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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, 17, 16, 15, 14, 13, 12, 11, 10, ... 1

This question is now closed.

Dial "M" for . . .
Many years ago my friend's dad owned and ran his own business. Still does, in fact.

They decided to take on a temp to organise their office. It was in the days before computers became ubiquitous and filing was done in big cabinets. They hired a very pleasant girl who was easy to get on with, if somewhat light of braincell. She was charged with the exciting job of taking the outstanding invoices and receipts and filing them alphabetically using the client's name. Easy, no?

Well, no, apparently. After she left no-one could find anything. All of the drawers seemed to be empty. Apart from one. The drawer marked "M".

Can you guess what had happened? Yes, that's right. She had filed all of the invoices under "M". For "Mr."
(, Tue 29 Jan 2008, 17:24, 2 replies)
Working for Winners part 2 - Highly trained chauffers
I have already recounted the tale of our glorious Dutch MD who proceeded to systematically destroy a haulage business from the inside:

www.b3ta.com/questions/bastardcolleagues/post116252

Although Georg must have been worth millions to our competitors, thanks to his decree that we hire "2.6 drivers per truck" we were forced to relax our selection criteria somewhat and scrape the bottom of the barrel.

Firstly there was the bloke who was too lazy to use first gear on his brand new Scania lorry and instead used second or third. He blew up the gearbox.

Then there was the guy who used to turn up at work with a newspaper on a Monday morning, claiming some sort of relationship to whoever had been locally murdered over the weekend, roughly five minutes before he requested (paid) compassionate leave.

Said guy was a legend... His truck was mysteriously broken into and some expensive personal belongings were allegedly stolen (however the load of tyres he was carrying wasn't). He insisted we claim from our insurers. He also mysteriously inhaled toxic fumes at Purfleet docks and made enquiries as to how much compensation he would get. He didn't notice said fumes because he apparently had no sense of smell. The classic was when he couldn't be arsed to make a late Friday night collection and suffered a failure of his truck's air suspension. The breech in the rubber air seal was almost exactly the same shape as what you'd expect if you depressurized the suspension, stabbed a rubber seal with a penknife and then repressurized it rapidly. Cost us a bloody fortune.

One chap was a whopping 24 hours late for an "extremely urgent" Monday morning delivery at Glasgow (the sort of job we had drivers climbing all over each other to get, given we paid by the mile). Turns out it wasn't his fault. He'd gotten pissed the night before and didn't want to lose his license and damage the company repuation. We should have thanked him apparently...

The chap who's brother was discovered rolled up in a carpet by the side of the road, slightly dead.

The driver who made the front page of the local paper, driving a 15ft tall lorry into a 10ft tall canopy above a petrol station. Twat.

Then there was Mitch, who on his day could display US President standards of fucktardy. We paid our employees by the mile, using a mapping program to work out the distances travelled. Mitch couldn't be arsed to write 'Merthyr Tydfil' on his paperwork, opting for 'S. Wales' instead. No amount of subtlety seemed to solve the problem until I phoned him in his cab one day and suggested that I pay him up to the Welsh border. After that he played ball.

Mitch was as gulliable as they came and allergic to washing. Indeed, we suspected he had met a lady on his travels when word spread amongst our drivers like wildfire:

"You never guess what? Mitch had a bath this week!"
(, Tue 29 Jan 2008, 17:01, 2 replies)
Anagram
The chef at the pub I used to work in was a mong of the highest order. He would constantly steal stock, over handle food with his nicotine stained hands and thought it was hilarious to snort lines of chilli powder.

Various nicknames he acquired included:
"Rat Face" (he had the face of a rat)
"Captain Blacktooth" (he had a black tooth)
and my personal favourite "Sir Cuntalot McFuckface"


He once showed me a video on his phone of a young lady in her underware writhing around on a sofa and told me he "did her good and proper" until I pointed out this couldn't have happend as he'd quite clearly recorded the lady from one of those late night "call in to chat to girls" channels as the picture was shite and the telephone number was clearly visible at the bottom of the screen.

He also used to fight publicly with his unhinged and usually drunk girlfriend who came in ranting, raving and heavily pregnant on one occasion and was promptly told to go home and push out another gollum.

