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This is a question Bastard Colleagues

You've all known one. The brown-nosing fucker, the 'comedian', the drunk, the gossip and of course the weird one with no mates who goes bell ringing, looks like Mr Majika and sports a monk's haircut (and is a woman).

Tell us about yours...

Thanks to Deskbound for the idea

(, Thu 24 Jan 2008, 9:09)
Pages: Latest, 16, 15, 14, 13, 12, 11, 10, 9, ... 1

This question is now closed.

Ever so quick and dirty
This isn't widely known, but when fish mate they emit a high-pitched scream to express their sexual prowess to their acquatic partner.

In the case of one particular fish it's a:
bass stud calling...

Ban me now and I might actually get some work done today.
(, Tue 29 Jan 2008, 13:26, 2 replies)
At university there were two main rugby tournaments, the official one and the secondary, unoffical one that my team played in each year.

We didn't take it too seriously, and spent most of our time in the pub!

We were, in fact, a bar-stored co-league.
(, Tue 29 Jan 2008, 13:22, 1 reply)
Quicker 'n' dirtier
An artist friend of mine made an autobiographical installation using jewellery and piercing accoutrements.

It was a bar/ stud collage.
(, Tue 29 Jan 2008, 13:19, 1 reply)
Oh feck it
A grizzly got loose on campus a while ago. The place went crazy, everybody running around everywhere, panicking, screaming.

We were a bear-stirred college.
(, Tue 29 Jan 2008, 13:15, 7 replies)
Quick 'n' Dirty... I can do better.
My brother has a couple of dogs, both of them bought from a local sheep-farmer who didn't want them. He claimed that they were no use, since they were apparently petrified by the sound that sheep make. The sheep themselves weren't too bad - but when they vocalised, the dogs would simply come to a grinding halt and look a little as though they'd been hit on the head.

They were baa-stunned collies.

/coat, you say?
(, Tue 29 Jan 2008, 13:08, 6 replies)
A female friend who was a bit of a practical joker once put her freshly-worn brassiere in a stew I was cooking, fishing it out before I noticed. Not surprisingly, she declined the stew and awaited events.
About an hour later I had the familiar gurglings and general downward pressure that required evacuation. IMMEDIATE evacuation. As I rushed to the bog, griping guts bending me double, she started laughing and hooted after my bogwards-scuttling self "You know what you've got!"

Wait for it.

"Bra-stewed colic!!"

Out-convolute THAT fucker, Pooflake!!
(, Tue 29 Jan 2008, 12:55, 5 replies)
Name and Shame?
James (because he was christened thus) who works in the Development team of the biggest Stationery wholesaler in Europe does not wash his hands properly after going to the toilet.

The entire building is more than likely layered in his penis germs by now.

Oh and he is a special cuntstubble in his spare time.

I could do many many more, but hey, im a bit of a shit to work with myself so lalalalalalala.
(, Tue 29 Jan 2008, 12:53, Reply)
If there's one thing I can't stand, it's my day being ruined by someone elses bad mood.
This was unfortunately a daily occurrence when I worked as the office junior and general dogsbody at a local solicitors.

Steve has to be one of the most unpleasant, self pitying, self deprecating men I have ever had the displeasure of meeting, let alone working for.

Walking into his office was like entering a vast chasm of misery where all happiness would be sucked from you, lost for eternity in a sea of utter despair. Not to mention it was filthy and smelt as if half the animals of Farthing Wood had crawled into a corner and died behind one of his decrepit filing cabinets. How he never felt ashamed about having clients in there I'll never know. But I digress.

When trying to put calls through to him I would either be shouted at because he didn't want to speak to the caller or greeted with an exasperated, whiney, grunting sound instead of a hello. As his office was behind my desk and his door was usually open, this gave the effect of said noise being in unpleasant stereo. (Just thinking about it now gives me goose bumps...Like nails down a blackboard) *shiver*

I would often return from lunch to find him sitting at my desk, signing his post. He had his own office, why he had to sit on my chair, sweating all over it was beyond me. He would even commit the ultimate sin of office sins and steal my pen. Wanker.

Working with such a rude man really took its toll and I found myself becoming evermore sensitive, jumpy, and well, just sad really.

The only ray of sunshine in my day would be when I made the tea. Yes dear reader, you guessed correctly. I used to spit in his tea.
Once, when I had a cold a big drip of gloopy snot dropped into his cup. I just stirred it in and gave it to him regardless.

The day I quit was possibly one of the happiest I've had in recent years (pathetic I know).

