Clicky pen
He has a clicky pen and sits all day clicking his clicky fucking pen. "Click, click, click, clicketty clicky, click, click...clickclickclickclickclickclick. Clicky click, clickclickclickclick....clickety click...." and on it goes, on and on and on, sitting there clicking his pen, clicking away.

When he is telling a hilarious story about his X-Box or latest graphics card the clicking of his pen gets faster. When he's trying to explain something to someone he clicks his pen slowly. When he walks he clicksd his pen in time with with footsteps. "Click, click, click, click, click, clicketty, fucking click." All bloody day. I've even started hiding his pens by throwing them out the window on to the roof, but some how he always manages to find a new clicky pen.
( The Duke of Prunes, Thu 24 Jan 2008, 13:17, 9 replies)

Directors and Managers are by far the worst.
This is simply a rant about directors and managers who think themselves higher than royalty, higher than god and higher than the laws of physics themselves. These people are a race above human.

Working in IT, I’ve had my fair share of dealings with Directors and how they must be treated completely differently to the rest of the workforce. And wow I've seen some stupidity in my time from these people. With rich and power, common sense and reality gets lost, as they cocoon themselves in their own little self important bubble.

They come in two varieties. First, the older generation. The mid-life crises 55 year old, who drives around in his oversized, over powered BMW. They get the only parking space in the city, and retire to their country mansion at night.

These people literally expect the earth to move around them. They see themselves as a higher level of being to anyone else, and as such, the cockroach workforce should feel obliged to even glimpse this wonderful powerful being.

They have their plush oversized offices with multiple personal assistants running around after them 24/7, ferrying coffees and anything else they want on demand. I honestly believe these people do nothing but sit in presentations, smile for corporate photographs and sign the odd sheet of paper. They always seem to be out of the office playing golf or taking holidays.

These people may have a PC, but would they even bother using them? Course not. The PAs will read their emails and print them off, if it’s important enough for him to read.

The time they do touch technology, it will undoubtedly screw up due to total lack of common sense, and of course I.T gets the full brunt of the blame.

Once, one of these dingle bats put transparent glossy paper in a colour laser printer after we told him not to. Result was, the paper melted onto the fuser unit and caused severe damage to the printer. Damage that would require parts ordering and a service technician calling out.
"How long will that take? I want it working in 5 minutes, I have a meeting."

Because of their godly like importance, the supervisors are running around calling every tom dick and harry to come and fit new parts to this printer. Result was a bike transport costing an extra 600 pounds from the other side of the country and an emergency call to the printers manufacturer to come and fit it. Total cost 1800 quid. This was a day after we had to go round 100 PCs switching them onto Toner Save options to save money. The director never did print the stuff he apparently wanted.. Which turned out to be something personal anyway.

I also had one of these numpties demand that 4 members of IT would be used to configure his daughters laptop so he could take it to her university, as he was going in 10 minutes. Installing a fresh copy of windows, office, itunes generally does take more than 10 minutes no matter how fast the machine is. But that was irrelevant. And quite how 4 technicians huddled around one laptop would make things go any faster I have no idea. But worst of all, this was at the same time as we were experiencing a major router fault. Crippling 40 offices UK wide. But his daughter had the priority.




Next up. You’ve got the arse lickers. Those that have given sexual favours to get promoted up the ranks. The 30 year old kids. At the dizzy heights of the 4th floor on a major, and I mean, major power trip. How someone of 30 who is 5 years out of university can be making decisions for huge corporations with all of a few years experience in the world of work is beyond me. But wow these guys are the worst.
They act like your best mates, and try to be cool. But would happily drop you like a sack of potatoes if you happen stray on their wrong side.

Because they grew up in the 80s, they feel they are on the tide of the technology boom, and want nothing more than the best. Seriously I've seen directors surrounded by 4 23" widescreen monitors hooked up to dual core graphics cards. 4GB RAM PCs with dedicated 10Mb broadband connections when the rest of the company are sharing a 2mb.
I’ve seen these directors with PCs more powerful than the applications servers. So what do they use them for? Browsing the net and checking email of course! I’ve also seen cinema sized wide screen plasmas fitted to their offices with full sky subscriptions... So they can keep an eye on Bloomberg.

They demand the best, and they get it no questions asked. Yet when some poor sod is suffering on a flickering 14" CRT whilst trying to design tools in AutoCAD requests a bit of extra memory, there’s about 4 forms and 6 signatures required to sign off. Requiring at least an essay to explain justification and five quotes for the cheapest price.

So what do these 30 year old directors drive around in? Well of course it has to be Lamborghinis and Ferraris. They have to show that they have something cool and prove to the world that they are successful... Successful in giving blow jobs in my opinion.
These people also love their plush offices and having 17 year old blonde bimbos known PAs running around after them. (and are usually having sexual affairs with them)

The worst thing is, these 30 year old entrapanoures are just as stupid if not worse as their daddies. Unthought-of, rash, stupid decisions. Such as "Block Google now!" so people can’t search for that news report about how dodgy the company is. These people also expect the laws of physics to change to suit them, and Bill Gates to personally come and fix their PC problems.

"You left my PC on Administrator mode!"
"Umm no I'm sure I logged it out after I installed that printer for you."
"You calling me a liar? It says Administrator here"
"Aaah yes, just change it for your name and then put your password in as normal. It just remembers the last person to log on"
"How do I do that? Come up now and do it! CLICK"

This particular occasion resulted in me having to ring Microsoft to see if they could change something that was hard coded into Windows. Well you have three choices. Auto logon as him. Remember last person to log on, or don’t remember last user to log on. He wanted neither. But a call to Microsoft was required to clarify this.

Oh the law doesn’t matter to these people either. I’ve seen them wondering around the offices smoking. Yet everyone else has to go shiver in the outside bus shelter in the rain if they want to smoke.