My favourite rat face anecdote must be when told that his name was an anagram of "anal" he looked puzzled for a good 15 minutes before asking what an anagram was.


He was eventually sacked for stealing packets of crisps and hiding them in his locker.
(, Tue 29 Jan 2008, 16:47, 3 replies)
One of ma class mates is a REAL BASTARD!
He always make fun of me and if i coud, I woud stab his brain with a dentist drill }:[

Btw, nice question week suggestion Deskbound ;)
(, Tue 29 Jan 2008, 16:39, 9 replies)
My business partner...
... is an utter cnut! A few reasons why...

He has been reported on several occasions for sexual harrassment of female staff, on each occasion he has blamed me for it.

He's been arrested for GBH on a male member of staff and once again he tried to point the finger at me.

I'm sure he's involved in some kind of undeground illegal activities of some kind.

He keeps nicking the soap from the toilets and claiming its 'for testing purposes'.

He constantly brags to other colleagues that he is best mates with Meat Loaf even though I dont think he's ever met him.

He refuses to be anywhere near the office when I'm there.

I dont think I can work with him for much longer.

Cheers
T Durden
(, Tue 29 Jan 2008, 16:36, 1 reply)
Mick wasn't a bastard per se
But he kind of had to be in his job as a DSS fraud officer.

One tip off he got was about a bloke doing some work on the side, delivering Chinese takeaways. Mick decided to do a bit of surveillance work first, and started with the standard sitting outside the suspects house in his car, whilst listening to local radio (I fucking HATE local radio) and doing the crossword. Eventually, he spotted his man leaving the house and getting in his car.

Leaping into action like some sort of cut-price Dirty Harry, Mick followed his suspect to his destination - which did indeed turn out to be the local Chinese takeaway. Some more surveillance over a few nights seemed to confirm the reported undeclared work, made even more watertight by the fact that the suspect regularly went into the establishment empty handed and emerged a few minutes later with several bags of monosodium glutamate-loaded comestibles. Oh, and the fact that each time, he got into a van with the name of the takeaway plastered all over it.

At this point Mick decided to take action, and went into the takeaway once the guy had returned from a delivery. He engaged him in polite conversation, asked if he'd had a busy night, order his chips and gravy, and disappeared into the night.

The next day he sent a letter out asking the bloke to attend an interview at the DSS. Two days later, the guy turned up and was ushered to an interview room. Where he was greeted by an insanely-grinning Mick.

"All right, mate"? said Mick. "Have a seat".

"Fuckin' bastard" was all the bloke could muster, before handing over his UB40 and signing off.

Nice bloke though. Honest.
(, Tue 29 Jan 2008, 16:11, 3 replies)
Do inbred customers count?
I did have to tolerate them on a nightly basis :o/ Plural years ago, I lived on the Greek island of Kos. Winter jobs were few and far between unless you didn't mind working in a bar. Fab for us foreign girls, as the only Greek girls who'd do bar work were also Ladies Of The Night. Taking my prerequisite tits and eyelashes for the "interview" i.e. a beer with the bar's owner, I started the very next night. 8pm til 4am - top notch, I could sleep all day at the beach. (The "leather saddle-bag" look was de riguer for one' skin in those days.) I digress........

Kos is one of the smaller islands, currently populated by 30ish thousand. Originally however, it was only inhabitted by two families. A case of, "Jethro, Oi married moy sister an' it never did me no 'aaaarm... ye'll be weddin yur cuzin moy son" etc. Descendants of these original inhabitants can easily be spotted today...
Cue the pair I had to not only endure, but humour, as I was their favourite barmaid (no idea why). They introduced themselves as uncle and nephew, Nikos and Stephanos. Thought they were the Greek equivalent of Laurel and Hardy. (I am related to Stan Laurel but that's another digression.) Boy, did they identify with me. Maybe that's because I'm a dog-lover and they had one. Only theirs was imaginary. And it liked to play with me behind the bar. And because I couldn't see the little terrier twat ( I assumed it was a Jack Russell by the tone of it's yap) I'd frequently trip over it as I was hurrying about my work. Kept standing on it's stupid imaginary fucking tale, to which Nik & Steph would supply the high-pitched howls/yelps of agony. The only way to shut them the fuck up was to kneel on the floor, patting Terriertwat and giving him nuts (again, I'm making assumptions with it's gender). All in a night's work, for which I was renumerated with 7000 drachma and 750mls of Cutty Sark.

