Just to add a little balance....
A while ago I was working at an insurance company, a new girl had started and had been there a couple of weeks when the MD happened to get into the same lift.

He, very politely (he was a pretty nice bloke by all accounts - most of the time), asked the girl, by name (he had a knack for that, remembering people's names - there were 2000 employees and he knew each and every one of us by name, I kid you not), how her first week was going.

"Not really very well," she said, "I really don't think I'm cut out for this Insurance lark".

Well, let's be honest, most people within their first week would have lied and said something like "Not bad, really enjoying it" etc.... but the reason she thought she wasn't cut out for it is because, well, she wasn't a cnut, and insurance companies, like banks, usually are.

This girl was employed to answer the complaints line (called the Customer Service Line), so she was never really going to hear good stories, but this one, possibly the third call she'd taken on her own was particularly heart-renching.
She'd taken a call from an elderly lady who'd changed her life insurance from a Bupa accredited plan to one of ours - no doubt after much cold calling.
About 6 months later, she discovered a heart condition that could have been fixed on the NHS, but only in as much as it would keep her alive. If she wanted an operation that would render her still able to be active, then there was a cost of 18 grand - which clearly she could not afford.
As we were only the agent for the insurance, the ultimate decision to pay out was up to the underwriters.
They, of course, dug into her medical history and found that around 35 years ago, the woman had been diagnosed with a slight heart murmur. I have no real idea what that means, but am assured that it's nowhere near as bad as it sounds.

The pound being the almighty, the underwriters saw this as a neat little way to wriggle out of paying, as she had declared that she had no health defects when she took the policy.
The lady was distraught; this meant that the two dogs she had would have to go as she would be out of breath walking to the front door let alone walking her dogs twice a day.

The MD of the company, asked the girl in the lift to his office and asked her why she replied in the way she did. She explained the story to him.

This MD had been at the company at this point for around 3 weeks. He went to see the chairman, and asked what he should do about it. The Chairman replied, "Why are you asking me? You're the MD..."

...and so, the company paid the 18 grand for the old lady to have her operation. The girl was told, and was asked to phone her up with the good news.

The op. went ahead, and the lady knitted a thanky you letter to the girl. Yes, knitted it, and sent it in with pics of her walking her dogs.

Not all managers are cocks.
(dchurch bah, Wed 16 Jun 2010, 11:42, 15 replies)

Supervisor Bizarro
First ever post. Hope you like.

I used to work for the council in a region of Scotland. My immediate boss often left me in awe of his wisdom. These are some genuine quotes from him-

"Graham, you've got to put your sheep out in the field before you can make bread."
"Life's like a bar of soap because you wash your face in it every day."
Me to him- "How did your appraisal go?" "Cake of soap, Graham. Cake of Soap."
"Have you tried that chicken coffee, Graham?" "Do you mean Chicory coffee?" "Aye, chicken coffee."
"It's a dog bite dog world out there."
"That boy's as squint as a £5 note!"
"I'm watching you like a hawk. Too-wit too-woo!"
When I challenged him about an error he'd made- "Give me a break, Graham. I'm not inflammable!"

I often wished I had tested the last statement.
(Jackie Chan's Lovechild Go outside for annoyment!, Tue 15 Jun 2010, 12:14, 12 replies)

The GP managing my bipolar disorder
is hopeless. EDIT: Brilliant! EDIT: Hopeless. EDIT: Wonderful! EDIT: He's fine, I'm the problem.
(apeloverage committed the vile act of onanism on, Mon 14 Jun 2010, 15:33, 7 replies)

far too much time on my hands...
while i have had more than my fair share of arsehole bosses in my time, and the less said about the Dubai debacle the better, but on this occasion i have to put my hand up that i was in fact one of the senior staff at the time so therefore technically part of the so called management team...

Improvised flamethrower (PR)
I’m quite sure any rational bloke would insist when it comes to desirable gadgets an improvised flamethrower is right up there with a Jessica Alba Android and TeleportationTrousers, therefore not technically a pointless experiment. However, whilst pyrotechnical experimentation should always be nurtured in the young and reckless, the choice of firing range in this instance may be at best filed as ill advised.

Many moons ago I worked for a fairly rubbish ‘New Media’ company with a lot of bored, disillusioned staff. Jinks were always high. We had a set of steak knives in the kitchen, not sure why but they were perfectly balanced for my burgeoning knife-throwing act – until that is the semi-psychotic boss (same bloated buffoon as in my ‘Only 14 Hours to Bristol’ post) raged into the studio during an all staff meeting demanding to know who had been using his office door for 'bloody knife throwing practice'. Cue blank looks all round. I did find it indicative of our work ethic that he immediately (and rightly) assumed knife throwing had occurred. Other experiments included creeping up behind people on the phone and liberally wrapping parcel tape round their head – securing the phone to their noggin (this works best when they are also resting their chin on their free hand so you can cocoon that too) thus ensuring they must continue an (albeit muffled) conversation with Mr Self Important Client Tosser. Other japes involved cutting the corners off large boxes then arranging the boxes as crumple zones for stunt man ‘death’ leaps from filing cabinets. Using the wet & dry vac to hoover up peoples coffee from their mugs in one greedy slurrrrp always got a response too - usually ‘for fucks sake Spimf, fuck off will you, you fucking idiot’. Shooting out the bulbs on the desk lamps across the room with an air pistol tended to unsettle/enrage the occupant of the workstation a fair bit as well. So you get the picture – a committed and focused bunch of highly trained imbeciles.

One particularly slow day I spotted some large heavy-duty cardboard tubes lying there temptingly in a quiet corner. Like any right minded person my immediate thought was: Hmmm… Big Arnie-style RPG launcher i think! So I chose a fine sturdy tube about 4 foot long with a plastic end cap, then selected a slightly thinner tube that would fit nicely inside. A great big wodge of bog roll was taped around one end to make a snug and effective plunger for my makeshift munitions. Initially, this was simply ‘plunged’ to make the plastic end cap fly off with a satisfyingly low frequency ‘THHHONK’. Put simply i had fashioned the worlds biggest pop gun.

Soon my bodged bazooka sprouted a shoulder strap, side handle, plunger grip and nicely weighted cardboard ‘RPG’. Menacingly, I strutted around the studio attempting to shoot large things off high shelves and generally breaking stuff. With it's Kappa board fins and conical nose my ‘RPG’ flew surprisingly well. Boredom however, is a relentless staggering zombie that never lags far behind dear Spimfy. It was then I spotted the lighter fluid we used to clean Spraymount off stuff. I think I may have heard a small internal ‘ping’ as a little light bulb fluoresced in my head. A fist sized ball of bog roll was given a liberal soaking, lit to a near invisible Sambuca style blue flame by a willing assistant then rammed down the barrel with a broom handle, the plastic end cap was then popped on to provide a bit of back pressure. Clearly the restricted amount of air inside would only last so long, so launch had to be hasty. This however meant aim was a secondary consideration. I plunged the fucker with aplomb.

Fuck. Me.