So yes, you get your numpty work colleagues. The office Judas. The idiot who will try and self repair printers by ripping fuser units out when they’re switched on. The office joker who will superglue your mouse to the desk. The guy who will do 3 hours overtime daily and wonder why no one else does. The slackers. Those that come in stinking of last nights booze. The self important supervisors who’s stuff is always more important than anyone else. The sexy lass who is just a cocktease and she knows it.

Yes I’ve experienced them all. But nothing makes me groan more than the managers and directors. How much I loathe these people. I am a fond believer in treating everyone equal. We are all human. This is just one little company in a little company on a little planet in the whole big universe. It’s just a job; it’s not the be all and end all of life. We work to live, not live to work. But nope, this isn’t good enough for them. Nothing is ever good enough. Your loyalty stands with the company, not with your family or friends.

I hate the tippy toeing, the stress, the nerves that these people put on their minion workforce. You do a million things correct for everyone else, and one thing slightly wrong for a director and bang, your career is over. They quite literally have lost all grasp on reality.


Yup big rant, but I'm sure there’s a lot of you there nodding your head as your reading this.. In which case.. Clicky please!!!!
(Miggyman, Thu 24 Jan 2008, 13:11, 19 replies)

One guy I wont name
Underworked, overpaid, brown-nosing type. He had a water feature on his desk (says it all).
Yeah, I pissed in it.
(Celtican is 10! Old school or what?, Thu 24 Jan 2008, 13:09, Reply)

Cameron C Gray
I will say no more.
(Celtican is 10! Old school or what?, Thu 24 Jan 2008, 13:06, 2 replies)

Mad office boss
I remember my first 'proper job' manager with a small glow inside. I think it's called hatred...

It started innocently enough with me writing a newsletter for her to proof read. She found some things she didn't like, I fixed them. Then the second proof she found more, and then more on the third, fourth and fifth proof. By the time we got to the eleventh proof I was now amending back changes she had wanted the first time.

I went to have a chat about how silly this was, and she promptly burst into tears and ran out of the office.

Everyone else looked at me like I had just threatened to kill her or something.

The next day she bounces in, all sweetness and light and forgives me (erm forgives me? what did I do??) and takes me out to lunch. We spend a happy afternoon building houses for our newly acquired kids meal toys.

The next day, I walk into the office with a note on my desk, saying 'see me in my office', from my manager. In I wander and am promptly ripped into for wasting the afternoon before and doing no work.

Now as you can imagine I'm a bit confused, but soldier on to make up the work from the day before.

Now, rinse and repeating the above scenario everyday for three months you can see how it became a burning hatred for the individual.

If I failed to be happy with her on 'good' days I felt like I was kicking a puppy about the room and everyone else thought I was evil.

On other days when I had strips torn off they thought I was crap at my job.

I was trapped there as it was a university placement and couldn't leave without failing the course.

I did however get a glowing report and promise of a job there if ever I wanted it (about the same amount as gargling razor blades).

It might have been a slightly less glowing report if she had discovered how many mistakes I didn't bother to correct in stuff we went out. If she hadn't spotted them in eleven stages of proof reading, why should I? My favourite being the headline about a 'car ant boat show'.

A petty revenge but it somehow seemed appropriate.
(Wooden meal is. Or is he?, Thu 24 Jan 2008, 12:59, 4 replies)

Martina




She was the biggest slacker in the company, always on the web, on the phone to her mates, umpteen fag breaks, pulled sickies nearly every week and would loudly proclaim how little work she'd done and the various wheezes she'd pulled to avoid doing any.

Then, as is the way of fuckwitted management cunts, they promoted her to line manager. Apparently, it doesn't matter how much of a hopeless case you are as long as you can wave a bit of A4 with "Congratulations! You passed Management 101 via our night classes" writ large upon it.

So, we now entered a living hell of "Do as I say and not as I do" style of management. Quiet words were for losers as real managers stood up in the middle of the floor, pointed at some poor soul and screamed "Oi! Mary, you fucking spackhead! You're a waste of space and you know it loser!" Toilet breaks were timed and arrival and leaving times were noted for any tardiness or leaving early and all was written to her Filofax.

I was asked to join her team and, because I couldn't think of an excuse fast enough, got lumbered with two week's holiday cover. We got on alright, I just counted the hours and days until I could escape and tried to avoid her steely gaze. I was working away one evening, bailing out the cunt as per usual when she couldn't meet her deadlines, when I noticed a reflection in my window. I put my head down and kept working but noticed it again. I quickly turned around to catch the ever lovely Martina giving what had been my back the finger with a side order of full-on belming. She went bright red, coughed and suddenly found the contents of her handbag extremely interesting before bolting for the door. I heard afterwards, through one of her 'trustees', that she felt I was making her look bad with my sterling efforts at bailing her out as the two week 'blip' of me being on the team would point out the shiteness of the rest of the project.

Not that it mattered as, if anyone from higher up had a word about her attitude or management skills, she'd adopt the Violet Elizabeth Bott approach and scream and stamp her foot in a tantrum until they gave in - which was always.

I'd like to say there was a happy ending and she got her comeuppance but no - she's still there as far as I know while myself and nearly everyone else I knew there is long gone.
(Fanta Menace Is tall enough to see over the fence, Thu 24 Jan 2008, 12:56, 2 replies)

Call Centre of Cunts
I've worked in a bastard-cunt-fucksocks call centre for over 5 years now. It truly is a place of despair: a company that strives for multi-national status, yet employs fuckwits of unparalleld witlessness.

(The fuckers also pay a pittance and I'm so deeply ashamed of my job I am reluctant to meet new people for fear of them politely enquiring as to what I do what a living. Apologies for the digression from topic, but the place really is evil.)

Due to the lackadaisical employment screening process the number of bastard colleagues is through the roof, so here are the details of a couple of the star players:

Captain Bob: Captain Bob was my manager for nearly a year, and is actually a pretty decent guy.

However, Captain Bob is ex-SBS (I am not privy to his actual rank, so 'Captain' Bob is merely a comedy nickname). Captain Bob has done HALO drops, diffused semtex devices underwater and probably killed several people. And this was sometimes reflected in his management style.