Worse still, on the odd occasion I got a night off, say every couple of months, they'd spot me out with my dog. Who was Real. Lovely dog he was, Gorby - a pointer whom I'd hand-reared. Gorby was quite partial to the odd whiskey himself, so he'd accompany me out for the evening. Cue "Laurel & Fucking Hardy" with their yappy little twat who would attack poor old placid imprinted Gorby. See the psychiatric needs...... Paint them purple...

Davros' Grandad has taken the day off work to do grown-up stuff with Council Tax, but he was easily persuaded that the popping of my b3ta cherry was much higher up on the list of priorities.
(, Tue 29 Jan 2008, 15:54, 12 replies)
golf
my mate had a sheep that played regular golf with Tiger Woods and Ernie Els and they recorded the scores.

That was Baa's-Hard Golf-League.
(, Tue 29 Jan 2008, 15:54, 1 reply)
There's this guy in my office....
For a while I thought he was my arch nemesis. He'd be really nice to most other people, then completely blank me. Or worse, he'd give me that look as he passed me in the corridor of "I'm plotting your demise", and then he'd smile in that weird way that you'd only expect from Jack Nicholson in The Shining or from Dr. Frankenstein as he threw the switch. Used to properly creep me out.

Then this morning I found a lone custard cream sitting in the middle of my desk, with my stuff noticeably cleared either side to let it sit, pride of place. After inquiry, it appears that this guy put it there, but didn't give one to anyone else. He's been unusually really nice to me all day but I'm scared to eat it for fear of it being laced with strychnine, or worse. I can't decide if it's some kind of extremely tasty (but a little weird) peace offering, or the most poorly thought-out cause of my potential untimely demise.
What should I do?
(, Tue 29 Jan 2008, 15:49, 14 replies)
My ceiling and floor are ruined!
By stucco leak.


*cowers*
(, Tue 29 Jan 2008, 15:28, Reply)
Arse...
Not his real name, but definitely his real nature. When I first started my current job I inherited him as the sole person under my charge, though he is at least 20 years older than me and I had no management experience. It all started off well enough, but as time passed I realised why I was managing him - no-one else wanted him. He worked part-time, earned about £10K a year while doing serial degree courses he never finished, and lived with his parents though he must have been approaching 50.

So I work in the public sector. Arse had been there longer than anyone else in the office and was the biggest jobsworth I've ever known. In this sector, an employee who knows the exact limits of what they can legally get away with has a huge advantage over those higher up the line; the opposite to most places, I know. This definitely applied in his case. To him everyone in the office was divided into people he liked and those he didn't. Membership of the latter list could be gained by simply being friendly with / sitting near to someone else already on it. He also suffered delusions that people were making threats to him in the office despite the fact that this couldn't have happened without someone else overhearing - didn't stop him complaining about people but he always stopped just short of putting in an official complaint. Still, he got a lot of people bollocked for something they didn't do.

His exploits included:
1) Driving both my predecessor and one other person out of their jobs by a long-standing and persistent campaign including him accusing them of bullying. This was all to do with his own delusions.
2) He was the reception for the office among other things, and frequently refused to acknowledge visitors coming to meet with people he didn't like.
3) He would frequently corner people he didn't like in the lift, when there were no witnesses, and seriously intimidate them, telling them "I fucking hate you" and suchlike. Once when challenged on this point he insisted that he didn't remember what he'd said.
4) He was on a one-year contract and always insisted he'd leave when it expired, then simply didn't. Unfortunately the rules of the institution meant he could say this as many times as he wanted but it didn't mean a thing as long as he didn't put anything in writing. As a result, he was "about to leave" for about 4 years and therefore his problematic behaviours were tolerated as it was easier to let him leave than to sort him out - though he then didn't leave.
5) When he decided I was persona non grata after about 2 years, he refused to do anything other than the minimum duties he could get away with on the grounds that "it's not on my job description". When I finally managed to get hold of a copy of said JD, it transpired that there was a clause which said "and any duties commesurate with the post" so he couldn't use that one anymore.
6) He'd stalked at least 3 members of staff to their houses (always blonde females) having illegaly obtained their addresses from documents he was processing on thier behalf.