Ohhhhh this was also the office where Dennis worked, a 49year old obsessive compulsive who still lived with his Mum! He showed me how to put a stamp on a letter "the correct way" and had a draw in his desk full of vaseline and rubber gloves. I didn't want to know why, so I never asked.

Please be gentle, it's my first time.
(, Tue 29 Jan 2008, 12:24, 2 replies)
Can you top this for meaness?
Just remembered I chap I used to walk for, for a few months. He'd shimmied his way up the company, perserverence and bloody-mindedness being his major attributes.

It emerged shortly I started working for him that this chap was rather careful with money - by his own admission.

He once did research on the cost of his wife getting to work - factoring in wear and tear on her shoes versus a bus pass, and concluded she should walk to work in a cheap pair of shoes, and then change into her work shoes.

But the real kicker? It was a large company, about 2000 people on site, and they used to have a subsidised canteen (this was during the late 80s). Everyone could eat there, from the lowly plant workers to senior management.

One day, at lunch, an impoverished worker on the same table, had noticed a pattern. Paul was particularly fond of fried eggs, however he always left his egg whites, only eating the egg yolk.

"Can I have those whites?" he asked.
"Nope, but I'll sell them to you"
"How much?"

This continued for years!
(, Tue 29 Jan 2008, 12:23, Reply)
Not so much a bastard, but a little misguided...
A lady at work sent an email to eveyrone with cover notes as to what to do while she was working from home one day. This is all well and good, but she was the receptionist...

How in God's name is a receptionist supposed to work from home?

She got fired the other day...
(, Tue 29 Jan 2008, 12:13, Reply)
IT Companies
Spent sometime working for a small IT firm in West London. After the first week I had already decided not to renew my contract when the end of the 6 months arrived. Not necessarily due to the actual work, more to do with the company and where it was headed.

The place was owned by Rob, a small weasley man with the ego of an eggplant and the business brains of a chocolate tea-pot maker - but he'd been to the right school and married into the 'right' family, so the business was being bankrolled by his Father-in-Law. Not that we were going to make any profits - as any cash generated would be swallowed by Robs impressive skunk habit and his wife's truely epic intake of Columbia's finest export.

Many a time I would be trying to build servers in the backroom, or take support calls in the office while totally stoned due to the fog created by his near chain-smoking. Not only was he a stoner, but he was completely spineless. His wife rulled his life with an iron-fist and everyone took advantage of this.

However, Rob's main failing was employing total idiots (no, not me!), due to his inability to say 'no'. We had 16 year old kids employed as 'support analysts' because their Dad had gone to school with Rob and he 'owed them a favour'.
He employed a guy who swore blind he could code in PHP and SQL, but could barely switch his laptop on. I became suspicious when the 'PHP for Dummies' book came out of his bag.
We had ex-girlfriends doing accounts (not the wisest move) and at one point, he employed his son's former nanny as a receptionist because 'we could bare tobsee her leave the family'.

And the guy was actually shocked when the business failed....
(, Tue 29 Jan 2008, 12:03, 2 replies)
Lazy summary
As i'm a lazy cnut here is a summary of my favourite bosses:

Clive the 40 B&H a day manager of a courier company, had a nasty habit of gambling every damn day

Roy the 40 year old "jack the lad" (READ: Twat) unmarried definitly-not-gay ex-rugby player IT manager who can't use winzip

Laura the blonde retard helpdesk manager who knows as much about computers as i do about using excercise equipment

And Rob the only cool boss ever who i went on holiday to Ireland with and enjoyed many a lunch time pint with

//drops mike
(, Tue 29 Jan 2008, 11:54, Reply)
"Find and Replace? Where's that then?"
Fresh from the Office Manager. Lord Almighty
I'm but the lowly file-chimp and maybe bit big for my boots on this. But the Manager?

Not being able to find the Header and Footer button was bad, but really Find and Replace?

Using Word as a database made little sense to me but ok nevermind computers arent for everybody. But Find and Replace?

Having a network set up, still using phones and me having to explain messenger and ferrying files around on memory pen, fair enough. But Find?

methinks I should ask for more than minimum wage
(, Tue 29 Jan 2008, 11:51, 1 reply)
This is a staff announcement...
A while ago I worked in a large electrical retail outlet. I say large, but our store was actually the smallest one in the country for this particular chain. It was a sorry affair: mainly a shop front no bigger than your usual newsagents, and a stockroom that had room for maybe half a television.

Because of the small size of the store, there was one single Tannoy microphone, on the cash desk. This tannoy had two buttons: one for the shop floor, and the other one for the warehouse.