For instance, a friend of mine sadly passed away and I was told I was not entitled to attend the funeral as I had taken a day off the previous week. He is a good guy though, and I would certainly not want to get on the wrong side of him.

'The Gage': His surname was Gage, therefore he liked to be known as 'The Gage' and would refer to himself in the first person (like Dwayne 'The Rock' Johnson).

The term 'compulsive lying' does not even begin to describe the torrent of bullshit that would stream forth from his lips at any given moment.

If you were in the pub with him and two attractive girls walked in, 'The Gage' had slept with them both (but you couldn't go and talk to them, as that would just be awkward. Obviously).

He used to buy high-grade weed from "black dudes with guns".

He had broken his back when he was hit by a car (it transpired he had bruised his back play-fighting with one of his mates).

He had passed an RAF fitness test and was waiting for the results of an examination which would entitle him to instantly become an officer when he joined. He was confident he would pass.

He didn't drive, he had stolen a BMW while still only provisionally licensed, this resulted in a high speed chase and his license was revoked.

One of my mates (b3tan bongmaster *waves*) and myself informed two female colleagues of 'The Gages' status as a world class bullshitter, 'The Gage' found out that we had been bad-mouthing him and accosted us outside a local nightspot. Apparently "The Gage has slashed folk for less than that".

Apologies for length, but if you think that's long you should see the cock on 'The Gage'.
(JasperSinister is offering two tickets to the gun show, Thu 24 Jan 2008, 12:45, 7 replies)

A catalogue of w@nkers
However some of the finer moments..

One woman moved into my team, told me I wasn't professional enough and should be more like her and that I should make her my role model. Later told me that she didnt understand the presentation someone had written for her ( as she was incapable) and so "just wore a tight top." Emmeline Pankhurst spinning in her grave was the only sound I could hear.

When she discovered I was mates with her boss outside work told me, that "it isnt a popularity contest". ...I didnt realise it was a contest actually.

Then tried to get me fired with some ridiculous trumped up nonsense. She failed. She resigned to take up a Director's role at another business and lasted just under 3 months. Shame.

However, my favourite was the girl who had a runny exploding bot...and sat in it all day.

Excuse me I have to vom.
(Siouxfan I'm not staring at you, I am just short sighted, Thu 24 Jan 2008, 12:34, Reply)

This will, sadly, sound racist
but at the large telecoms company I worked at, the three African employees were a law unto themselves.
People were employed as programmers - how good the interview process was was revealed when I started interviewing people and - shock horror - gave technical interviews for the first time.
Before that they would presumably let people in who *said* they could code. This led to the employment of many misfits - of all ethnical backgrounds, it must be said. But the Africans took the biscuit.
J was an African woman in her late thirties. She commuted to the office, which was about 70 miles out of London, from London. The fact that she couldn't get a contract nearer to home should have raised alarm bells.
Somehow she got away with coming in at 11 and leaving at 4. Every day. Now, I wouldn't have a problem with that. In fact, I tried to sort out local accommodation and schooling for her kids for her. But she Could Not Code.
She literally didn't know how VB worked, and Visual Basic isn't exactly rocket science. You could explain to her what to do, nay write the code out for her, and she's still be staring at the screen 2 hours later. She also asked me to buy a domain name and some hosting for her. I did, at cost - i.e. I made nothing out of it - and she refused to pay the full price. So I lost out big style. First time in 20 years I swore at a colleague in an office. She went off to work at the BBC I believe...
Then there was S. I think he could code, none of us knew - as he was continually in meetings. Only he wasn't - he had invented all of them. Genius in a way, I must admit.
Saving the best till last, there was Arnold. I'd looked at Arnold's cv and advised against employing him - too many roles, in too many places, in too short periods of time. I was ignored - but had the last laugh.
Arnold arrived, and started telling us all implausible tales of how he re-wrote operating systems in his lunch hour, that sort of thing. Still, he was welcomed in and seemed a nice enough guy, although quick to moan, which is generally unforgiveable when you're the newest on the team, doubly so when you're working in an incredibly laid-back pressure-free environment.
Others managing Arnold seemed to smell trouble, but he successfully demo'd his work to some customers, and all appeared well. Until he went on leave, and his work was studied.
He'd invented the lot. The "demo" was basically functionality-free - it just made the user *think* that something was happening. It wasn't - it was all faked. Genius, of a kind, again, but it left everyone else in the shit.

I know that these examples plus the old 419 scams are scant reason to tar an entire continent with the same brush (and in fact, I've worked with some brilliant South Africans in the past) but it hasn't left a great impression on me, I must say. Cultural differences I can accept but scamming and lying is a universal language and not one which can be looked over because of someone's origins. Still, will give benefit of the doubt as always in the future, and judge on who people are not where they come from - hard though sometimes, isn't it ?
( I_Was_Mordred, Thu 24 Jan 2008, 12:33, 6 replies)

Bullet Points
Now technically this isn't someone I worked with, but it was the first time I realised that just because someone wears a suit doesn't mean they're not a complete spaktard.

This story takes place a good 6 years ago, maybe that makes a difference, maybe not.

Anyhoo a young, bright eyed, bushy tailed, Jezziah is going up to visit some cousins, so gets the train to Leeds where his uncle will pick him up. Unfortunately due to the times his uncle isn't off work yet so Jezziah has to go and sit in his office while he finishes up.

Said uncle runs an IT headhunting firm (no idea what it's called so don't bother trying to work it out) and is in work that day to give some people a little extra training. In word.

I'm sitting there, not a word of a lie, he explains to a couple of morons who should really know better that to make bullet points you have to click on the format then bullet and numbering menu. (I use open office now, so don't blame me if this isn't the exact way it works, it is on my comp)

It gets worse, trying to be helpful I pipe up "or you can just click on the bullet point icon" .... frosty silence ... uncle replies "which one is that?"

