Roasting peas on an open fire:
So, fresh out of university, I was temping for the Department of Industry, doing general office admin.

Our unit was coordinating a million pound government grant to develop a green, sustainable form of transport for London and the UK.

One of my jobs was to print out, envelope and send the rejection letters - standard letter personally addressed using a mail-merge.

One chap, however, took great umbrage to the rejection, and looking over his file I'm not surprised.

The entries ranged from someone drawing a kite tied to a cart with a sign saying "Green" on it, to designed models, and then this chap's entry, which was a hundred-page study that cost him personally tens of thousands of pounds in the commission of research and materials.

The contact number on the rejection letter was the 'phone at my desk, and a few days later I was called, and the chap on the other end swore and ranted and cajoled, pleaded, begged and then threatened to get me fired over this.

I reported back to my manager, who told me to ignore it, but sure enough round two came, so I said simply "Listen, the matter's out of my hands, I'm sorry I can't help, but that's the way it is."

He went quiet, then apologised sincerely, and rang off.

Three days later, a handwritten letter arrives addressed to me personally, in which the author apologised for his handwriting (his blasted printer is broken at the moment, but rest assured he is investing in a new one!), and also for ranting and raving at me so rudely - he's passionate about the project as it's close to his heart, but that's no excuse for his behaviour.

By way of apology, he enquired, he wondered if I would be so kind as to allow him to buy me lunch at his club, say - next Friday?

I read it.

I re-read it.

I put it in my pocket and kept my gob shut.

I composed a return letter saying that I'd be delighted to join him for lunch next Friday - how kind.

Next Friday came, and I turned up in my cheap whistle to a quiet street in Pimlico.

I find the address - it's lidderally just two massive oak doors and nothing else.

I knock.

I am greeted by a butler.

I am shewn through to the oak-pannelled, gleaming tap'd, classic and detailed, Art Deco bar. This place is straight out of James Bond, Yes Minister, Dickens - all of that. It actually IS the archetypal London Gentleman's club, and not in the rude way.

"Sir, Mr. X sends his sincere apologies, but he is currently running over on a meeting, and will be approximately five minutes late. Can I get Sir anything from the bar at all, and perhaps a paper?"

I order a water - I've got £10 in my wallet and it looks like if I order a beer they'll want a kidney and the rights to my first-born.

Mr X turns up - for one so strong of voice he's an old guy, bordering on the doddery.

"Ah, Mr Vagabond - how good to meet you!" he beams. "I take it you are being attended to in a decent enough manner?"

He's absolutely charming and I feel like the fraud I am. I want to tell him I'm just a temp, there's nothing I can do, and that he'd be far better off taking the head of the department out, as she's got serious leverage. He's a lovely old man, who's done well for himself, and he's just trying to do the good thing, I understand that - he's no saint; just a sinner, and just wants to make the world a little bit better.

But fuck that - I'm poor, young and hungry, he's rich, fat and old.

We're led through to the dining room, which is as you'd expect - full of suits discussing Important Matters, and as we are led to his table by the window, he nods to a few of them, muttering to me that he's the ambassador for Hong Kong, he's the owner of Saatchi's account handlers, that's the Minister Without Portfolio, etc etc.

The menu - of course - has no prices on, and he heartily recommends the fish - it's the best this side of Russia.

We drink - of course - a bottle of the correct wine with each course.

Over lunch he continues to try and butter me up, detailing his plans for the project, and how he's going to seek finance elsewhere, but that the government really could do well out of this on the PR front. I listen attentively, nod encouragingly, and, using my scant knowledge of industry from my GCSE Geography, occasionally drop in a choice phrase or two, such as "Renewable energy resources as part of the GDP". It works.

We retire to the smoking room for coffee and liqueurs at around 2-30, and I stagger back into the office at about 4-30, pissed out of my skull, and am fired on the spot.

Totally worth it.
( Je suis un vagabond is an unfunny, up your own arse middle class knob, Thu 28 Jul 2011, 14:17, 8 replies)

Loved it the first time round, just as good on a re-reading!
(anvil, Thu 28 Jul 2011, 14:20, closed)

Likey
*clicky*
(SonoraAeroClub "OH SWEET HELEN OF BALLS!", Thu 28 Jul 2011, 14:31, closed)

Enjoyed reading it again.
I'd never have the balls to turn up for the lunch, so nice one.
( Evil Bastardo, Thu 28 Jul 2011, 14:42, closed)

I said it before and I'll say it again
So he did get you fired, the spiteful old shit!

Also *click*
( Wet-chinned bag shanker Cannot parse Wogan, Thu 28 Jul 2011, 15:14, closed)

got right to the end
then officelol'd. nice read
(Monkeystrumpet monkey. Monkey, MONKEY!!!, Thu 28 Jul 2011, 16:13, closed)

now that
is a classy way to get fired
( Smash Monkey lowering the tone of the whole internet, Thu 28 Jul 2011, 19:40, closed)

I'd love to know what his proposal was.
(Captain Skippy pooed in a bag and left it on your doorstep, Fri 29 Jul 2011, 6:09, closed)

Very boring.
There were a lot of tables of numbers and comparisons.
( Je suis un vagabond is an unfunny, up your own arse middle class knob, Fri 29 Jul 2011, 8:47, closed)