One Manager of ours used to enjoy giving a running commentary for the stockroom guys about what was happening on the floor. Things like "Lads: Code 88: two fat birds have entered" and "Pete, your mum's in: oh no, wait, just another ugly bint" were regular outbursts from him.

We noticed one day that the microphone basically had two jack leads coming out under the desk. So, being oh-so-grown-up, we decided to swap these round, so all shop announcements went out back, and vice versa.

We couldn't have picked a better time really. As we finished, I looked up and saw the best sight ever. A frankly stunning woman had come in wearing only a bikini (as it was a very hot summer), and to her left, was our manager, with a HUGE grin on his face, running as fast as he could to the cash desk. Before we could warn him, an announcement was broadcast over the whole busy shop front:

"Fuck me boys, I hope this birds' a thief - wouldn't mind giving her a full body cavity search! With my COCK!"

To this day, I still dont know how (a) he kept his job, and (b) he didn't realise when he started hearing his own announcement on the shop floor...
(, Tue 29 Jan 2008, 11:47, 2 replies)
The 50 Year Old Virgin
Right. First post an' all that, so here goes...

Earlier on in this decade I did a retard admin job in the South of Englad while I figured out what I wanted to do with my life. It being entry-level, we attracted our fair share of - how shall we say? - damaged goods. But none were as sad and fascinating as the 50 Year Old Virgin.

We had a team from a certain high-street bank supervising the data entry we did for them, sorting out problems, and somehow this woman had made it onto the team. How could we tell she'd not jumped the spunk shark? Well:

- She looked kinda like a tapeworm in a tweed jacket, with a face like Stuart Lubbock's arsehole.
- She lived with her mum. At 50. Oh yeah. Wouldn't let her go out on her own with guys, no shit. And the kicker:
- She LOVED Daniel O'Donnell. Could not make this up. Had a signed picture. Wrote him long, long letters. When he got married, she sent him a final correspondence saying "Now you're married, I don't think I should write you". Who'd admit to that? Loser. Also she claimed he named an album after something she wrote him. Was it that hit record "Darling, I sent you my dump"?
- To top it all off, she was a devout Christ-Lover.

I mean, these things just add up.

So going by this she should be a harmless rema. Oh no, she was a truly hateful shrew, on our case all day, every day. I guess to make up for her near-lifetime without guy-pork action, she had a chip on her shoulder against anyone who was younger and wanted to have a bit of a laugh. Her 'work' consisted of sucking up outrageously to her manager (who kinda deserves her own entry, but anyway) to the point of obsession - more on which later - and directing work from other branches to our department, even if it wasn't our job. Didn't do any of it herself, of course. She was disgracefully lacking in manners or social graces. I vividly remember going up to her with some work query, and her phone rings mid-sentence, and she picks it up quick as a, I dunno, fuckin' COUGAR while I'm literally in the middle of a syllable to talk on that instead, as if I wasn't there. Unbelievable.

Her speech patterns were stultifyingly repetitive, to the point where she just kept saying "That's Leeds" to a colleague for no reason, over and over, for five minutes when he asked her a question about a postcode (which funnily enough, wasn't even Leeds!). She was Spawn of Joey, and to cap it had a right Papa Lazarou swagger for some reason. We thought she might be autistic, but then autistic people are usually GOOD at something.

Work was her life - funny, because if she had to depend on her actual skills and do real work, she'd be out in 5 minutes - and she took every opportunity to grass up her colleagues (always the male ones, for some reason) for insultingly minor transgressions - one guy was disciplined for YAWNING in front of her. Because that meant he wasn't "into" the job, right? Obviously. She totally hounded the guy out of his job for stuff like this. Once I too was bollocked for "undermining" her because I was too busy to see to her billionth query that day (she used to come up to me, like, 5 zillion times a day to look up an account number, squint at it, then go away. Achieved nothing, but hey ho, saves her actually WORKING). Bought her cabbage-stink over to my corner too, which was pretty unwelcome.

So, to the suckup thing. As well as the aformentioned O'Donnell, she had an unhealthy obsession with this manager. And said manager would take it, and then mock her behind her back (nice). Despite this, the manager would always stand up for her and take her side. Example? The Tard Lady had appalling handwriting, really really small, and people would complain regularly that it was unreadable. We went to her manager about this, and her response? "Don't wanna knock 'er confidence". I mean, how damaged must someone be for a handwriting quibble to have a chance of destroying their ego? What the? I wouldn't have minded if the manager just said she was actually a mong, or she'd been Madeleined by her dad once, but we just had to accept it.