Oh dear, I'd just shown up my uncle infront of his workers in his fancy IT job, whoops! In my defence it is sitting right infront of you and if you're in that business you should REALLY know how to use a word processor.
(Jezziah, Thu 24 Jan 2008, 12:31, Reply)

Bastard Colleague
I currently work at a web design studio with a programmer who can only be described as the bastard love child of Anne Widdecombe and Sloth from The Goonies. He is a geek of fathomless proportions (he probably writes his shopping list in binary) and has a tendency to stand over your shoulder and dribble whilst frantically scratching his genitals and arse crack before offering to make you a cup of tea. I once took him up on the offer only for him to dip his fat sausage-like fingers into the mug before spilling it over my keyboard. What's more, he sits at his desk at lunchtime and eats raw mushrooms and spring onions and makes the noise of a pack of hyenas dispatching a rhinoceros carcass. A true bastardy bastard!
(dunkbd, Thu 24 Jan 2008, 12:30, 1 reply)

Typical. Immediately after reposting a tale, I thought of this.
I've been in my current job for about 16 months. in that time I've come to realise that our human resources department are anything but (human, that is). They seem to delight in taking the 'human' out of human resources, especially the head of HR - a bitter, jumped up individual with an inability to bend to different situations and exercise common sense when needed.

One of my colleagues became a father for the first time late 2006. Fairly standard procedures you would think - nope. Baby was born with Downs, which was understandably a bit of a shock for the two of them (being in their 20's and pretty low risk for such a thing to happen). This was complicated by the fact that their newborn daughter was having difficulty breathing and needed to be kept in hospital and on a ventilator. First child must be stressful enough, without this (I wouldn't know - never wanted kids, never will).

So he asked for some additional leave on top of his paternity allowance.

This was agreed by 'human' resources, on one condition.

That he bring in a copy of the birth certificate, as proof that the baby had been born...

Fucking unfeeling, inconsiderate bastards.
( Davros' Granddad a voice of calm reason in a world of spastics., Thu 24 Jan 2008, 12:30, 4 replies)

There's always one Clever Bastard...
I'll tell this one to start the ball rolling: I suspect Bearded Whumpus may be able to add to it, as he also knows this guy.

The joy of being on a science or engineering degree is that you quickly realise everybody else in your year group is just a weird as you are, if not weirder. It also means that there will be one or two potential geniuses amongst you.

We had a couple of these, of which one - let's call him D - was a twat.

At heart, D meant well. It's just that he knew how clever he was, and he wanted to make sure everybody else bloody knew it, as well as holding the opinions that:
1. Only an idiot could fail an exam
2. Any subject other than fiddly, highly mathematical, theoretical physics was "a soft option."

Another example: turned out that D and I were both applying for phds at the same time.

Me: "Well, I'd quite like to stay with this department, but I'm just going to apply to as many places as possible and wade through the rejection letters until someone makes an offer."
D: "Oh, I'm not sure whether to stay in physics or maths. They'd both have me, but the physics department would offer more funding. However, I may be able to get the maths department to offer me the same amount of funding given the leverage I've got."

I left that conversation gobsmacked. The last time I saw the arrogant cockdonkey he delighted in telling me that the supervisor he would have had for the maths phd "cried when [D] declined his offer."
(LongJohnBaldry, Thu 24 Jan 2008, 12:28, 3 replies)

Tyson
Having worked as a chef for years i've met so many drug addicts, losers and people who have a chronic fear of washing, to be honest i nearly cried sometimes at the state of chefs the agencies sent me. (and no it wasn't the onions)

One lad we had as a commis chef we called tyson, mainly because he cried a lot, he looked like a dirty dwarf and no matter how many times you made him wash there was always a thin layer of mud on him.

Tyson was a man who would grass you up to the manager for anything, some of you may know there are times in kitchens when theres fuck all to do and so you have to make your own entertainment such as throwing knives, deep fat frying the weekly rota or locking the kitchen porter in the deep freezer, (ah happy days)
but every time tyson was on shift he would weasel off to the owner and say that we were not working or other such snideities. Tyson was also the laziest shit this side of the equator and frequently called in sick and let us down.

A plan was hatched......

We got the master keys for his locker and placed a pigs head in it staring out and drew pentagrams inside, after that the head chef borrowed the restaurant amp,speakers and microphone and we hid them under the kitchen sides and put one in the pastry bin,
finally we altered tysons rota so he was working a late on his own.

The good thing about this particular kitchen was that its two floors under ground and a very lonely place when you are by yourself.

When tyson started work that evening we had the whole brigade of chefs hidden round the kitchen some in the pastry room and laundry pile some in the potwash (big kitchen) and as we got one of the chefs "jaws" as he was affectionately known to make very quiet mewing and crying noises into the microphone, we could see tyson's expression going from puzzled to worried and he was getting more edgy, looking around and checking to see where the noises came from, as the evening progressed jaws started to whisper jumbled words very quietly into the amp, tyson at this point had - had enough and packed the kitchen up early forgetting to clean properly (as usual) and went in to the side room to change.

All hell broke lose as he opened his locker, he screamed and ran full pelt to the main stairs of the restaurant, he slipped as he was running
cracking his head on one of the metal prep tables and was out cold, we quickly disposed of the pigs head and cleaned the pentagram off and managed to raise tyson who was a gibbering wreck, we stated we were up in the bar when we heard the scream and tyson fell hook line and sinker, strangely enough and to no-ones regret tyson handed in his notice the next day and got a job in maccy D,s from what i remember.
( Trollman, Thu 24 Jan 2008, 12:26, Reply)

Have a pearoast...
Until I can think of something. I mean, I have nearly 20 years of work experience behind me, I should be able to think of at least one person who's pissed me off big style.

This guy was an irritating twat though...