It would be no exaggeration to say ‘a fucking great big fireball’ streaked from the end of my cardboard contraption with quite spectacular results. The pressure combined with a sudden rush of nice oxygen rich air produced angry red and yellow flames. It made a fantastic roaring noise as it soared across the studio trailing acrid black smoke and a deep thud as it slammed into the window recess resulting in an even bigger ball of flames. HOORAY! Everyone whooped and cheered - the few sensible ones (developers mainly) standing well back, shaking their heads and muttering about inadequate fire exits. The flames rapidly subsided to a little smouldering clump of blackened bog roll - the hilarity waned in harmony. Then, quite unexpectedly... Whoosh! The fabric window blinds went up in flames – big style, eagerly assisted by the dust and cobwebs around the ancient window frame (did I mention our office was a converted mill in a World Heritage site? Probably best not to). Dust and cobwebs and dead spiders burn like a motherfucker by the way, which I discovered while trying to ‘clean’ my garage with a blowtorch once.

In a blind panic I belted across the room and (with some difficulty) yanked the burning blinds down and proceeded to stamp on them with some considerable urgency. This had an immediate effect; being that it set fire to my shoes. I can honestly say the spectacle of me rain dancing with flaming feet did seem to lift the mood for a while.

A couple of days later the (increasingly psychotic) boss was eyeing the scorched, melted patch of fuzzy office flooring and looking for answers. Blank faces again. Good job he didn’t turn round to see the hastily installed non-matching window blinds stolen from another department.

length? fully extended about 5 foot mate.
( spimf ™ is whoever you want him to be, Fri 11 Jun 2010, 11:57, 10 replies)

Temper temper

During a Business Management lecture about differing management approaches, the professor completely flipped out when a girl sat at the front received a text message. The beeps from her phone set him off and he just lost it, yelling and screaming for her to get out of the hall.

He was usually a pretty laid back guy and we all just sat there open-mouthed while he berated her. Her 'but sir...' was completely shot down and he yelled she was going to be kicked off the course.

As she stood up and began to pack her stuff away in tears, he abruptly changed his tone and said 'Now that's an example of overly aggressive management.'

I've never laughed so much.
( Regger, Tue 15 Jun 2010, 14:36, 15 replies)

I have two bosses
At times they are horrible to me, I have to be at work for 7am everyday without fail, even on my days off at least one of the bosses calls me early in the morning for work related matters, and if it's not one of them it's the poor bloke who is covering for me. I am not allowed a sick day unless it involves being in hospital and then they would probably call me every two minutes.

The day usually starts with me handing in some work which is usually considered wrong and gets thrown back in my face so I have to do it all again and twice as fast as we're running a tight shift. Once that's done with I'll try to grab a coffee and a quick snack which, if I am lucky might involve a few chocolate bourbons, but usually I get nothing. My next task is sort stacks and stacks of work into the right piles for later in the day when they will be folded, stuffed and posted in the right pigeon holes for each person in the company, all the while boss A yelling for me to organise my time more efficiently as he has much more important matters for me to deal with such as a presentation on ease of access to hunting grounds and how a bridge might make it easier to get the prey rather than going through the river. Boss B has an idea half way through my presentation and runs off to the design and construction department to oversee another new project, it's most likely a prototype for the bridge.

After finally getting those pesky pigeon holes stuffed and sorted I try to catch up on my e-mails but boss B and boss A have called a meeting where we have to watch a presentation on a construction company we work with everyday to see how they are solving the problem of inadequate staff and community issues, i've never known staff like it, I thought I was bad but the labourers on this building site are appalling, the bloke who works the cranes is terrified of heights and gets all upset when he picks stuff up, an hour later and having being forced to watch the same presentation 3 times and memorise it for later by pain of deaf I am already beginning to feel a bit tired and hungry so I plod off to the canteen and take my book-keeping books and calculator with me whilst I eat a lettuce sandwich and drink a cold cuppa whilst watching both bosses throw fine food down their necks and drink fresh squeezed juice. The companies finances are a mess and cutting staff pay or hours just won't fix it - I write a note to myself to call a meeting with the accountant.

After lunch I eventually get 2.4 minutes to check my e-mail before the news comes in that Boss B's new project prototype has been dropped from a great height and broken into pieces, I have to go and sort it out before he finds out, thankfully much to my delight boss A decides to help me with this as he knows that B can get very angry when things like this happen and even he doesn't like listening to him scream and shout. Thankfully we got it fixed in time, I don't think I would have been sacked but my day would have been hell, in fact I think hell might have been a slightly nicer place to have been had we not got something done.

A few hours later I find myself in the art department, I quite like it here as the staff are actually nice and I often get free designs from them to put on my office wall and they sometimes even clean up after themselves.

Eventually the day begins to wind down and my colleague starts his shift and we work together for a few hours trying to appease our tired hungry bosses so that they will leave in good mood so that we can continue our work in peace. I decide to order a pizza to save time as we've over-run on the schedule and there's still lots to do. The bosses are pleased with my decision - RESULT! Once again the cleaner doesn't turn up so I have to do it all myself, by which point I feel like a zombie. My colleague and I begin rowing over who gets to clean the canteen, I usually get stuck with it which I hate as there is tons of work to in there. My colleague at this point spends time catching up with the bosses where they usually bully him terribly and sometimes it ends up in a physical fight with boss A putting him in a half-nelson while boss B jumps on his head.

As the day closes and I am locking up the office with the last dregs of cold tea in my tummy, I walk into my bosses office to find them both asleep, I can't resist anything more in the world than walking up to them planting a gentle kiss on their cheeks and telling them how much I love them when boss B's eyes flicker open and he whispers "I love you too mummy, thank you for being so awesome" - My job is ace!
( Mrs Sp@m, Thu 10 Jun 2010, 23:00, 8 replies)

Pervy, PR Paul
I have worked at some good places over the years but have had the misfortune to work for some right bastards. One bloke Paul married 40 something with 3 kids, who was the part owner of a PR agency, was a real piece of work. He regularly spoke to his 6 strong female team like pieces of shit, he’d shout, swear and would pretty much do what he could to humiliate us all on a frequent basis. He also got his cock out once on a ‘team building’ trip that they took us on to France, he was and probably still is a complete c**t.

I had to take the company digital camera to a client function and when I went to download the pictures I found loads of shots of him and a very young scantily clad girl in some grubby hotel room. I’d just saved the photos onto my memory stick when he had another wig out in the main office and started bollocking one of my colleagues quite ferociously, I stood up for her and received the same bollocking. He then called us all useless c**ts and began another rant, I lost my temper at this point, told him I’d never been spoken to like this before by a manager and that I had no respect for him professionally or personally and that I was giving him 1 months notice as of that moment. He then maturely shouted ‘well f**k o** then’ at me.. Needless to say the remaining month was not exactly pleasant. It was made worse by the interviews I was made to sit through while they were searching for the poor soul that would become my replacement. They eventually found a guy called Dave, he was really nice and that’s what made it worse because I knew exactly what he was coming into. I gave him my mobile number and told him to give me a call if he had any questions or needed to find any thing. Anyway, I started my new job and had got about a month in when I got a call from Dave, it was pretty unexpected and his opening line was ‘Can I ask you honestly what Paul is like…because he has just sacked me’. Well 30 mins later it transpired that Paul had discovered that Dave had lied at his interview about his previous salary being 18k per annum, Dave had actually been on 17k. Paul wasn’t happy about this and decided to sack him, the ridiculous thing is that I had been on 22k so it clearly wasn’t all about the money. Dave had been in his previous job for 9 years and his MRS. was 7 months pregnant. Admittedly Dave had lied but a grand in the scheme of things wasn’t a lot for Paul. Considering the amount of money he was coning out of loads of our clients for doing fuck all work and the dodgy tax practices that went on in that place. Dave went on to tell me all the stuff they’d told him about me, he also imparted the bollocks that Paul had told some of the old clients about me. Paul being the c**t that he was meant that none of it was a surprise but it still pissed me off. Infact it pissed me of enough to meet up with Dave the next week where I had the pleasure in handing over the memory stick with the grubby hotel room shots and the keys to the office which Paul hadn’t even been arsed to ask me for when I left.

