancer and died. Opened the floodgates for all the wankers, arselickers and fucksticks that followed in his footsteps.
Life's a bastard at times.
GL
(Fri 19th Jun 2009, 16:30, More)
» That's me on TV!
It's a G, then a C, then an F....
De-lurks, first post etc... so be kind, please. OK.
Woo. Two QOTWs in one Festivals & TV.
As a long-haired folky hippy, you'll find me on the first week of August in the quaint Devon town of Sidmouth for the folk festival. First off, a weekend just isn't long enough for a festival. YOu need a week: long enough to get drunk for a couple of days, have a day off ("Sidmouth Wednesday syndrome") and then get back into the swing for the last couple of days.
A couple of years ago, owing to constrained finances and a lack of organisation on my part (coupled with a reluctance to spend another week camping at the side of the road, under threat of being moved on by Devon council) I decided against going, but come Wednesday I found myself sitting at my desk* thinking 'this is all wrong' and immediately booked the following two days as leave and headed for the West Country.
Now my rule for Sidmouth is that I don't see any gigs (in eight years I've been going I've seen about 3) and I spend all the time in one pub or another with my guitar with my fiddle/flute/banjo/melodeon playing friends. So come the Friday we're all sitting in the pub on the sea-front when in walks a bloke with a large tripod and big sod-off camera which he proceeds to set up right next to me. The BBC logo on the side caught everyone's attention and we all started really concentrating on playing nicely and in time (unlike the rest of the day).
Fast forward a couple of weeks and BBC4 is showing "50 Years of Sidmouth Folk" and there, halfway through is a shot of my fiddler mate's large nose filling the screen (just ready for widescreen) followed by the back of my guitar and my left ear.
Lucky for me you can't hear my mate calling every chord change to me so's I don't look a prat on TV. Kind soul he is.
Length? About 45 seconds.
GoodLord
*at a certain car parts warehouse in the Midlands with which I know Pooflake is acquainted
(Fri 12th Jun 2009, 13:18, More)
It's a G, then a C, then an F....
De-lurks, first post etc... so be kind, please. OK.
Woo. Two QOTWs in one Festivals & TV.
As a long-haired folky hippy, you'll find me on the first week of August in the quaint Devon town of Sidmouth for the folk festival. First off, a weekend just isn't long enough for a festival. YOu need a week: long enough to get drunk for a couple of days, have a day off ("Sidmouth Wednesday syndrome") and then get back into the swing for the last couple of days.
A couple of years ago, owing to constrained finances and a lack of organisation on my part (coupled with a reluctance to spend another week camping at the side of the road, under threat of being moved on by Devon council) I decided against going, but come Wednesday I found myself sitting at my desk* thinking 'this is all wrong' and immediately booked the following two days as leave and headed for the West Country.
Now my rule for Sidmouth is that I don't see any gigs (in eight years I've been going I've seen about 3) and I spend all the time in one pub or another with my guitar with my fiddle/flute/banjo/melodeon playing friends. So come the Friday we're all sitting in the pub on the sea-front when in walks a bloke with a large tripod and big sod-off camera which he proceeds to set up right next to me. The BBC logo on the side caught everyone's attention and we all started really concentrating on playing nicely and in time (unlike the rest of the day).
Fast forward a couple of weeks and BBC4 is showing "50 Years of Sidmouth Folk" and there, halfway through is a shot of my fiddler mate's large nose filling the screen (just ready for widescreen) followed by the back of my guitar and my left ear.
Lucky for me you can't hear my mate calling every chord change to me so's I don't look a prat on TV. Kind soul he is.
Length? About 45 seconds.
GoodLord
*at a certain car parts warehouse in the Midlands with which I know Pooflake is acquainted
(Fri 12th Jun 2009, 13:18, More)