*********************************************
Back in my student (and, come to think of it, school) days, I worked part time in a kitchen, doing general jobs. Nothing strenuous at first, washing dishes, prepping vegetables, that sort of thing. We had a chef who did most of the cooking, until one day when she walked out in a strop, and I got shunted into cooking duties. Which, considering I’d never cooked properly before, was a bit of a reputational risk for the bistro concerned. Not to worry, I took over for a couple of weeks, until a new chef could be employed, and all was fine and dandy. Nobody died, nobody took ill. I was proud of my achievements, and I still enjoy cooking to this day.

Anyway, a new chef was appointed, and as the Bistro was desperate they didn’t bother waiting for references to come through. He interviewed well, and seemed to have plenty of experience. I don’t know why, but there was something about him I just didn’t like. But, being the type of person who will get on with people that I have to work with (why make life difficult when you’re stuck in the same environment with someone for several hours), I got on with my job, and he got on with his. We engaged in polite conversation, chatting about music, films, drinking exploits etc. However, his exploits were always just a tad on the unbelievable side, of the 20 pints, 3 fights and six shags a night variety. There was a rabbit off somewhere, and I couldn’t quite put my finger on it. Oh, and much as I wasn’t an expert, I didn’t rate his abilities as a chef at all – everything he cooked was bland and utterly devoid of texture or taste.

One day the conversation came round to festivals.

“Yeah, I went to the Reading festival last year”, I piped up. “Fantastic time, good bands, never drunk so much or been so knackered. Mind you, New Order were one of the headliners. Much as I like New Order, they were absolutely terrible. Sound was awful, Bernie Sumners can’t sing live, and they were just the most boring band in the world to watch live. Very disappointed”.

Chef shakes his head in disbelief, muttering something about how he loved New Order but would seriously reconsider going to see them live if given the chance.

A couple of weeks later, the conversation came back round to music and gigs in particular. I’m recounting various bands I’ve been to see, some well established (Depeche Mode, The Cure, Primitives), some less so (Danielle Dax, Mudhoney, Pop Will Eat Itself, Fugazi, Young Gods) and so on. (Fugazi actually stayed in my flat after the gig as I flat-shared with the bass player in one of their support acts – true fact!) Chef is equally recounting some of the bands he’s been to see.

And then he came out with it. The sentence that exposed him as a pathological liar: “I was really disappointed with New Order”, he offered, “I saw them last year. Couldn’t sing, sound was awful, and soooo boring to watch on stage. Wouldn’t go to see them again if you paid me”.

I couldn’t believe it. Not only had he confirmed himself to be a pathological liar*, but he was feeding me a tale that I had recounted to him a couple of weeks earlier and trying to pass it off as personal experience. Just how stupid was he?

A week later he was sacked. His references had come through. Turned out he had been to catering college, but had been chucked out for being way below standard and fired from every job he’d had since for being the catering equivalent of anal warts, i.e. a pain in the arse and unwelcome everywhere.

I'd like to think that I'd painted such a detailed picture of how utterly shite New Order were that it made him believe he had actually been there. But the more I think about it, the more I realise that he was just a borderline fantasist, annoying, lying twunt.
( Davros' Granddad a voice of calm reason in a world of spastics., Thu 24 Jan 2008, 12:19, 1 reply)

Work Experience
Whilst studying for my A-levels I worked in a little independent computer shop in Brighton.

We had some poor work experience girl who looked like she was missing a vital piece of DNA. A day in we noticed the till was a few quid short, this happened from time to time so we thought nothing of it.

Next day the till was down by around £30 and the work experience girl had been using that till pretty much exclusively all day. We decided to watch her closely and see if she was just rubbish or on the thieve.

It transpired that she was giving all the customers 99p too much change with every purchase. £19..99 says the sticker on the box, customers give a £20 note, you give a pound change.

I called her up on this and she apologised and said it would be OK - ten minutes later three of us saw her do exactly the same thing. We sent her home early.

Quite an inoffensive girl all in all, but qualifies as a bastard because I doubt both parents were human and therefore unmarried.
(Avalanche - Purveyor of sexual deviancy since 1976, Thu 24 Jan 2008, 12:19, Reply)

Reuben
There was a management position in one company i worked at that was repeatedly filled by a series of incompentent fuckwits. From the one guy who made 6 discplinary claims against his own staff of 10 in one week, to the guy who actually said to us "you know, if you'd seen my CV, you'd never have given me this job" and to the guy who on his first day said "I want you to know that I take this job seriously, and will give it my full attention 24/7 with the exception of one thing - nothing will take priority in my life over my first love - my love for our lord and saviour, Jesus Christ".

That last bit was jaw dropping. Trying not laugh in that meeting was so difficult. One guy snorted so loudly stuff came out of his nose.

Then they hired Reuben. We fucking loved Reuben, not because he did the job well or even slightly compentently but because he was the single worst person to ever be in any kind of job. But he did it with a child-like innocence that we couldnt help but love. Reuben was obsessed with food and could sniff out a free snack a mile off. He wasnt a fatty, just loved a nice sandwich.

The job was service delivery manager, and he didnt really know what it meant. But for his first assignment, he was due to join our sales director for our annual begging meeting at Barclays. With the board.

The Sales manager is in full flow, presenting to the old boys in Barclaycard's boardroom in Northampton somewhere. Even some of the US board have joined in. Its serious shit, these guys mostly know their banking. Reuben is late. He strolls in unannounced to the boardroom causing everyone to stop and stare. He is wearing chinos, loafers and an untucked polo shirt, carrying no briefcase, phone or anything.

The sales manager is mortified but makes a big show of introducing our new, but brilliant (hinting at eccentric to cover up Reubens astonishing business faux-pas) SDM. Reuben takes his time shaking the hands of everyone at the table, all 16 of them and making everything just awkward. He sits down and the Sales guy gets on with the presentation.

About 11.45, 2 of the admin girls sneak in and arrange some clingfilm covered platters of sandwiches at the back of the room, you know the sort of thing, usually includes some bowls of crisps, little sausage rolls and some cans of drink. Only one person in the room has noticed this.