So anyway, the day came when the manager was to leave, and 50 Year Old Virgin got very panicky - probably because her protector was gone and she might have to do some actual work and it would become obvious how much of a fuckup she was. On the day of leaving, she gave her manager a TON of presents, and a big card - I shat ye not - FILLED with her psychotically tiny scrawl. I had to go over and had a look as one of the other guys on the team saw it and was CREASING. Then she took a week off because she was "distressed" about the manager leaving, which just so happened to be at the same time my mate on her team booked a holiday so he had to come in and cover during this great emergency. Bitch.

I was so glad when I left that place. I've no idea if she's still there (last I heard she did indeed have to do some actual work and was Deacon-ishly incoherent from the sheer effort - this amuses me), but these kinds of people just seem to keep going without being killed, don't they? I could understand why she'd clearly never done it - her flaws were many and she looked like a right fist of munt - but I've still no idea how she managed to stay in that job that long.
(, Tue 29 Jan 2008, 11:17, 8 replies)
Partly inspired by My_Cat's post below about office jargon, and partly inspired by senseless paperwork demanded sent by senseless people: No, I cannot fill in a pro-forma, any more than I can leap a tall or read a good. Nor can I return it to yourself.

Oh, and, while we're at it, adding "please" to instructions or recommendations is not polite. It's supercilious.

/minor rant
(, Tue 29 Jan 2008, 10:54, 1 reply)
Not Kevin this time.
But someone who couldn't help, with the best intentions in the world, getting so far up your nose that people wanted him to be abducted by a cannibalistic cult, tied to an altar and finely minced. Ahem.

Young, depressingly keen and cheerful, always on time, booted & suited, and desperate to learn the 'tricks'. And just so absolutely overwhelmed and doing a little puppy-dance of joy at working for Brand X and actually getting to drive one home every night, that I swear he generated his own crack-like level of endorphins.

Anyhoo, this was the age of the training trips all over Europe when new models were launched. The older and bolder used this as a chance to meet up with old colleagues, sink a bevvie or nine, occasionally steal a car, and generally abuse the facilities. Our lad would be the one who would retire at ten to study the technical information, be on time for every presentation, sitting at the front radiating keen-ness and unnerving the instructors who thought they'd got a Moonie or something in the front row frantically scribbling notes.

Now, the real technical stuffis done by the blokes in overalls. Technicians, they're called. The sales guys are required to know the basics, be able to press the right button, and why this bit of kit is better than another maker's. No-one has EVER asked a sales guy how exactly the multi-channel ABS, Stability Control, or roll-over sensors ACTUALLY work. Is the fact that the wiring loom is fibre-optic likely to influence your purchasing decision, or the cost to change?

Now boy wonder would return from his training trip, hangover and STD free, and from then on EVERY customer got 'The Demo'. The 'Features and Benefits'. Whatever. He'd have the seats out to prove that they did, in fact, come out. He would load six CDs into the drive to prove, in fact, that it was a 6 disc changer. Nothing too much trouble. Unfortunately, his targets included people just after a brochure, people trying to find the bogs and on one memorable occasion the person servicing the coffee machine.

I can only describe it as being locked in a building with a rather excitable puppy in a new suit. Lovely lad, and there was no reason to roll your eyes heavenwards and mutter "oh fuck nooooo" when you knew he'd be working with you for the day, but too much nice can be as bad as a professional bastard such as myself.

However, things started to go wrong when a chap came in. Wanted to buy a couple of cars for his company. He wouldn't be driving them, and couldn't have cared less about pollen filters, lumbar adjustment, multi-zone climate control or whatever. However, he was in the path of the tsunami of technical detail, with no handy palm tree to cling to...

After yet another eagerly explained 'feature' I could see him getting a tad exasperated. By the time he was on to the detail of roll-over immobiliser coding he was looking at his watch.
As he reached paintwork warranty he had had enough (bear in mind this is Manchester so assume broad Lancashire accent)....


Our boy hits the metaphorical brick wall, and stutters to a halt, sweat beading on his forehead. As the resemblance to a rabbit in the headlights grew ever stronger, one of the more experienced lads took pity (after recovering from the stifled hysterics of course) and wandered over with a casual "off you go lad".

It was the beginning of the end - I don't think he ever sold a car and I think we 'transferred' him to marketing where his enthusiasm and energy wouldn't be noticeable as they were permanently coked off their tits.
(, Tue 29 Jan 2008, 10:52, Reply)
Very fucking relevant .....
If R doesn't hand his fucking time sheet in again in the morning when I'm trying to get the invoicing done at the end of each month I'm going to fucking twat him for a month of Sundays. Nearly 6 years he's been working here and the routine has never changed. Time sheets done first thing so I can fill in the job sheets with the relevent hours worked on each job and 9 times out of 10 he 'forgets', or rather can't be fucking bothered. Because he's my bosses second in command as it were, he thinks he's above such petty things. My boss laughs it off as a big joke but much more of this shit and I'm going to make things ugly.