I found out from an old colleague about a month later about the showdown that followed in the office. Paul had decided to withhold the salary he owed Dave so Dave paid Paul a visit early one morning. He gave Paul the hiding he deserved and then left with a cheque. About a week later Paul’s MRS chucked him out following the grubby poster campaign that had been displayed along their road for all to see. What goes around, comes around.
(Muckynambird, Wed 16 Jun 2010, 15:19, 10 replies)

Banks
In June of last year I, along with 500 others in the bank (or should that be "Loan company owned by a bank" that we worked for, were told that 400 people were being laid off. My branch, based in North London, was one that was to be shut. We stopped seeing customers immediately, and within 3 days the branch was packed up and the contents were ready to be moved in their entirety to Head Office. As for the staff, we were all put on 3 months garden leave which, for those that aren't aware of the term, basically means that you are sent home and told that you're not required to attend work, but at the same time you couldn't start work at a new company.

Breaking this rule meant that the company would have grounds to dismiss you and you'd lose your redundancy entitlement, which was worth a few thousand to each person there.

So, the best part of 90 days doing nothing followed on full pay. I don't care what anyone says, the boredom that sometimes comes from doing nothing all do is outweighed by the fact that you are receiving your full salary for doing it.

I was in no rush to find a new job, preferring to wait for the right opportunity to come. I knew that after my 90 days had expired I had the best part of 3 or 4 months worth of salary being paid to me, which gave me time to look around.

On my 89th day of garden leave I received a phone call.

"SeasonTicketless," the call began, "this is the bank calling. We've got a vacancy in our East London / West Essex branch and wanted to know if you wanted it?"

It was closer to my home than my previous branch was, which appealed, but the downside, they revealed, was that it wasn't a managerial position as I had been in before. Instead it was a standard collections position, primarily field based, reporting to a manager who I happened to have worked with a couple of years previously, before we'd gotten promoted. Not only that, I would be covering Essex, which is where I live, rather than the ghettos of North London as I had done previously, with a caveat that I had to go to the East London branch every morning to collect a list of field calls that needed doing, and then go back every night to update the system.

"We would, of course, ringfence your existing salary and the likes."

In basic terms, I would be doing a far-less stressful job for the same money and benefits as before.

"Hmmm," I said, not believing my luck, but wanting to sound fairly apathetic about it all, "I suppose I could do, but in all honesty the area that you are asking me to cover is all around the area that I live, but that means driving 45 minutes out of my way to get back to the branch every day to update the systems so I don't really think it's worth me taking up your offer."

And I meant it. I wasn't overly fussed about going back, and was having interviews for other places, and was confident of getting a job.

A couple of hours later my soon-to-be ex-colleague called, the aforementioned manager of the East London branch.

To cut a long story short, she told me that she'd sort it so I could come in to the branch just once a week, and could self-manage myself.

Sorted. I started back in mid-September on exactly the same package as before having had 3 months off.

Two weeks into being back I got a call from HR.

"We can't find your old branch files. Have you taken any holiday this year?"

"I sent them files off to Head Office!" I exclaimed.

"Good, that's where they needed to go, but we have thousands of boxes here and can't find your holiday files. Have you got any leave left?"

"Yes," I lied, knowing full well I'd taken two or three weeks early in the year, "I had booked a couple of weeks away in the Summer but cancelled them when we were put on Garden leave as I couldn't afford it, so I still have all of my holiday entitlement left."

"That's not good." came the response.

Bugger, I'd been rumbled.

"Well," they continued, "that means you have to take 28 days of leave before the new year as you can't carry it forward."

I ended up working from mid September to mid November, and then having the rest of the year off, returning to the office in early January.

The day after going back in the New Year, we had heavy snow. Not bad enough to stop me from driving in it by any means, but once again HR were on the phone.

"Is it snowing there?"

"No," I told them, "it seems to have stopped, but there's snow that has settled everywhere."

"As we thought," they said, "for health and safety reasons you can't do any field calls until it clears as it's too dangerous. That also means you can't drive to the office."

Two weeks later, long after the snow had cleared, we were given the ok to go back to work.

I returned to the office on the first day back after the snow chaos, and within an hour of being there the manager held a team meeting.

"The company is laying off 80 of the 100 people that are left. As of now we're all on 90 days Garden Leave, full pay"

Eventually, in late April, I finally left the company with several thousand as a redundancy package, having worked apporximately four months in the past twelve, all at full pay.

And they wonder why banks get into so much trouble. Bad management that worked arm-in-arm with bad HR practice.
( SeasonTicketless is too often the statue, and rarely the pigeon., Fri 11 Jun 2010, 16:02, 3 replies)

PC Direct's last laugh
Some of you may remember the late and seldom lamented PC Direct magazine in the UK.

Back in the depths of the first dotcom bust the publishers decided to shut down PC Direct. This came as a bit of a shock to the staff, some of whom had been headhunted from competitive titles for Direct's relaunch not six months before. The news that they were suddenly out on their ears and unlikely to find new jobs on the whim of crap management left them understandably pissed off and seeking revenge.

Now it was well known that the publishing manager on the title was a tad on the lazy side. Before a magazine is sent to the printers it's the publisher's job to give the proofs a final once over before OKing them, but the journalists knew that in this case the manager almost never did and just signed them off automatically before buggering off for the weekend.

So when the magazine hit the stands there was a management explosion. The cover was a masterpiece, with a picture of a new handheld computer that had been reviewed under the timeless headline 'Best hand job ever!' Every contact email in the magazine, from subscriptions to tech support, had been changed to the publisher's personal email. But all this was as nothing compared to the letters page.

The letter of the month was a standard "is this a good time to buy a PC?" that computer magazines get sent by the truckload. But the editor decided to answer it, and all the other letters, honestly. Thus:

"Computers are constantly evolving and for every advance in speed Intel gives you Microsoft will produce more bloated software to absorb the spare power and ensure you have to upgrade again. It's a vicious circle that screws the consumer but it keeps us all in a job, until recently that is.”

Other letters were similarly blunt, including making reference to the magazine having the life expectancy of a hummingbird's fart in response to one letter from a reader threatening to cancel his subscription and telling another reader that they were a fool who shouldn't be allowed near a computer. Basically it was the page we all dream of writing but never get the chance to.

There was very little management could do, apart from grin and bear it. The manager who signed off on the proofs was got rid of and the entire former staff were blacklisted by the company. However, they'd done such a class job stitching up management that finding jobs elsewhere wasn't too much of a problem.

The lesson to managers – screw with your staff and they will fuck you, and not in a good way.
(paxvobiscum, Thu 10 Jun 2010, 17:51, 4 replies)

Human Resources + research = failure
We just got an email round at work telling us that HR had done some research and found that of the 32 nations in the World Cup, 20 are represented by staff on site. The email thanked HR for their tremendous effort and sterling work.