Reubens eyes havent left the food arrangement in 15 minutes, and he's fidgetting, putting off our sales manager who is becoming increasingly maddened.

Suddenly, in the middle of the talking, Reuben stands, coughing slightly to 'cover' his intrusion, and he walks over to the food. Sales man is gobsmacked, as is everyone else who now are utterly transfixed on Reuben,

Oblivious, Reuben starts peeling off the clingfilm from all the food, and picking at some of the sandwiches. seemingly not finding a filling to his liking, he dismantles a few sandwiches, flicking bits of lettuce around and freeing up some little bread triangles. Now having about 6 or 8 of the bits, he grabs a huge handful of crisps and assembles 3 or 4 little crisp sandwiches.

He returns to the table and looks confused as its all gone quiet. Sits down, eyeing up his little plate, (think Mr Bean eyes), picks up a sandwich and CRUNCH.

The salesman telling this story usually peels off about now, having not the words to describe the reaction. Somehow we renewed with Barclays and life went on. Reuben lasted a couple of weeks after that. He even did something better later on which i might type up later.
( I have run out of coke is a little sweaty, Thu 24 Jan 2008, 12:19, 8 replies)

McD's
Student poverty can lead many people to desperation. Deciding I wasn't likely to make much as a rentboy left me with only one option - the Golden Arches.

Never have a I been surrounded by such a bunch of freaks, wierdos and losers, and this being a MaccyD's in Wales, the standard was especially low/high (*delete according to your point of view).

The first (and only) day I was 'mentored' by a guy called John. At first he seemed odd but OK. He mentioned he was in a band. He said I should see them play next. I asked what style of music they played. "Oh, you know, Christian Rock I guess some would call it. I wouldn't say that exactly - we're just 4 guys celebrating the love of God through music".

As the evening got busier, he then started to motivate the staff by shouting things like "Come on people! Lets have some hustle here!" and "Hey ho! Let's go!". The final straw came when he shouted something about God and the guy on the fries 'station' high-fived him.

I took off my apron and left.
( Squid Ink should be stored upright in a cool, dark place, Thu 24 Jan 2008, 12:04, 6 replies)

The summer before uni i worked in my local village pub
It was run by this utter nutcase. He was a 6'5 South African, built like a brick shithouse who spent the entire day sat on a barstool drinking and chatting to his mates. His main motivational tactic was bollocking you once a week, whether you deserved it or not, but you got used to it after a while.

To be honest I rarely got on his bad side as I needed the money, and had more than one brain cell, a trait sadly lacking with most of the other staff.

Highlights of my time there included:
1. My boss introducing himself to his daughter's new chav boyfriend with stories of how he used to get paid to kill people (SA army).
2. Having his mate's birthday party in the pub - the theme was Rocky Horror Show and he went as Frank N Furter, ah the humour of the armed forces. What was more disturbing was the detailed discussions about costumes in the weeks leading up to this.
3. On the hottest day in the last 100 years (or something - this was summer 2003). It was a Sunday and he refused to shut up shop at lunchtime. Two of the chefs collapsed and we also had mystery customers in on that day. Got one of the worst reports in the history of Scottish & Newcastle which was promptly framed and put up in his office.

Thing is he could get away with murder as the previous landlord used to have coke parties upstairs and then did a runner with the contents of the till and safe.
(Milo Minderbinder, Thu 24 Jan 2008, 12:04, Reply)

I work in recruitment
There are 350 bastards. However, we found this pic of one of our MD's. Pure fucking gold.
( I have run out of coke is a little sweaty, Thu 24 Jan 2008, 11:58, 5 replies)

One other thing
Anyone working in HR/Personnel is a soulless bastard existing purely to cause psychological pain to anyone approaching a 5m radius of their poisonous existence.

And, what the hell is their purpose?

If anyone knows, let me know!
(Jugular, Thu 24 Jan 2008, 11:57, 1 reply)

Boss
About a year ago I was moved internally to work for a guy who had no previous management experience.

A few months after this he was sent away for a few days on some "How to be a boss 101" type course.

After a couple of nice authority-free days he saunters in to the office and addresses myself and the rest of his team with, "So how are my bi-atches then?"

I love my job.

* emails link of this to boss *
( djtrialprice, Thu 24 Jan 2008, 11:55, Reply)

I have
worked an array of crappy jobs. I used to work as a community artist, getting paid loads to do murals and run workshops for kids and stuff.

At one point I was working in the arse-end of Newport, South Wales in one of the largest council estates I've ever seen.

I ran some workshops in youth centres, one ran by a Welsh Jabba the Hut who used boast that he'd cut his Coke intake down to "just the three bottles a day", make his small, put-upon wife everything for him because he could barely walk while talking inappropriately to the teenage girls who came to the centre.

I worked with a painfully shy graphic designer who spent his time hiding behind large murals to stop Jabba and the kids abusing him and encouraging him to take me "in the van for an hour".

This was not the worst of it. I worked in another youth centre, a few streets away. There worked a pikey 'junior youth leader' or something. He came in for a chat, and knowing the project was coming to an end, hovered around the subject of us going for a drink.

I chose to go off to have lunch, and returned to a post-it note with a carefully scribed message.

'My number 07************'
It was bad enough he was a pikey, was five years younger than me and was hugely unattractive, but he didn't have to write on a sexual health helpline post-it.
*shudder*
(Medibot, Thu 24 Jan 2008, 11:55, 1 reply)

Brent Partridge
"Hi.. RW, business entrepeneur" is how he introduces himself.

A peculiar fellow, the bastard offspring of a late night bumfest between the two protagonists. Brent's conceit, Partridge's ineptitude.

Ego the size of a small planet, a small dicked (by his own admission ( "I don't have a very big dick" - urgh- too much info - broad brush only!) short arse with a Napoleon complex and personalised number plate. Stubborn, stupid and mean. A millionaire with a girlfiend whose parents are younger than he is (shudders).