Did I mention the boss is my step-dad.....Daddy, make him do his time sheets on time....pleeeeeese
(, Tue 29 Jan 2008, 10:22, 7 replies)
The biggest bastard
that I ever worked with, wasn't actually that big at all, he was quite a short guy from Sunderland named Roy.

I first met the guy when I started working for a small, extremely cowboyish, audio visual company in Kent. He was only there for about the first 3 months of me being there before he ran off to a competitor company, just north of London. He was always a laugh to be around and I looked up to him for his programming expertise.

When he left, it was common knowledge with the staff that he had walked off with quite a substantial stash of the companies property, this included untold cables, connectors, converters, miscellaneous control systems hardware, and even a Barco CRT projector, which when new, would have cost in the region of £40k. We didn't give a shit about this as we hated working there, and were all jelous of his new job.

One day, me and the other remaining member of staff, met up with Roy at a local boozer. He came with a job offer for me, which shocked the hell out of me, considering Roy knew nothing about my skill level and history as a developer. Anyway, a couple of months passed and I was finally working with him, in a fantastic new office, with quality equipment and prospects for a brighter future... at least that's what most jobs start like isn't it?

I worked with him for a year in total, and it was just one huge, slippery slope. It turned out that Roy had been abusing his new position more than any of us had imagined, so much so that he was using his company credit card for personal use, even buying his weekly shopping with it. He also had his driving license revoked for being caught doing over 100mph, in his COMPANY car. His level of work diminished to practically 0, as he assumed the position of bosses brown nosed pet, who seemed to be completely unscathed by the fact that Roy had royally fucked him over. My level of work increased 10 fold, and by the time I reached my first year, I was spending over 6 hours a day travelling and spending over £700 a month for this priviledge; as I still lived in Kent. I only earnt £1k at the time so as you can imagine, it wasn't ideal! Roys work load on the other hand, consisted mainly of arguing with his girlfriend via mobile and taking copious amounts of "tab breaks".

I grabbed as much knowledge as I could off of Roy before slowly fading away, firstly becoming contracted to do odd work here and there, which I wasn't completely paid for, and then finally going AWOL to where I currently reside with the company laptop that I had. I thought this was fair considering the money I was owed. I also thought that Roy would understand and let me be... I must also mention that I had to move due to unforseen family circumstances, it wasn't pre-meditated.

Oh fucking no chance of that! He discovered my personal website within 6 months of me leaving and then bombarded the people on my guest book (including my 80 year old Granddad) with emails laced with so much bullshit that they seemed almost fairy tale like. He hated me with a passion for abandoning him like that (meaning he had to start doing some work again), so much so that he then started trying to get the laptop off of me whilst threatening me with police action!!

So myself, and a load of people let the bastard get away with theiving in excess of £100k worth of equipment from some tashed twat in Kent, and he takes it upon himself to fuck me over for keeping hold of a laptop due to unpaid fees.

Utter, utter, cunt!
(, Tue 29 Jan 2008, 10:04, Reply)
I used to work in a bar…

and there was this guy called Colin (or ‘Col’ as he insisted on being called as it made him appear more of a ‘lad’)

Anyhoo…talk about fancy himself! – he was a sexual predator of the highest (or should that be lowest) order, and he prided himself on his ability to ‘hump and dump’ (as he called it) a different girl from the bar every night.

Now this would be bad enough, but he used to constantly boast with stories about his sexual prowess, calling himself a ‘stud’ and taunting me for my beliefs that women should be treated with respect…

A proper cunt, I’m sure you’ll agree. But it gets worse. He set up a ‘code word’.

Every time we were working in the bar and he had ‘pulled’ another poor victim of his depraved lust, he used to let out a loud ‘EEEK!’ sound, just to make all of us ‘in the know’ aware that he was about to ‘score’ again. I ask you.

After a while this got more and more irritating but we got used to it.

However, before long a new guy started work and on his first night, as the night went on, I was showing him the ropes and he heard the hideous trademark wail from Col.

‘What the bloody hell’s that noise?’ asked the new guy.

'Oh that', I said. ‘That’s just another one of those…

Bar-stud Col Eeks!’