Finally we got rid of him after a repeated series of increasingly urgent meetings with our top bosses. They essentially had to make the post redundant at the end of his contract. Ironically it was his refusal to either go full time or perform any additional responsibilities than those on his job description that sealed his fate. I wish I'd got to write his reference... Anyway, now I have several persons in my staff, all of whom are fantastic and utterly professional, so it all worked out OK in the end. Tara Arse, may your, erm, arse never darken our door again (in fact, since we passed his ID and photo to the security in our building with specific instructions to deny him access, particularly as he is exactly the kind of person who might turn up one day with a shotgun, I doubt it will...)
(, Tue 29 Jan 2008, 15:27, Reply)
It's hard to be specific
None of my colleagues are particularly bastardish, they're all pretty nice really. On the other hand, they're all bastards because most of them are hugely wealthy (or at least married to someone who is) and therefore have no real need to 'earn' their massively inflated salries for what they 'do' (essentially engaging in high-brow self-congratulating parties and the organisation thereof).

I think the most bastardly thing about them is the faux sympathy they offer regarding my forthcoming redundancy while each of their company cars and huge fuel bills are at least equal to my salary.

Unappreciated, devalued and bitter? Not me, 'course not!
(, Tue 29 Jan 2008, 15:24, Reply)
tweed-clad arty snob man
These are some of the tales of the director of the arts trust I used to work for. I was there for one year and during my sentence, he:

a. Demanded that ALL members of staff find out the exact specification of their computers, how they worked and what all the bits inside it did, so that if they broke they would know why, and be able to fix them. I asked him whether, since he knew how to drive, he was able to dismantle, repair and re-assemble the engine in his car. I got a fortnight in the cooler for that.

b. Lectured me on how storage heaters work on at least fifteen separate occasions.

c. Would don his chief inquisitor hat when approving stationery orders ("Who's ordered these paperclips? They're too expensive!") but then spend £20,000 of the cash-strapped trust's money on a brand new Audi A3 because he needed it for "company purposes".

d. Ensured that his wife had the monopoly on supplying the tearoom with tasteless soup and stale chocolate brownies, getting the trust to pay for a brand-new kitchen in his house in the process and also enabling his wife to overcharge for everything by about 400%.

e. Sacked the Head of Admin/Finance after 20 years of dedicated service with the excuse that her role was no longer required, then employ two brand new people to do her job.

f. Ensured that all the creative, vibrant and self-assured members of staff were quivering husks of their former selves after a week of working under him.

g. (this is my favourite) When the bird-flu thing first appeared and everyone thought it was going to be the next bubonic plague, he insisted that we have a contingency plan involving all staff having broadband so that in the event of an epidemic, we could all work from home in order to keep the gallery running. Because everyone flocked to look at pictures during the plague didn't they.

h. Berated me for keeping files in my office on the floor, the day after he had refused my request for shelves.

He is a total knob. Don't work for him. You'll need therapy.

I did get my revenge at the Christmas party though. I deliberately gave him a mince pie which had just come out of the oven. It burnt his mouth. I laughed.
(, Tue 29 Jan 2008, 15:05, 2 replies)
Meh
I used to work in a large office before going back to uni to do a postgrad degree. Most of the people were fairly nice, until the christmas party.

There was one lady who had had chemotherapy - hence she was wearing a wig. This was pulled off by two guys and used as a ball in a game of piggy in the middle. She ran to the toilets crying. The bastard manager didn't even reprimand them.

On a lighter note, I've just come back from my temporary job and discovered my housemate beheading two pheasants in our living room with a pair of scissors. Not sure how that fits into a bastard colleague question, but the smell of pheasant blood and shit is beginning to turn my stomach.
(, Tue 29 Jan 2008, 15:04, 7 replies)
Bruce the Pit Dweller
I have a mate called Bruce, who works in a coal mine.