It was immediately followed by several further emails from members of staff who are from the other 12 countries in the World Cup.
( ascorbate, Fri 11 Jun 2010, 13:05, 1 reply)

I work for a Japanese company. I have a beard. After 1 year's employment, this happens...
"We need to talk about your beard"
"Okay"
"It's erm... it's not the Japanese way"
"Okay"
"We'd like you to shave it off."
"You do know we're in the UK don't you?"
"Yes"
"And my beard isn't offensive or stopping me doing my job"
"Yes, but its not very Japanese"
"Have you seen me? I'm not Japanese, and this isn't Japan"
"But we require you to shave it off"
"Have you heard of the European Court of Human Rights?"

30 minutes later....

"You can keep the beard"

Like I needed their permission - fucking idiots. Can't wait to leave this place!
(The Moop, Thu 10 Jun 2010, 13:40, 32 replies)

PKM's story below reminded me of this
2 people who were on the split shift team in our office for a few years, boyfriend and girlfriend (L and K), both some of the nicest people I have ever worked with for some random reason did not show up for work one morning. Everyone thought it was a bit odd, plus our management didn't hear anything from them.

The next morning we had a phonecall from them; apparently L's parents had been through a massive ordeal the night before. His mum had collapsed and after being rushed to hospital found out that she needed a life-saving operation which would only give her a 50/50 chance. Obviously everyone was hit for six by this, so much so that the father collapsed in A&E suffering a massive heart attack and sticking him at Death's door.

Both of them were completely out of it by then, and it was only when the father started making a recovery after the mum survived the operation that L decided to ring work the next day.

A couple of days later, after both his parents were out of the woods both come back in. We had heard about it in passing and all checked to see if they were ok when they come back in. L and K settled in ok and started to get back on with work.

A few hours later, HR come down from the offices above and called L into a meeting, we assumed to see if he was ok. 10 minutes later he comes back down with a blank look on his face, sits next to K and tells her what just happened. Apparently because he was more concerned with both his parents on the verge of dropping dead rather than ringing in to tell work all about it, he was given a disciplinary and an official warning on his record. Also K was to go straight up and see HR as they wanted to do the same with her too.

K is a lovely petite girl, but she turned purple with rage as she marched upto their office. We could hear the screaming from the office floor, she was fucking livid. 5 minutes of shouting and screaming later, she walks calmly out of the office and back down to the floor and casually asks L if he wanted to walk out. He said "Yeah, fuck it". They packed up their stuff and walked out, never to be seen again.

I spoke to them both on facebook a few months later, and they have both never been happier.
( Jeccius Steam Borderlands 2 junkie, Wed 16 Jun 2010, 8:42, 1 reply)

As I was leaving the office one evening at 5:30pm
My boss says to me "Are you off already? The others stay later, sometimes until 8pm.". "Do you pay them overtime?" I asked him, "No" he said. "Oh well, see you tomorrow then" I said cheerily as I left the building.
( stopmeandslapme Cometh the hour, cometh your mum, Thu 10 Jun 2010, 16:29, 13 replies)

When I was but a young lad...
...I worked as a labourer for my then-girlfriend's dad installing windows and conservatories in the local area. It was a fairly decent job for a 21 year old lad I suppose, and it gave me a reasonable amount of cash in my pocket (at first anyway) - £200/week was not bad for a young man still living at home with his dad and with no real outgoings. It was my first 'proper job' besides working in supermarkets or fast-food places and I was eager to get stuck into a man's job and get fit in the process.

I started working for him around May, and I thought it was great being outside all day in decent weather - especially when the summer sun really kicked in.

The problem was - it was a 'cash-in-hand' job. I started off doing the odd shift for him and it slowly went from 1 or 2 days a week to 5 or 6 days, and when any holidays came around, I was left with no pay for the duration of the break.

This, I could handle - the job was what it was and I didn't expect the guy to pay me holiday pay when I was technically not working for him anyway. After all - it was supposed to be temporary and as long as he didn't take the piss, things would be O.K, right?

Wrong.

Problems arose pretty quickly when the big boss-man would stop coming in and he would leave me working with the most sectarian piece of shit I have ever had the misfortune to meet in my entire life.

I was raised in a Catholic household (although by this point in my life I had escaped that particular burden) and he considered himself a Protestant which, given that some of the local inhabitants of my particular town had a propensity for sectarian hatred, led to some pretty severe bullying at my work.

Although I was employed as a labourer, about a month into the job I was expected to be able to fit windows and doors, install cladding and guttering, cut wood perfectly, put up fascias around door and window frames, and do pretty much everything else that they had been trained to do as time-served joiners. When I couldn't manage it (or tried it anyway and inevitably fucked it up) I was: "a dumb catholic arsehole" and my work was of a standard: "that you would expect from a fucking catholic" (conveniently, he ignored the results I received in my exams at school and the multiple Universities that were willing to accept me as a student and the fact that I couldn't give 2 shits about the Catholic/Protestant nonsense so prevalent in our locale...)

I would usually work from 8am until late into the evenings receiving no overtime, and therefore also having no fucking life of any description outside this shitty job. I was physically and mentally done-in and, because of the bullying my self-esteem was absolutely non-existent.

He would give me jobs knowing that I would fuck them up (and also knowing that I was too young and wet behind the ears to have the confidence to say "I'm not doing it") and then spit sectarian vitriol at me in front of the customer, then bitch and moan to the boss about the "idiot catholic bastard" that he had working with him. He was obviously trying to get me fired, but I was still a good worker and I still tried my best to make the most out of a shitty situation. I would work non-stop for the ungrateful cocksucker and would even do extra shifts with the boss at the weekend (also for no extra pay) without a peep or a moan.

Without the confidence to just say "fuck it" and walk away, I felt trapped in a situation which led me to work even harder to try and make them see that I was a good guy and not the "stupid fucking catholic piece of shit" that they perceived me to be.

We had to install conservatories in torrential rain and I was electrocuted by the drill on more than one occasion. We would put cladding and guttering up without a harness (the boss didn't buy any for us) when the layer of frost was so thick on the roof-tiles that we should have had fucking spikes on our shoes. I accidentally sliced my thumb open to the bone with a Stanley knife one morning, and when I was discharged from the hospital after an x-ray and some stitches, I got a phone-call to go back to work. Now, bear in mind that I was using power tools, saws, hammers etc. and I was sporting an oversized comedy thumb. He couldn't even give me the afternoon off...even when I turned up looking like a cartoon character.

Suddenly, £200 a week didn't seem like that much money. Something had to give, be it me having a break-down (at 21!) or taking my hammer to this guy's head. I just couldn't take it anymore...

Looking back on it - the boss was probably just happy that he had someone that he could take advantage of and pay less than a Polish immigrant, not to mention the sick-pay, NI, and tax benefits of having a £200/week, cash-in hand, flat-rate slave working for him.

The final straw came when, at Christmas time, the boss gave us our final wage before the holidays. The guy I was working with got a £200 bonus as well as his holiday pay over the next 2 weeks because, you know, he works so hard. The boss assured me that there was something extra for me in my wage packet as well...

There was - I got a £20 bonus.

For putting up with sectarian bullying, shitty wages, electric shocks, dangerous working conditions, and a life that had fell by the wayside because of the long hours, I got a bonus of £20 for Christmas. Nor was I getting any pay over the holidays...

