Fat f*cking Nazi sales manager
As a young reporter in a small local office, I was the lone member of editorial team whose other members were located elsewhere in the country.
This meant that I had to sit amongst the nattering sales staff who were ruled by the iron fist of B*g V*l.
B*g V*l was one of those horrendous control freaks who would pounce on to her bloated feet and wobble at high speed out her office at the first sign of anyone actually enjoying their work, and command them to resume their bitter resentment of the position.
She had this idea that she was my boss too, but she had no authority over me whatsoever. I took great pride in this, and deliberately devoted a great deal of time to flaunting my immunity in her doughy face.
Her Christmas treat for the sales staff was to allow the radio to be turned on between 4 and 5pm, and each worker was given half a plastic cup of warm "Lambrusco Lite" (which is only slightly above Buckfast in the jakey drink stakes)as they worked.
The beast emerged from its lair as fast as its swollen trotters would carry the bulky frame, and in some foul gesture geared towards making an uneasy peace with me, held out a second half cup of the stagnant yak pish in its paw. I politely accepted and lobbed the stuff out the window.
The tight-arsed knotted-purse-stringed dragon hadn't noticed that I was openly sinking a six-pack at my desk while happily working away.
(Barry Subchimp, Fri 17 Dec 2004, 11:05, Reply)