As a result of his chosen profession he is perpetually covered in a fine layer of soot, from head to toe. This wouldn't be so much of a problem if he didn't insist on coming straight to the pub on Friday nights whilst still bedecked in his work garb.

The barmaids in the local have taken to calling him "Coal Leg", a moniker which he has grown quite fond of.

After one particularly heavy drinking session he boarded a bus to speed him safely home, but the guiness in his system couple with the gentle vibration of the bus caused a reaction that began to irrigate his colon.

Now Bruce is somewhat uncouth, in fact he is about as subtle as a napalm enema. Which is fitting, as the reaction that was brewing in his anus was easily as deadly as napalm.

So when tension grew to the point where it was now unbearable for Bruce to contain the faecal faux-pas he simply shuffled to the back of the deserted bus, dropped his sooty trousers and laid a gargantuan shit across the back seat.

We congregated at our local the following evening and Bruce related the previous evenings shenanigans to anybody within earshot. The bar staff now refer to him as:

"Bus-Turd Coal-Leg"


(I am deeply sorry, I saw Pooflake doing it and thought it would be a good idea)
(, Tue 29 Jan 2008, 15:02, 5 replies)
Scraping the barrel
I had a friend who liked lager, but who liked it flat and tepid. To remove the bubbles, he would heat it over a bunsen flame, and then go off to do something else while the beer stood cooling.



Hmmm. Doesn't really work, does it?

EDIT: All that is pace Legless' comment. I hate publicly to admit that he might have a point, but...
(, Tue 29 Jan 2008, 14:50, 1 reply)
That's Quite Enough...
Of that now.

Back to your kennels.

Going seriously off topic and/or bad puns is only allowed on Thursdays while waiting for a new QOTW.


Unless you're Apeloverage and we don't want that now do we?

Cheers
(, Tue 29 Jan 2008, 14:47, 8 replies)
Buzzed
I was cycling to work this morning, when I was nearly knocked off my bike by a large bird flying over my head.

As I gathered my senses I noticed that the bird had deposited a fine black dust around me.

The bird turned around for another pass, close enough for me to identify the species and the fact that it's bill appeared to be carrying some small lumps of a dusty black material which appeard flammable.

Yep. I had a close run in with....

*drumroll*

Bustard Coal-leaks
(, Tue 29 Jan 2008, 14:39, Reply)
My cousin colin...
He had a cushy job in a poncy London club behind the bar. He loved that job mixing with the stars and getting paid loads of dosh. Unfortunatly he lost the job last week for giving a very famous person too much lip. Anyhow the Sun's headline read :

Bar star col argues



*shrivels up like the wicked witch of the west*
(, Tue 29 Jan 2008, 14:39, 3 replies)
My mate Barry...
was a ‘bit of a thickie’…mentally challenged if you will.

He liked to spend his weekends with his likeminded spack friends seeing who could club the most seals in the name of ‘natural selection’

He and his mates were called…

The Baz 'tard Cull league


(PLEASE LET IT STOP!)
(, Tue 29 Jan 2008, 14:38, Reply)
Oh, go on, then...
As I've mentioned before, a large part of my family are all involved (either directly or indirectly) in the farming industry.

One of my great Uncles is a bit, shall we say, eccentric. After many years of working in the metal shops making bits for tractors, combines and the like, he turned his not inconsiderable metalworking skill in to a new area.

One of the landed gentry from up the way heard of my Uncles new work, and quickly commissioned him to produce some decorative works that he could put on his horse saddle - the main purpose being to impress the object of his desire, the daughter of the local brassica tsar.

My uncle thought long and hard about his task, and scant 6 weeks later presented his commissioner with...

A Brass-Stud Cauli.

(I'm sorry. Really.)
(, Tue 29 Jan 2008, 14:33, 1 reply)
OK you lot...
When I was a student in Wales and a member of the Ramblers Association, we used to see who could climb the most peaks. Competition was fierce and some weekends would see scores of mad students rushing up local hills with little notebooks, ticking them off like benighted twitchers.

It fell to me to arrange a system to make things more equitable and to work out who had scaled the greatest number of hills. I wrote everyone in the association's name down on a slip of paper and put it into a hat, then I made a list of local hills and put that into another container, giving them both an agitation with a metal rod...