I'd had enough and threw the wages in his face, told him to shove his job, and walked the 5 or 6 miles home feeling fucking amazing.

Because I had stood up for myself for the first time in 7 months, I felt good about myself again. Even if it was just for a fleeting moment, I felt like I was actually worth something.

To this day, every time I think about it, I make a silent, solemn oath never to let someone make me feel as bad about myself as they did.

Apologies for length/lack of funny.
(god_is_a_ghoti Carpe Deum., Fri 11 Jun 2010, 10:22, Reply)

Internet Usage Policy
A friend of mine worked for a company which relied heavily on internet resources. After a takeover, the new internet usage policy gradually got worse and worse as you read down the page, until point 9, which read:

9. Under no circumstances must the internet be used for (a) upload or (b) download of data.

Sigh.
( Amish Information Systems hates misplaced, commas, Thu 10 Jun 2010, 17:34, 1 reply)

... so it's 10pm on a Friday night, and the woman at the bar asks for another glass of red wine.
Having finished the previous bottle on her last drink, I get a new one out and proceed to open it.

During the process, due to my supreme powers of klutziness, I somehow manage to snap the neck of the bottle and thrust my thumb onto the jagged glass, severing it to the bone. Blood everywhere.

Being the only member of staff in the building that evening, I have to then:

A: Wrap my thumb in a bar towel, which instantly becomes a dripping, blood-soaked rag

B: Get everyone out of the bar

C: Clean up, close up and lock up

D: Get myself to hospital

I do £20 out of the till for the cab, and it being 10pm on a Friday in Central Mordor, A & E is completely chocka - tramps fighting with themselves, junkies passing out with needles in their arms, children with pots stuck on their heads - the lot. I turn up and say "I've cut my thumb ... ". I realise the contrast but the nurses are already weary, do me some butterfly plaster stitches, and give me just wan smiles and tell me they'll be with me when they can. I 'phone back to the bar and leave a message on the machine detailing what happened, to kill some time.

I get out, stitched and bandaged, at 4am, and start the 2-hour process of getting home. I leave a message on the answerphone to the effect that there's no way I'm going to be in for 10am bottling up, but I am so skint that I know it won't be much beyond that.

On my arrival at around 1130, I am something of a hero to the locals - good job on sorting them all out, closing the bar, cleaning up and getting to the sawbones - was I OK and look at that bandage.

Management saw it slightly differently, however. I was immediately taken out back, and asked why was I opening a new bottle at 10pm? Why couldn't I have used butterfly stitches from the first aid box and closed at 11pm? Why hadn't I turned the fridge lights off? Why was the jukebox still on? Why wasn't I in for 10am bottling up? And why in god's own teeth is there £20 missing from the till?!

I handed in my resignation there and then. Broke? There's being a whore, and there's being a crack whore.
( Je suis un vagabond is an unfunny, up your own arse middle class knob, Thu 10 Jun 2010, 12:45, 4 replies)

I always fancied myself as a manager..
I used to work in an internet cafe, it was an easy day job, which filled in a gap until the weekend arrived, so I could return to my regular job as a DJ in the many nightclubs in my hometown of Halifax.

As it happens, my gaffer ran into a few financial problems and needed to sell the business. I came up with some cash, courtesy of a really good friend, so I bought the company, and although costing a small fortune, aquired a business, and in the process, kind of saved myself from losing my job.

Everything went great, I made a decent amount of money, and became quite a reputable businessman in the process. Unfortunately, I let it get to my head, started to grow an ego, binned staff that I should have kept, took on too many projects, and became too lazy - relying too much on my so-called mates to run the place while I was away (which was quite a lot..)

They stole from me, became lazy, and just generally took the piss and as a result the place fell apart. I lost my regulars, and eventually the business fell into debt, I had to close before I became so crippled with debt it would effect my financial future forever..

I'm sat at home now, wishing I had'nt fucked it all up and I can't even walk down the street where my shop used to be, as I am so ashamed of my downfall, I had the busiest internet cafe in town, some great customers and a very successful little business, and I fucked it all up. Not only is it my own fault, but I'm also responsible for the loss of 3 jobs, and it kills me every time someone comes into a club where I'm working and they ask me about my cafe.

That said though, I learned a lot about myself, about money, and who my real friends are.

However, if I ever had the chance, I'd do it all again tomorrow - and those jobs would be offered to the guys I got rid of in the beginning, accompanied by a grovelling apology for being a complete arse.

And as for my mate who gave me the money in the first place to set it all up - he'd be the first person I'd call, when I'd make the money back.

In general, I became a complete fucking idiot, I let my ego get the better of me, and not only did I let myself down, I became a complete and utter cunt, and I lost some of my real friends in the process.

I learned from the experience though, I'm a better person now, more realistic, and I select my friends more carefully, and value my new friends with an open mind and treat them with an equal amount of respect.

I'm also a lot more careful with my money, and I appreciate what people do for me a lot more.

Business Management - an experience I'll never forget, nightmares I'd hate to re-live, but given the chance, I'd still do it all again tomorrow...

Length: About 4 years of madness, late nights, and lots of stress, Sorry for the lack of funnehs, but it's something that's been bothering me for years.
(danniekavanagh did nothing constructive on, Fri 11 Jun 2010, 13:38, 7 replies)

I once knew someone............
...who got paid fifteen quid a day for sticking mud onto potatoes.

It's true I tell you!

It was in Greece in the early 90s - we were picking oranges and one English guy who had been there for years said that he had been employed by a Greek farmer to do that very job. The theory was that it made the spuds heavier, so when the truckload was taken to the (Co-operative) processing plant where he got paid by the weight of the load the farmer would get paid more.

After three days of mind numbingly boring and pointless mud sticking, he pointed out to Spiro that he was being paid £15 a day to stick on (at best) a fiver's worth of mud.

Spiro sacked him for disagreeing with his masterplan....
(Colonel Blink is now officially a pretentious prick, Thu 10 Jun 2010, 21:44, 12 replies)

I had one of those shouty managers once...
...you know - you're 10 minutes late, and she shouts at you in front of the whole open plan office.

I decided I wasn't actually that fussed about keeping the job, and started responding whenever it happened by shouting HER failings back.

Her: "YOU'RE 10 MINUTES LATE"
Me: "FAIR POINT. YOU'RE COMPLETELY INNUMERATE, SO I HAVE TO DO YOUR MANAGEMENT REPORTS FOR YOU"

Strangely, I wasn't fired, and we actually started to get on okay.
( prince-igor si tacuisses, philosophus mansisses, Fri 11 Jun 2010, 15:09, 3 replies)

In 1997 they changed the coffee machine so that the code for black coffee was 18 when before it was c4
Can you imagine? Bastards. I quit 11 years later. That'll learn them.
( Dr. Shambolic je suis charlie, Thu 10 Jun 2010, 18:51, 2 replies)

still not the stupidist manager Ive had
For a couple of years during the Uni's summer holidays I would often take it upon myself to work in menial jobs to stay in touch with the common people and earn abit of extra cash on the way.

One of these jobs was at a chicken murder factory where my job description was to delve my bare hands as deep into the barely dead chickens as possible and rip out the innards as they swung past me on conveyor hooks. Needless to say this job was unpleasant at the best of times, even without the help of the gutting department’s socially inept and at times maniacal manager.

As anyone who has worked at an abattoir would tell you, it’s one of few jobs in which a seven year jail term for arson is seen as evidence of the conviction and responsibility necessary to make one worthy of promotion.