He worked for a large American company for a while, and was fiscally bullied to such an extent that he now has a pathological desire to a) avoid taxis b) stay in cheap hotels.

He and his g/f missed the last train back from Manc on time. He got in a black cab and asked how much it was to get home - they said £25 - he usually paid £15 in a minicab. He took the hit - it was 11.30.

Sitting in the taxi, shuffling anxiously from cheek to cheek, he eyed the meter with trepidation. When it hit £15, he just couldn't stand it any longer!

"Stop the taxi! We're getting out! We'll ring a minicab"

He made his g/f get out, at midnight, in the middle of Gorton (apols if anyone lives there, but it's still rough), and rang a minicab firm...who took an hour to turn up and charged him £15... Karma's a bitch aint it?

..one year when pay rises were 'cost of living' his girlf sent articles through about how cost of living was 2.75% not the 3.5% the accountant had instructed..

...booked us on works business into a hotel in Amsterdam so cramped you could actually shower, shit and brush your teeth simultaneously. He'd been there before, with his girlf on two separate romantic occassions.

..opened all the 'youarefat'/'jimihendrixisgay' viruses that were around then denied it, even though his computer was obviously the source.

..accused me of lying in front of contractors

but is so lacking in direction that we do about an hour's work a day, have no targets, and get free petrol, mobe and car, and unlimited internet access.... hmmm should I stay or should I go now? Never work for arseholes they say... meh
(Countryslicker, Thu 24 Jan 2008, 11:54, 1 reply)

Matthew
I've been very fortunate with my colleagues - noone has made my life too much of a misery - but, in the mouthbreather stakes, Matthew sticks out in the memory.

I worked until recently on a bar. Matthew was taken on one summer during his vacation, his mother having rung to demand that we employ him. This should have been a warning, but we were short-staffed.

Matthew was somewhat laconic. In fact, he didn't speak at all unless spoken to. And noone spoke to him unless it was to tell him to do something: because he was so lacking in social skills, it simply wasn't worth it. Or maybe he was oxygen-starved; after all, even when we did tell him to do something, he would usually not respond. He would just stand behind the bar staring into the middle distance. (Oh, and the top button of his shirt would always be fastened. Another bad sign, what say?)

One of Matthew's foibles was that he didn't drink. Drinking is not, of course, a necessity in a barman - the manager of the bar in question doesn't drink, either - but there is a difference between teetotalism and ignorance about alcohol. Matthew had no idea at all about alcohol - to the exent that, if someone ordered a drink with which he was unfamiliar (a wide enough field) he went a bit special. The beer from the pumps was straightforwardly identifiable enough, and orange juice was just about in his range of abilities - but we did have to explain to him what a G&T was (he didn't know previously), and were someone to order, say, a Laphroaig, he would be utterly stumped. Rather than ask anyone what that meant - which would have implied talking - he would simply reach for the nearest bottle to hand. Well, "Malibu" and "Laphroaig" are close to each other in the alphabet, after all. So they must be nearly the same thing. Sometimes, instead of guessing drinks, he would just decide that he didn't want to serve customers at all if their orders turned out to be too taxing.

Nor was he any more reliable with money: he would grab a handful of coins from the till as change, but be unconcerned about the correspondence or otherwise of the value of the coins in his hand with the required compensation.

One day, he dropped a glass. He ignored it. I suggested that he might want to consider clearing the shards and spill from the floor. Amazingly, he took the hint. But something told me I should keep an eye out. So it was that I narrowly prevented him from trying to pick up the broken glass from the floor with the scoop from the ice bucket.

When questioned, he showed no comprehension at all of why that might not be the best possible idea.

I hate telling tales on people, but I did feel that I had to report that. His period of employment didn't last long afterwards. Unsurprisingly, he showed no emotion at all at being told that he really didn't fit in and might want to consider working somewhere else...
( Enzyme is powered by sunlight, Thu 24 Jan 2008, 11:49, 7 replies)

hag woman
In my last job, I was about a quarter of the age of most the other woman working there. Some of them didn't like this and even went so far as to tell my boss. I could tell they were waiting for me to break and I'm quite nervy so whenever one of them loomed over me when I was trying to serve a customer, I would lose the thread of what I was doing and mess it up. As time went by, they either realised I was there to stay, retired or saw that I wasn't so bad apart from hag woman.

I wouldn't say I was the best one at the job, being entirely unenthusiastic. But I did manage to go a long time without any sick days. In hag woman's eyes, I could do no good.

I worked on a lower floor and our stockroom happened to be below the road instead of the building itself. It transpired, one eventful day, that there was a leak. I say leak. I mean, gaping hole in the ceiling. This meant it was basically raining dirty water in the stockroom on all of the goods. Obv. I then had to remove all of the things out of the stockroom onto trolleys so they wouldn't get ruined. Others joined in and we started a sort of fireman's chain. Stock went out. Boxes on the floor went out.

I came out, shattered and hag woman was waiting beside the pile of stock now on the shop floor. Even though, the shop floor was dead as it was near closing time, she made me clear the entire load into a stockroom on the other side of the floor. Of course, I also had to label it all so no one got confused about it.

I left a long time after the shop closed, dirty and sweaty. grr
(ladyintheradiator, Thu 24 Jan 2008, 11:49, Reply)

I'm an accountant
And to the uninitiated, you'd think most accountants are the same: dull, pedantic and secret sexual deviants (not the good sort).

In some ways you'd be right, but here are a few extra foibles from colleagues, past and present, to brighten your day.

The first accountant I met had worked in a prison as a younger man and witnessed the last execution there. In my interview with him we had a blazing row about the validity of the death penalty. He gave me the job!

The second accountant I worked for hated his own boss and so put milk in his peppermint tea, small revenge.

The third accountant I worked for was a woman-hating, racist! He was proud to vote BNP in the last elections and grinned whilst making me redundant. He got sacked 3 months later.