I’m so, so sorry…this doesn’t happen often….please resist the temptation to click ‘Ignore’…Not all of my posts are like this…honest.

God I’m bored.
(, Tue 29 Jan 2008, 9:13, 8 replies)
let's call him 'ade', short for adrian.
i worked in a bar that started life as a gay men's fetish club but was rapidly devolving into a crappy generic pub because the owner is a spineless dick. one of the other bartenders, who started there a year or so after i did, was fired by the aforementioned idiot owner on the grounds that he was stealing.

i went to the manager and called bullshit on this. unless a bartender is giving away a ton of free booze or actually grabbing cash, what we do that gets called theft is actually promotion: a regular customer or newcomer has been spending a lot or has just had his drink spilled by a customer or busboy, and the bartender gives him a freebie. standard operating procedure everywhere in canada, pretty much. managers let their trusted barmen do it, and as long as we don't give away too much too often, no-one cares.

ade got booked for giving away bottled water and a few shots. this stank of "fire him because i don't like him", so i told the general manager that if ade got fired i would quit and i'd make it well known in the local fetish community what had gone on. needless to say, ade is rehired "on probation" and life goes on.

at the time i was 90% barman and 10% manager, which always varied. i tended my bar, cashed out the other staff, made bank deposits, had the combination to the safe, all sorts of 'important' muck so i was obviously trusted. about a year after the ade rehire, i was fired for no reason. i came into work one day, was told i no longer had a job and would be charged with trespass if i didn't leave immediately. what the fuck?

a chat with the general manager (who i had trained in the position, after i'd worked at the bar for seven years) revealed that the owner still bore me this weird grudge because he thought i had snubbed him one day on the street, years earlier. i had been walking with another staff member (yes, ade, who had been fired and rehired) and as we chatted we hadn't noticed the bar owner walk by. oh, the horror he must have felt.

so, the day after i was fired ade called me up and asked what had gone on. i told him and he said, in effect: "i know you stuck up for me but i can't do anything for you because i need this job."

really? fuck you too, adrian betts, you sad, stupid, micropenised, unmannered, treacherous thieving bastard.

he's english/irish, loves australia but resided in canada for quite a lot of his life. if you see him in your workplace as a new hire, get him shitcanned as quickly as possible.
(, Tue 29 Jan 2008, 7:50, 8 replies)
When I moonlighted as a security guard while I was a student I met Terry.

Terry was a body-builder. Big, good-looking, friendly, amiable and as thick as a castle wall. No brains whatsoever.

So Terry arrives late for one shift and explains why. He'd been arrested.

Apparently, he'd been making luurve to some MILF in the standard missionary position when she started moaning:

"Hurt me, hurt me, make me scream you big stud"

So Terry, being a helpful sort of a chap, head-butted her and broke her nose.

(, Tue 29 Jan 2008, 5:05, 3 replies)
If anybody checks
my profile, this is the third story I have posted regarding a different pub chef, as they are all fucking insane.

I'm not sure what was wrong with Diddly-Dee, but I suspect that it was due to him having had his brain removed, and functioning instead on a few inches of brain stem in the manner of a beheaded chicken. This story does not take root in his stupendous incompetence as a chef, or in him being a plankton-stupid, illiterate, nazi-sympathising closet homosexual with a penchant for luring homeless men back to our staff accommodation with bogus offers of work (not to mention a disturbing interest in 'beardless youths') or in the two weeks he spent over one christmas walking around the west end with a basket of increasingly rotten fruit attempting to offer it to policemen, in the mistaken belief that said policeman would then be obliged to take it to great ormand street hospital for him. (As opposed to walking for ten minutes there with the fruit himself, while it was fresh - when he found a copper, they told him where to stick his fruit)

No, it is in the fact that, to top it all off, he was a compulsive liar. Diddly-Dee claimed to be irish. Apparently, all of his brothers spoke only gaelic, only he spoke english, ablight with a distinct rustic, exceptionally english accent. Later, he mentioned that he went to school in cornwall. And that his family lived in cornwall. And that had never been to ireland. And so on, with his entire life, bullshit all. He had a long-suffering teenage daughter, who almost acted as his carer, forever interjecting into his tall tales with "no, you didn't, dad", and "no, you haven't, dad".

The most stupendous lies, at least as far as we were concerned, occurred following my boss' refusal to allow him retract his umpteenth drunken resignation, which he, as usual, posited around what he perceived to be an irreconcilable alienation from his colleagues, due to his clandestine adoration of hitler, his fucking of tramps and his lusting after disturbingly young 'men'. So he moved out, and we thought we would never see or hear from him again.