Clearly his sentence did little for his mental health as we would often see him hitting some of the older employees over the head with chickens. I cannot describe the fear of expecting dead bloodied poultry hit you in the back of the head at any moment. It was never provoked and usually done in the spirit of good fun.

This however, was nothing compared to ‘trick’ he would play on the new employees (of which there was a regular turn-around). If while working you felt a slippery coldness on the back of your neck, expect to find Mr Manager behind you with a chicken liver hanging from his mouth. Quite why he felt the need to put an entire bunch of chicken guts in his mouth, sort them around until the liver slithers out like a tongue, and use it to lick the employees is beyond me.
(augsav forgot about B3ta, Fri 11 Jun 2010, 6:30, 3 replies)

How to disillusion your staff in easy stages.
1. Arrive in the post and promptly promise all the resources and manpower that's been hitherto lacking.
2. Wait until nobody's looking then siphon off some of the teams tasks and hand them to another unit entirely. Preferably contractors.
3. Continue to promise this, that and jam covered tits.
4. Announce that there will be a certain amount of restructuring.
5. Pass some more work over to the contractors. Except they promptly pass as much of it back to the in-house people as they can.
6. When one of your staff points out that somebody else is getting paid for work she's doing, take a moment or two to thoroughly patronise her and make her feel utterly valueless.
7. Lob some more work over to the contractors. Oh look at that, now a lot of the in-house people are twiddling their thumbs.
8.Call a meeting and cheerfully announce that out of everybody in that room right now, 70% of them will be in the Redeployment Pool inside two years. Wonder why your staff are now disgruntled.
9. Call another meeting to address any concerns. In the hour allotted, spend 40 minutes of it promising this, that and jam covered tits. Answer precisely two questions and manage to avoid giving any relevant info to either.
10. announce that the previous cuts were overexaggerated and in fact the team has a bright future. Ten minutes later, the contractors arrive for the meeting where you give them even more of the team's work.
11. Invite yourself along to the farewell parties of staff leaving, bringing friends from Main Office who hammer the buffet and the free booze and scuttle off just before the wine runs out.
12. Fail to notice that the contractors you're employing have just hired new staff who look strangely familiar and who are now getting more money for doing less than they were doing before.
13. Fail to notice that your remaing staff are now making "Sucking invisible dong" gestures at you when your back is turned.
14. Dump the rest of the team onto the Redeployment Pool. Since paying out Redundancy is officially frowned upon, you now have an office full of people who are getting paid to do nothing. And who wouldn't do anything anyway since their previous hard work and enthusiasm was rewarded with you hitting them with the "Fuck you" stick.
15. Suck up the plaudits from higher echelons and go off to play golf with live kittens.
(Big D, Thu 10 Jun 2010, 20:49, 3 replies)

greed and pride come before a fall
recently i was involved in negotiating a dispute. the other side were originally seeking £4,000,000 and we were offering them zero, on the basis that they had suffered no loss. in actual fact, our surveyor had advised we should expect to pay in the region of £2,000,000.

all-parties meeting last month, and we offered £1,500,000 in full and final settlement. they asked for £2,000,000. we held firm. they dropped to £1,950,000. repeat ad nauseum over a very long and tedious day, at the end of which we were £50,000 apart. so they could have walked away with £1,700,000. the guy rang his boss to ask for his permission to settle, as he thought it was a good deal, and his boss refused. repeatedly.

two months later, his boss has only just realised my client, a huge plc, has much deeper pockets (and a much better solicitor, clearly, haha) and they are out of cash. he should have listened to his gimp. we have settled it this week for £500,000. my client is coming in his pants with glee. so that shite manager has cost his company a cool £1,200,000 by failing to see sense over £50k. i am glad he is not my boss.

yes i realise this is dull, and no i am not going to apologise, it took up 2 minutes of your life, it takes up all of mine, have some sympathy!
( rachelswipe with a fork, Thu 10 Jun 2010, 18:02, 11 replies)

Getting 'one over'
I had a meaningless job that I was way too smart for.

My boss was useless and clearly didn't know what he was talking about.

Anyhow to cut a long QOTW entry short, he got fired and I got to be the group director and had loads of topless models
and a Ferrari and honestly I don't work in a call centre or anything.

Cheers,
This Weeks QOTW Posters
( moohalaa, Thu 10 Jun 2010, 17:08, 8 replies)

Shall I tell you my story?
OK, I'll tell you my story.

I have recently joined the hallowed(!) ranks of management for the company for which I work. It happened a bit by accident.

I have learnt a hell of a lot over the past few months as a junior manager, and I will share this with you. Just don't tell anyone, OK? It's all a secret.

1: Managers hate confrontation the same as anyone else. So, if a manager is bollocking you for something, then they are probably squirming inside as much as you. A GOOD manager will make it constructive, so rather than saying "you fucked up XYZ" they should say "XYZ went badly, so next time, how's about we...."

2: Being late for work, taking overly long lunchbreaks etc are disciplinary offences. Yes, I know, we've all done it, but virtually every company out there from Bob & Dave's van rental to Microsoft will have something in their policies and procedures about not being late. It seems a bit petty, but the company sees it as costing them money.

3: Sometimes your manager will not like you. Unfortunately, that's a fact of life. But even if that is the case, a GOOD manager should leave personal feelings to one side in professional dealings. They don't always. If there is an issue with a manager, speak to them about it, or speak to a superior.

4: Following on from 3, if you are having an issue at work, or at home, that is or is likely to affect your working life, flag it up as early as possible with your manager. A GOOD manager will take all reasonable steps to help you out. Remember, a manager's role is to help ensure you can do your job.

5: Do not lie on a CV. It will come back to bite you on the arse.

6: Managers do not have to know everything about the job you do. A GOOD manager lets his staff get on and do the job, and gives them the support they need to do it. If you are an IT manager, it might be you don't know how to turn a PC on, but if you can manage your staff effectively, you may not need to. For example, my company is a private ambulance service. Of the 4 fulltime managers, only 2 have clinical experience (me, and the MD.) The other 2 (assistant MD and logistics manager) have no need to know how to stick a broken person back together. It's not their job. And believe me, it works. We are a very succesful company.

7: Finally, and most importantly, points 1-6 are completely negated if the manager is from HR. They are soul-less minions of Satan with all the sense of humour and happy-go-lucky nature of the Waffen SS. They hate all and everyone, and anything they touch turns to dust.
( Undercovercarrot got done for gross misconduct on..., Wed 16 Jun 2010, 15:18, 1 reply)

Heelah theh
Ei om thu Suth Efrican head uf eccommudetion far all teams eenvolved een thus chempeenchip. Ei mek thu rooms es comfortibble es possibble.

Ei om thu bed menejeh.
(roysin, Sun 13 Jun 2010, 16:55, 6 replies)

Working in ad sales
Back when t'internet was still a bit new to many folk.

Karen, my mad supervisor, accused me of 'spending too much time typing away on the e-Web', or somesuch.

'I'm sending emails, Karen'
'What?'
'Emails... I'm communicating with clients by email.'
'Email!?! You've got a phone haven't you? Use that!!!'
'I do, but a lot of the time it's good to get stuff in writing and a lot of them prefer to do it this way.'
'Don't bullshit me Snowy - you're messing about... if you don't stop sending emails, I'll take your computer away.'
'That would also mean I couldn't book any ads, Karen.'
'Mark my words, I'll do it.'