The fourth accountant I worked with seemed nice at first, after a few months he lost the ability to speak or turn up anywhere on time. It got so bad that a colleague asked where he was, and we realised we hadn't seen him for over a week. He wasn't on holiday, he just couldn't be arsed to come in.

I currently work with 4 other accountants. Only one of them is normal (apart from me - Meh!)

Accountant 1 - repeats everything. She's a bit deaf and is always saying "Wha? Wha?" She's constantly moaning about her water retention and cries when she doesn't get her own way

Accountant 2 - get stroppy when someone doesn't understand what he's saying, even though he constantly mumbles and ALWAYS looks at someone other than who he is actually addressing. It's not like he's got bozz-eyes or anything. He's just a meph!

Accountant 3 - loves his job so much, if you ask him how he is, he'll tell you how great the company is, how much he's earning and which senior manager's cock he has sucked that day. If you don't ask, he looks only at his screen, fingers going like a squid.

Accountants are prize-winning, weirdy bastards!
(Jugular, Thu 24 Jan 2008, 11:48, 1 reply)

Derek Pratt...
The most awful human I have ever had the misfortune to work with was a gentlemen called, I kid you not, Derek Pratt...

You could not make this bloke up.

Derek was a gangling seven foot tall, thin as a rake, Kiwi, born-again fundamentalist Christian f*ckstick, constantly shaking with nerves and pent up sexual aggression.
He was also the most brown-nosed slimey, snidey wretch of a forty year old freak I have ever encountered.
He had two young children and refused to have a television in his house, or 'Satan Box' I believe it was known as.

I once got drunk and wrote 'I hate Jesus' on a post-it and stuck it on his computer.
The next morning he was practically in tears.
(wrigglesworth, Thu 24 Jan 2008, 11:44, 4 replies)

my one and only job
when i had just turned 16(and before i became too unwell to work), my aunt left her job in a small chocolate shop. she spoke to her manager before she left and managed to get me an interview.
result! my dream job!
i arrived the next day to find that the shop was being run by a toad. short, fat, greasy, he seriously looked like he'd give you warts if you touched him. he showed me around the place, pointing out the large cauldron-type chocolate melting device and the erotic chocolate moulds. yes, they made chocolate cocks and boobs.
after the brief tour, he showed me to his office and gave me a cup of tea, along with a large plate of chocolate "seconds". all was going well. he told me that the pay was only minimum wage, but i could eat all the chocolate i wanted. i think i almost fainted with pure pleasure at this point.
i should have realised something wasn't right when he said he'd take my N.I number after i'd worked my week in hand.
the following morning, i turned up for work bright and early. he turned up an hour late. upon entering the shop, i realised that he'd obviously done a quick clean the day before, so that i didn't notice the filth. there was fag ash all over the floor(seriously, the shop had closed an hour after my interview, how much can one man smoke?), it looked like he'd emptied the ashtray and missed the bin. there was hair(his) and mouse crap(not his) under the counter and the wooden ladle used for stirring the chocolate hadn't been washed since moses was a lad. i decided to overlook all of this for the freedom of being allowed to smoke while i worked and, of course, the chocolates.
about 11.30, he came out of his office and handed me a cup of coffee. "stir that chocolate for me love, there's a good girl" and, to punctuate, he slapped me on the arse. now, i know sexual harrassment is a serious business, but i also know that a lot of older men still see women in the workplace as little girls playing at work until they find a husband. men like this see nothing offensive in an arse-slap, so i let it slide.
i really, really shouldn't have.
half an hour later, he came out of his office again and stood right behind me. "are you a playful girl?" he asks, sliding his arms around my waist, "i bet you are, aren't you?" and, with that, he started grabbing my boobs! i shrugged him off, too shocked to retaliate properly. he must have seen the look on my face, because he scuttled back into his office. ten minutes later, he calls me in.
"ah, smash monkey. i'm sorry, but you're just not working out. i'll let you work to the end of the day and pay you for it there and then, but i won't be needing you after today." WTF??? i wouldn't let him cop a feel, so he was firing me??? being 16 and never having worked before, i had no idea what rights i had, especially as i'd signed no contract and there was no official record of me ever being there, so i went back out to the prep area, stunned.
within 5 minutes, however, i had stopped being stunned and was well into fuming. i looked at the cauldron, where quite a large quantity of fine belgian chocolate was gently melting. after making sure that toad-boy's office door was closed, i set to work. i grabbed a broom and swept the floor, gathering all the fag ash, dust, dirt, hair and mouse crap i could find(which was a lot) and dumping it into the chocolate. i stirred it in well, then went to the fron of the shop and took £30 out of the till for services rendered. i then went back to toady's office, slammed his door open and yelled "fuck you, you pervert, i'm off!" and left, filling my pockets with untainted chocolates on my way out.
that shop was closed down less than a year later, after toad-boy was arrested for the attempted rape of his newest shop girl.

length? not even a full day.
( Smash Monkey lowering the tone of the whole internet, Thu 24 Jan 2008, 11:40, 12 replies)

Colin
We hired a temp called Colin.
Colin always wore a baseball cap, which was so grimy it shined along it's edges. He was weird, and I mean really weird, he was in his 50's and still lived with his mum.
She would make his sandwich's which practically every day consisted of mouldy bread with either mouldy cheese, or the one day some unidentifiable meat which was literally green, we could smell it when it was in his desk drawer, and every day without fail he ate it, how he was never ill I don't know.

But Colin had a secret desire, he wanted to sleep with Lara croft of tomb raider fame, not the movie version though, no, he wanted the game version.
Colin would spend every lunch hour playing the game and getting Lara Croft to do handstands in the vain hope he could get a view up her shorts or top.
When he found an image he liked he took a screen grab and would print it off for "his collection".

The ultimate came when we sent him to survey a school building, according to the guy he took with him, they surveyed the girls toilets 5 times, because Colin kept "forgetting" about something.
(Andy-Bhoy I'm here all week, try the veal., Thu 24 Jan 2008, 11:36, 2 replies)