Within a few days, we started getting phone calls.

Diddly had always claimed to have run numerous pubs in his own right, something we didn't believe on account of the his having shit for brains, and because all his work anecdotes involved him washing dishes. Following his resignation, he appeared to have tried to convince pub management agencies of this fact too, as my boss, The Whelk, susequently began receiving phone calls asking if he would be willing to provide a reference for 'his manager' Diddly. It would appear that Diddly was telling all and sundry that he, not The Whelk, was the current manager of our establishment (as opposed his actual status as the former cook), while falsely claiming The Whelk to be his area manager.

Somehow, somewhere, it worked, and some poor sap gave him an interim contract to run a pub for them for a few months. Well, I say 'poor sap'.....

Having finally got his own pub, he stopped reciting that particular fabrication and the calls stopped. The months passed, and he slipped gently from our minds, appearing only as a spectre in drunken stories. However, a few weeks before Diddly's contract with his new employer was due to expire, the phone calls started again, asking if Diddly was there, and if they could speak to him, which he was not, and therefore they could not. And then followed letters, promising that "if he returned the cigarette machine, he would not face prosecution". Then debt collection agents followed, seeking the return of the said mechanised dispenser of fags.

It transpired that, towards the end of said management contract, he had disappeared, vanished, run off, taking with him nothing aside from the pub cigarette machine, not clothes, not possessions. One of his employees had arrived for work one morning and found the door open, swinging in the wind, the place deserted, like something from the mary celeste, or rather a mary celeste with a pale patch on the wall where a fag machine should be. We tried to imagine what had become of him - had he departed to live in a small dell, surrounded by lustful cherubim and living off the small change and bountiful tabs within his box of delights? An idyll, of sorts, nice thoughts, but no.

The truth was nothing of the kind, and was revealed in all its glory when two turkish men barged into The Whelk's pub, doused it in petrol and demanded an audience with Diddly. Or they would set it on fire. They had been looking for ol' Diddles, and had acquired his forwarding address. Which was our place. The lying bastard had had falsely given to all and sundry (including the fag machine people) our address as his own. He would be manager of, and live in, said establishment, he lied, as he slipped out of the door with nought but a cabinet full of cancer sticks and fifty pee coins, slinking awkwardly like a jangling, retarded fox into the north london night.

It transpired that the pub he had taken over was, in fact, a gambling den run under the auspices of a turkish crime syndicate, which was why they could find no-one aside from our cornish mutton-headed friend willing to run it. Having taken to the playing of card games against criminal gamblers whilst bereft of any knowledge of said game's rules, he had run up debts which significantly exceeded the monetary sum he could ever hope to earn in the remainder of his lifetime, resulting in IOUs secured against his internal organs, and he had fled to avoid the collection of dues in fingers and spleen. And passed all his shit onto us. The lying bastard. Fortunately, the turks never 'lit up', and left, convinced he was elsewhere, sincerity assured by the pissing of our collective pants.

Needless to say, we didn't see him for about a year, and then only from afar, as one of my colleagues saw him, in the distance, gesturing towards our building, appearing to reminisce of events that had probably never happened to a disturbingly young man around whose waist he had suggestively placed his arm.....
(, Tue 29 Jan 2008, 1:05, 9 replies)
Dont be a mechanic's apprentice. It hurts.
Things like- screwdriver handle to the elbow
Brake cleaner under the toilet door when you are having a shit - gets you high then they light it and it burns your face
(, Mon 28 Jan 2008, 22:07, 1 reply)
h is for (w)hore
and helen.

helen was the manageress of the estate agency where i used to work. she was one of those women than men swoon over, but is attractive because she has a beautiful haircut and good makeup rather than because she is a natural stunner. and she was very very flirtatious, low cut transparent shirts, tight trousers, short skirts and stacks, that kind of thing.

with the girls, she was cliquey, demanding and sometimes downright bitchy. those on the inner circle, which included me, thought that she was funny and clever and charming. those on the outside, i know now, saw a spoiled manipulative bitch. so much so that one colleague who was out of favour once wrote out a fake joblist for helen that included "tango-up face with chanel" and "fuck stephen [the inhouse electrician, also her husband] in the basement".

then she realised she had printed it on the cheques printer by mistake. the tenant who got the last entry "talk to anyone who will listen about my conservatory" across the top of her cheque was very perplexed. she drove out every single girl she didn't like, starting with comments like "i only hire people who aren't better looking than i am" and worse, and she crucified the poor little office junior.