Naturally, I ignored her, as I needed to confirm a few things with clients, and she did actually come over and turn my computer off.

'Right - I told you! You're not turning it back on till tomorrow.'
'Karen, I've now got loads of customers to speak to, I can't access their accounts, I can't therefore get their numbers, and I can't book the ads - what am I supposed to do?'
[Pause]
'Admin'

Mad bitch...
(SnowyTheWereRabbit the Leporid from Hell, Thu 10 Jun 2010, 12:39, 2 replies)

I think this is pretty fucking shit management...
Many of you already know that the lovely Jessie died last month.

Her brother lost his job last week; it was the end of his three-moth trial period and his boss told him it was because he'd had a lot of time off...

Upon expressing his disbelief and annoyance at this, and comparing his two weeks off (for which he'd offered to take annual leave) after his sister being killed to the time a colleague was shortly going to be taking off when his baby was born, the boss changed his tune to "Well, it's not really the time, your work hasn't been up to scratch, sorry"

What a cunt.
(Professor Kenny Martin Hmm? What?, Tue 15 Jun 2010, 15:58, 34 replies)

Tale's of a modern day twat - The ultimate DVD collectors item. But with no extras
In an effort to clear up confusion, write one of the longest QOTW responses and lay claim to the ultimate pearoast, I have cobbled together the 4 parts of my “Tales of a modern day twat” story. This is not a re-write and therefore it does not contain a Honda Accord. Sorry for this. Length is a gift, please accept this kindly.

This is some loosely based facts and stories about a guy who claimed to be my boss.......... He is called Paul Fright and is, was, and always will be a complete turd.

Paul would take great pleasure in seeing someone else make a mistake (drop something, trip over, soil yourself etc) by standing near the person, arms folded, shaking his head with a huge shit-eating grin on his face before unleashing some frighteningly cutting and witty remark along the lines of "I don't think you wanted to do that!" Before bowling off and tell all and sundry what a prat you were for fucking up.

He droned on and on about "Uni" and how wacky it is to be a student, have no money, get blitzed on booze every night of the week and have an abundance of sexually active ladies running around him, while at the same time looking like a complete penis with ill-fitting trousers, thick glasses and a laugh that sounds more like a sedated hyena than a human being; working every day God sends, then going out for a night on the town in work uniform, having 4 pints of piss-weak beer and then go of his nut puking over his only work-clothes and then getting blasted by every single girl he comes into contact with, eventually getting raped by two burly overweight men in an alleyway before stumbling home to get a bollocking off his Mum for getting in late.

Sunday afternoons in the Fright household consist of hefty religious gangbang sessions where the family all sit around admiring how great they are while pondering how far his dad can get his fist up his old dears Gary glitter. This is swiftly followed by some hairy-handed adolescent activity in his darkened bedroom with nothing more than a torch and his dad's second hand copy of scouts monthly. After many seconds of vigorous hand shuffling he spills his "Cuntridden" spunk over his hand and then lets the family dog lick it off.

After appearing in court on charges of sexual deviance and pissing off the judge so much that he thinks twice about the use of capital punishment, he swans into work with a swagger that suggest pre teen buggery has taken place in the last few minutes, on his day off. Wearing the most god awful attire (usually consisting of the shittest market stall trainers, the tightest drain pipe stonewash jeans that look like something bon jovi would wear while laxing round the gaff and a t-shirt that would probably say something along the lines of "look busy, Jesus is coming") to tell one and all that they are doing everything wrong no matter what their boss has told them and then proclaim that things you are doing are never going to be as good as the things he has achieved in other places.

He leaves work after an hour of pissing everyone off to the point of bloody murder and strolls gentry down to the nearest church group to offer his mundane drivel to nearest poor sap who is willing to lend a misplaced ear. After a fragrant attempt at luring a young boy into the toilets he leaves with his tail between his legs and off to fight another court order.

On finishing his 89-hour shift at work, Paul then swings past the local orphanage to laugh at the children. He starts to take his spying a little too seriously when he is caught hanging from the 3rd floor window with his trousers round his ankles, cackling manically, with his glasses all wonky.
In the police-cell Paul meets a charming man called Dave, who is 7ft tall, built like oil tanker and has the word "Dave" tattooed backwards on his head. After several minutes of silence, Dave stands up and bangs his head on an overhanging pipe. The resultant roaring laughter from Paul infuriates Dave to the point where he threatens to turn his entire body inside-out and bugger him in the face if he doesn't shut his stupid horse-mouth. Paul, in a moment of weakness retorts that Dave "looks like he's been through a hedge backwards, and is gay." But Before Dave is able to tear Paul's DNA out a policeman enters to take Paul away for processing.

Once bailed from the cells Paul takes a long walk home, mincing along like a right pranny and notices a dying sheep in a field, mewing intermittently with its eyes rolling back in its head and all maggots and flies penetrating the already decaying flesh.
After contracting genital warts and the plague off the dead sheep Paul decides his best plan of action, rather than going to a doctor for antibiotics, is to burn off the warts with some lighter fluid and a match. Inevitably, he sets fire to his entire crotch and runs panic-stricken into the local Nuns-Against-Arson meeting at the school hall. He is chased by a gang of pissed-off nuns who corner him and begin to bat at his bollocks with lead-piping to put the fire out and to release his tiny dick from the hands of the devil. Unfortunately Paul flies into a fit of rage upon hearing one of the nuns whisper something to the effect of "Look at the size of that tosser's willy. You couldn't plug a pin-hole leak with that." And savagely beats 3 nuns to death.

His actions alert the police and he tries to hide from them by dressing as a baby but this only creates further problems as he finally found by the SWAT team, in a nursery, wearing only a toddler's nappy, crying and defecating wildly. His embarrassing attire is made all the worse when he is kept wearing it all night before being thrown into a cell. With Dave.

Upon realising his unbelievable good fortune Dave, who by now has the has the sexual frustration and anger of a bachelor rhino on Viagra who has lost the use of his limbs, grins from ear to ear as the odly dressed and shit smelling Paul Fright is dragged into Dave's cavernous layer. The resulting hours of endless violence, torture, nasal buggery and humiliation towards young fright do not dent that thick skinned outer layer that surrounds his socially unaware soul. He lays in bed that night thinking that this kind of abuse does not hold a candle compared to what he gets at home. As a fait tear drips down his cheek, the slight flicker of an erection from his penis, what can only be medically described as "pathetic", gently arouses him as he plots his future.

During his trial he decides to represent himself in court as no self-respecting lawyer would touch him with a fifty-foot shit stick. After many hours of endless monotony and court attendees subtly and repeatedly coughing the word "cunt", the jury turns in a verdict of not guilty. When the judge said "what the Fuck" the Forman of jury replied "releasing a man like this back into the community can only serve in the aid of social evolution of our nation. Upon meeting him everyone will be aware of what a complete and utter cunt he actually is and will turn there life around on the spot". With these words resonating around his ears he stands up, folds his arms and laughs like chimpanzee with his balls caught in a metal vice.

With justice served Paul wonders merrily down to the nearest Starbucks for a coffee still wearing the same shit and piss stained clothes. In a sarcastic and moronic tone while playing with his glasses with one hand and fluttering his eyes in a way that suggests a stroke is imminent, he orders a double grande,moccachino,frappechino,espresso with Soya milk and fair trade sugar. Blissfully Unaware of the persistent giggling and hushed name calling that is going on behind the counter he sits down to read is copy of "modern railway collector".