...bar stirred col league??
(, Tue 29 Jan 2008, 14:20, 1 reply)
My Uncle Godfrey
He was was a green fingered wizard. Mostly because he'd been regularly "feeding Grotbags' (of Emu fame) pony" but also because he operated a semi-proffesional allotment patch co-operative in central Yorkshire.

A few years ago, he wrote to me (in purple crayon on the back of some blown-vinyl wallpaper, no less) to boast about the potential record-breaking leek he had been growing through most of the summer and autumn. Something wasn't right, (he always composes his letters in orange crayon on woodchip) I had to pay a visit.

Upon arriving at his "Swift 300 deluxe super-tourer" domicile in 13-acre field. I found him engaged in a manic depressive, Charlie-Dimmock-fuelled fwapping frenzy. Further evidence, if it were needed, that he'd gone completely spazztastic were the 7 dandelions that had mounted a resistance-free invasion of his pumpkin patch.

In an effort to boost his spirits, I enquired about his potential record-breaking leek. This caused him to violate himself forcefully with his pond-liner spaff-rag. I eventually got the explaination that he'd been forced to dig up the specimen vegetable as the weather had prematurely ended the growing season and the imminent frost would ruin it for sure. (It gits bleak 'Oop Nowerth y'knoww!)

The only way I could help my dear uncle was to assist with his allotment. It had always been a great pleasure for him to show off his spuds.

I asked the whereabouts of his hoe. "Phyllis is getting her cucumber ration from Ernie Blossop these days" he responded dejectedly, while fwapping his flacid member to a brass band soundtrack. Realising his mistake he pointed in the direction of the potting shed, where the weed removing tool stood aside the revered leek (which seemed to be crystalising in an icy fret of unfulfilled potential). Godfrey muttered the immortal line:

"Mah hoe's ower there, bah stood cold leek."

Apols.

Edit - Just realised that this crock of bollocks is extremely fitting to my tired and outdated sig.
(, Tue 29 Jan 2008, 14:11, 4 replies)
Oh dear GOD! What have I started?
I don’t know about you, but I like to use a rod of iron to ensure my traditional Welsh cuisine is properly mixed.

Or…

(deep breath)

Bar-stirred cold-leeks

How'd ya like THEM APPLES, Captain Placid, Enzyme et al?

Please can this end now?
(, Tue 29 Jan 2008, 14:10, 8 replies)
A small contribution
Many moons ago, whilst still a student, I used to volunteer to work with mentally deficient young adults. Most of them were pretty cool, and liked to go to the pub in the afternoons. We'd try out a different pub or bar every week, rating them for their food, beer, wine and general ambience. At the end of the year, we would announce the winner, and then start all over again the following January.

However, one sympton of their special needs was that when drinking their alcohol, they all felt the need to eat firewood and other fuels for fire. Which was a bit weird, but inspired the name of our drinking club.

That was a happy period of my life, when I volunteered for the Bars Tard Coal League.




I am so very, very sorry.
(, Tue 29 Jan 2008, 13:56, 2 replies)
Mc "A" levels
A friend has applied to participate in one of the courses run by McD.



He wants to go to spaztard college.
(, Tue 29 Jan 2008, 13:52, 4 replies)
the french stock exchange is notorious for corruption
people are in so deep that they can't leave otherwise the surete would get wind of what was going on and arrest the buggers ... so they have keep on keeping on and stay in it together

bourse-tied collaborationists
(, Tue 29 Jan 2008, 13:46, Reply)
In my department
We have a noticeboard full of pictures of branch staff that we hate for various reasons.

It is our bastard collage.

Edit: Damn, out-Enzymed
(, Tue 29 Jan 2008, 13:40, 1 reply)
In the 19th century
Trinity at Cambridge was well known for accepting the illegitimate children of peers ... it was said to have the highest proportion of bastard collegians
(, Tue 29 Jan 2008, 13:39, Reply)
I worked with one once...
...sociable little feller, he was, but didn't really do much work. Just flapped around, squawked a bit and...

...oh, wait...bastard colleagues? Sorry.


I really am very, very sorry.
(, Tue 29 Jan 2008, 13:26, 9 replies)

This question is now closed.

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