i think, deep down, we all knew she was up to Something. she was very flirty with the managing director, for instance kneeling right next to him to go through the post, and we all knew he was smitten with her. she never let anybody else do her husband's company credit card bill, and her own property accounts were locked away. but we liked her and she was great fun, so we squashed our misgivings. i guess if conmen weren't charming, they wouldn't get very far with their conning.

anyway, matters all came to a head one day when she was on holiday. and we couldn't balance the cash till. this was the start of a thread that unravelled to a multi-million pound theft going back the 11 years she had worked there. she had put everybody else's names on the fraudulent cheques, covering her tracks by making fake notes and withdrawals in their names. she had spent all this time and effort stealing from a man who had treated her like family since she was 22 years old.

she used all that money to buy properties of her own, and now has a multi multi million pound property portfolio worth ten times what she paid for it.

the worst thing is, despite the evidence and her losing the civil case, the police wouldn't prosecute her. so she is free to run her own estate agency in manchester, dealing with customers and public money, day in, day out. if you rent in the most popular village in south manchester, you may even have used her.

ok, so she's more of a bitch than a bastard, but this is one case where crime has truly paid, and it makes my blood boil, the deceitful cow.
(, Mon 28 Jan 2008, 21:24, 9 replies)
some of the more "interesting" staff include:

Mr. D: made redundant after throwing several year 7's mobiles from the 1st floor.

Mr. McK: known as smoky joe, opening his office door saw you engulfed in a cloud of pipe smoke. called an entire year 9 class nobheads.

Mr. L: claimed to have a geography degree. Only taught year 7 classes, and even then out of a textbook.

Mr. T: the obligatory P.E. teaching paedo, spending suspisious amounts of time talking to us in the chaning rooms

Dr. H: even in the middle-class snobbery of the school was labelled a cosh punt by all, fequently calling his GCSE class(top set) they were all boneheads who wouldn't have got into the school 10 years ago.

Mr. E: with the lovely orange skin/pink shirt combo was a bit of a nob, his penchant for discipline by picking children up by the sideburns was, unpopular. Also suffered form a huge inferiority complex, patronising the smaller pupils and having normal conversation with any who were taller than him

Rev. K: Looked like Spok, acted wierder. definition of the scary priest who you wouldn't trust with your child. left twice to go on a pilgramage to Israel...as you do

Mr. W: had a mouth that looked like a vagina

1st post on board...
(, Mon 28 Jan 2008, 19:34, 6 replies)
My Head of Department at the local law faculty
The bastard is so anally retentive (Yes Patrick, we talking about you), he wont spit on his dick before violating a child.
(, Mon 28 Jan 2008, 19:11, Reply)
many of you are going to read all the replies to make sure that YOU haven't been mentioned?
(, Mon 28 Jan 2008, 18:50, 1 reply)
The female 'Gareth', as requested
OK, having told about the female David Brent, here's the female Gareth. Who wasn't called Gareth. Let's call her Umber, for want of a near enough name.

Umber was best described as 'plain'. Pinched face, small eyes, round-ish body on skinny legs. Nothing to write home about, but similarly not terrifying to look at. Just plain. Her major passion in life was her kit car - but I can't remember what sort it was. Suffice to say it was as peculiar looking as her. She was chair of the owners club, or something like that, and could bore for England on the things.

Umber had a boyfriend, who was a similarly odd-looking bloke. But they were having sex. We knew this, because she told us. Anecdotes about romping in hotel rooms, use of sex toys, the perils of baby-oil soaked hair, all of that. The joys of these revelations were damped a little by imagining these two strange-looking types at it. Not nice.

That doesn't make her a bastard colleague, mind you.

The fact that she turned into a patronising and emotionally unstable idiot who adopted a fake music-hall-esque 'Northern' accent when saying 'Hello' or imparting bad news doesn't, either.

Her screaming fit in the office ending with laying into (physically) another member of the team doesn't make it, too.

Her persistent and nauseating brown-nosing doesn't manage it either. (Her and the aforementioned David Brent equivalent had pet names for each other, which they'd use all the time - WTF?)

No, it was when the boyfriend unexpectedly came to town that Umber showed how good she was with people. Rather than ring around in search of a hotel room for shagging, she delegated the task to one of the other staff in the department. The Director had suggested it, apparently.

While it was an insight into how junior staff were seen by the Brent-like Director, it was a job I wouldn't have wished on anyone. Of course, the room found wasn't as good as she'd hoped for, but 'at least we put the bed to lots of use' - or so she delighted in telling us the next day.

Eww. Not something to think about over the morning coffee.
(, Mon 28 Jan 2008, 17:25, Reply)

This question is now closed.

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