To relieve himself of the stress of relentless court appearances and arrests, Paul decides his best option is to take a short holiday in Beirut. He orders his tickets for an Easy-Jet extra-economy seat (due to his chronic tight-fistedness) and proceeds to board the plane. On finding his extremely small seat (with hay instead of cushions, and a pocket fan with shit smeared on it instead of air-conditioning) he found himself sitting squeezing in between two tramps. Both tramps appear confused due to excessive quantities of alcohol and meth-amphetamines in their system and proceed to drill Paul with random conversation. Unfortunately for the tramps they touch upon the subject of child-molestation on which Paul is an expert. After 3 and half hours of lurid details involving Paul and St Josephs-Boys-Under-12 choir group, the tramps decide to move seats, leaving Paul to stare out of the plane window over the war-torn capital of Lebanon. As the plane touches down Paul decides to go for a jaunt around the city but is instantly pulled up by immigration for numerous sexual offences committed in Britain. However after explaining it was all an accident, the officials let him go into town.

Paul, being a monumental wanker, heads straight for the porno theatre for some continental thrills. 10 minutes into the sex show, Paul manages to entice one of the ladies into a secluded booth, and attempt a bit of 'romance'. Upon finishing his liaison the lady reveals herself to be an old man, and the numerous photographs he had just taken of them together could only be bought for a high price. Paul, being a legendary skin-flint, refuses to pay up and a fight breaks out, with the transvestite old-man beating Paul with a foot-long shit-encrusted dildo whilst Paul attempts to pull his trousers up. The cheap-as-shit trousers Paul has on falls to bits, and he is left running through the Lebanon streets in only a pair of Postman Pat boxers and white socks, with two different sets of cum and shit pasted all over his body.
The ensuing riot that kicks off as a result of the grievous act of heresy of Paul's running through the street leads to an international incident, with Paul at the front line. After pleading ignorance and crying to the judge he is let off with a fine.

Paul then beats a hasty exit back to England, whereupon he is flogged by the public for being such a knob. In the melee at Luton airport Paul's glasses are broken leaving him as blind as teenage boy who has just discovered the internet. His disorientation and latent stupidity leads him to a meeting for right-wing extremists at the local church. His inappropriate laughter during one of the fascist leader's emphatic speeches draws attention to the 100-strong band of skin-head thugs. When someone asked "What the fuck was that garish sniggering?" Paul shouted, hilariously to his own mind, "Your Mum." As Paul was unable to see where he was or the company he was sitting with, he was equally unaware of the impending violence that was coming his way in the form of hammers to the knees, Dr Marten's boots to the testicles, and bolt-cutters to his tongue.

Strangely, Paul survived this onslaught and woke up in hospital the next morning in a full-body cast. He tried to ask one of the nurses if she could cut a hole in the cast so he could use the toilet, which she duly did. She accidentally slipped her scissors right up his bell-end when cutting the hole, after Paul made a woeful attempt at chatting her up. When the nurse bandaged his puny dick up she revealed someone had come to meet him. His eyes pricked up when he was told he had a visitor. After a few minutes a familiar lady entered the room and threw a couple of photos onto his bed. Unable to move and having difficulty breathing, Paul began to fear for his life when he realized it was the old man from his trip. Luckily for Paul he hadn't visited to kill him, but felt concern as the old man gradually lifted a smile from his lips as he unzipped his trousers. "Convenient hole you've made for yourself there." The old man said as he pulled the bed curtains around Paul's bed.

After leaving hospital with minor anus burns and penis abrasions, Paul decides to have a change of appearance due to the fact that everyone wants to either kill him or have him hung, draw and quartered in public. Upon realising he has no cash he goes off to the cash point to withdraw some wonga. After spending twenty minutes at one machine organising his savings, mortgage and loans he had irritated one old pensioner to the point where she threatened to stick her walking stick where the sun doesn't shine and kick seven shades of shite out of him.

Leaving the cash point with only a tenner, Paul could her the words "fuck off you tight-fisted malingering cunt" being loudly and violently screamed at him by a gang of valium and HRT addicted pensioners. Being an ignorant and misinformed arrogant knob, Paul thinks they are shouting at a bunch of school kids who where laughing there heads off across the street. What Paul did not realise is that the teenagers were gut laughing at the incredibly noticeable shit stain of the back of his "cheap as shit", white, drainpipe trousers.

However, after spending some time out of the country waiting for the "heat to die down", Paul is blissfully unaware of what style is going down with the kids. He decides that a certain level of research is in order and makes his merry way along to the local bowling alley to pucker up on his fashion knowledge. Being tighter than a ducks arse, Paul uses his crumpled up bus ticket to get a cheaper lane. He purposely asks for the lane next to a group of girls who are celebrating there friends fifteenth birthday, but what caught Paul's eye was the distinct lack of adult supervision.

When it comes to these sorts of things Paul is quicker than a rat up a hippies flairs with cheese tied to his knob. But just before he went to his lane Paul buys a drink, with his arms crossed and I his usual cockfesting sarcastic voice he asks for a "yard of your finest ale please innkeeper", in an equally ironic sarcastic tone the spotty faced teenager behind the counter replies "not before I've seen your finest rectangular ID please, TWAT". Being the though fledged dick that he is, Paul digs out old uni card and invariantly dropped a shit load of pictures out of his wallet that look like a rather ugly man shoving a oversized, shit stained black dildo up the rectum of a man in a dress. After some hefty conversation that went along the lines of:

"your a twat"
"what was that prey just said?"
"your a twat, now get fucked and die"
"excuse me my good man"
"I'm not your good man, What part of fuck off don't you understand?"
"pardon comrade"
"just fuck off and take your cunting drink"

Paul was walked away thinking that the service is nothing to what his Iceland days were like, Paul made his way to his lane holding his piss warm carling that has been blatantly spat in by the barman. While looking for his right size ball he was standing next to some blokes and Paul happened to make his usual off the cuff nosey, cuntish comment. "selecting your weapon are you gentleman" to which was swiftly replied "piss off you nonce".

Paul knew he had a real skill at bowling due a miss spent youth hanging round bowling alleys with church groups and work outings EVERY FUCKING Friday night and in later life as a male prostitute looking for business from rich sweedish business men. He knew this was his chance to impress the young ladies on the adjacent lane with his three finger skill. upon bowling a strike on his first go he was expected a certain level off accolade from the girls but he was greeted with laughter and looks of disgust from the girls. Because Paul is a monumental tramp of the highest order, he was wearing the same clothes he was wearing in hospital and was completely unaware that all the stagnant cum stains that the dirty tranny had left on his black trousers were standing out under the neon lights like a "Black man in a Klan rally".

Realising that he cool factor was at minus one million Paul promptly finished his game and left for the arcade............

I have never seen him since he got fired for sexual harassment, i hope i never do.
(CaptainCuntyBollocks the man who can with a frying pan full of lamb, Sat 12 Jun 2010, 20:48, 5 replies)

Nothing for me to post here this week.
And I am too lazy to find a kitten.
Still you all can click 'cause this post has the word kitten in it.
(Archeleus hates cabbage, Sat 12 Jun 2010, 11:41, Reply)