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This is a question I Quit!

Scaryduck writes, "I celebrated my last day on my paper round by giving everybody next door's paper, and the house at the end 16 copies of the Maidenhead Advertiser. And I kept the delivery bag. That certainly showed 'em."

What have you flounced out of? Did it have the impact you intended? What made you quit in the first place?

(, Thu 22 May 2008, 12:15)
Pages: Latest, 13, 12, 11, 10, 9, 8, 7, ... 1

This question is now closed.

I once quit the internet
but some men came in the middle of the night and forced me to come back.
(, Tue 27 May 2008, 15:25, Reply)
Dumping a Psychometricist.
At the turn of the Millenium I was in a relationship with a Psychometricist and my advice to anyone who may wish to get embroiled with one of these is, don't. I have never felt so scrutinized, categorized and objectified by one person that I'm supposed to be nice to because she lets me in her knickers. After one shagfest, she turned to me and said 'I don't like dehumanised sex.' which is a multilayered statement indeed. I got up, got dressed and as I walked out the door said 'analyze this'.
(, Tue 27 May 2008, 15:23, 2 replies)
I applied for a job once but didnt like it so I quit.
(, Tue 27 May 2008, 12:30, 6 replies)
Hey there guys,

Just wanted to say a quick thanks for this QOTW. I'm in a job at the moment where I'm not happy due to lack of training and politics in the office.

Reading through the posts I realise that I'm not in a bad job as it's with a well known company so should be stable but that I can do better for myself so am curreently looking around for something else that I think I'll enjoy more while I wait for other projects to come to fruition.

So just a quick thanks to you B3tans for giving me the courage to get out there and see what I really want!

I look forward to flouncing soon!
(, Tue 27 May 2008, 12:26, 1 reply)
Quittage and beatings
Back in 1998, shortly after turning 18, I realised that I was now at the legal age to work at the local nightclub and could quit my part time job commuting to Meadowhall to prep and sell cookies to Sheffield's finest Chavs (Free cookies is only a decent incentive for so long, I eventually got sick of them and have only just got over the wave of nausea when I see them).

Anywhoo life at the club started good, I was a barman at a nightclub that most of my friends or acquaintances came to (To be fair though, I do live in Barnsley so they hardly had a lot of choice when). I was always asked to add people to the guest list/ undercharge for rounds of drinks etc and I'm sad to say I became a bit of a twat to my real friends at the time.

Aaaanyway, the manager of this establishment was a trumped up little twat by the name of Jim (Name not changed as I don't give a monkeys), he used the club as his own personal shag pad and would happily take a number of Barnsley's finest slappers up into the VIP section every night (It was called the VIP section because it had a rope around it and there was less mould than the rest of the club). He never really liked me, mainly due to the fact that I was hired without his consent and that I would rather spend my wages on things like computer games, vinyl and beer than class A's.

He tried to make me quit by moving me to an isolated bar under the stairs that only sold bottles, I saw it as my own little bar really enjoyed the time I spent there. When he realised I was having fun he moved me again, this time to the bar with the Nazi like supervisor who was also a part of his clique of friends. I was basically placed on all the shite duties and scrutinised on everything I did, being the kind of person I am I still didn't quit, infuriating Jim even more.

One night I was sent to collect glasses from the toilets (a job I will admit I never really did) when I was grabbed from behind by one of the bouncers and thrown through the nearest fire door, where Jim and another two bouncers were waiting. I was made to empty my pockets and they went through my wallet to look for any drugs or stolen money:

Jim: How much money have you got in here?
Me: erm, about £65.00
Jim: There's actually £68.87, you've been thieving haven't you?
Me: What? No, not at all (I' was being flanked by two bouncers so I forgot to ask how anyone having more than £60.00 in their wallett made them a thief)
Jim: You are you little shit I've got people watching you, you know
Me (forgetting the situation I'm in): Really, who's that then? They could have given me a hand when I was in the picking up the glasses filled with piss?
Jim: Don't get smart with me you little prick (starts poking me in the chest at every word he says) I AM THE BOSS HERE AND I SAY YOU ARE A THIEVING LITTLE TWAT
Me: Don't poke me
Jim: Why, what are you going to do about it? I've got three bouncers round here and there's nothing you can do about it (poke, poke)

At this point I swung for the slimy bastard and surprisingly connected, I didn't have time to revel in the fact as I was set upon by the bouncers, with Jim adding a couple of kicks for good measure. What was left of me was then dragged out front of the club, along with my bag and coat (which were thoroughly searched, then dumped into a clear plastic bag).

It took me a long time for me to heal from the kicking, my entire body was bruised to fuck but not a bone was broken (as expected from a kicking form the bouncers). All the staff at the club who knew me were also told that I had been sacked for taking drugs and stealing from the cloakroom ( A Place that was locked from the club opening so how the hell that happened is anyone's guess).

This incident turned out to be a good thing as I had a dawning realisation of what a twat I had been and resorted to changing back into the person I once was. The only people that truly gave a feck about me knew that the info Jim had attempted to pass on to them was bullshit and stood by me the other hangers on that blanked me out weren't worth talking to in the first place.

I never went back to the club until it changed ownership and upon entry I realised that Jim was still there but this time as assistant manager, I spent the night pointing and laughing while saying assistant manager at him every time I saw him, I'm not saying that calling him names was the only form of revenge I took against him, I just wish to keep those stories to myself and use them in a future QOTW.
(, Tue 27 May 2008, 11:18, 6 replies)
2 here for the price of one. A workmate had been building a tunnel and over beer a cunning plan developed ( which of course never gets implemented) timing blessed this one. 4 days after getting a job elsewhere said person had an anal interview ( sic, if you met the manager you would spell it that way too) and got a grilling on his assessment " any comments you would like to make?" He responded by handing in his letter of resignation!

A few months later 4 of us went in for a vacant post due to retirement and 3 of us were skilled and knowledgable enough to get the job, but not bullshitters enough.
None of the realistic candidates got it, and we all bailed out to other places feeling insulted

My exit interview has my reason for leaving as "the joke candidate got the job, and the only job he is capable of is in a village in a time honoured role"
(, Tue 27 May 2008, 11:01, 1 reply)
Quitting Karma
Was working for a games developer a few years back, it was a small company, only employing about 16 people. From the very start, I really didn’t get along with the then owner and managing director. Whenever anything went wrong, I was the first to be blamed whether it was my fault or not. After working there for about 12 months, the company got bought out, lock, stock and barrel by a larger, American company.

The MD stayed and our relationship deteriorated further, but I had just bought a house and was about to get married, so I pretty much had to stick it out. It even reached the point where he wouldn’t talk to me directly, and would only go through my boss, who constantly sucked up to him – I even used to make a point of giving him a cheery “GOOD MORNING!” every day, because I knew it annoyed him and made him look like a bit of an eejit when he would blank me in front of people.

Due to my boss refusing the defend me, I spent half my days being bawled at for not hitting the ever-shifting deadlines. I tried not to care, but averaged about 2 hours sleep a night from the stress.

Things really came to a head when I wanted three weeks and a day off to get married and have a very nice honeymoon. My contract said I could have three weeks with appropriate notice, or more with the permission of the MD. The MD said no way, laughing as he did so. I tried being reasonable for a while, before saying “fine, I’m taking three weeks and a day off, I’ll be back on x date, if you don’t like it, tough” and off I went. At my wedding reception, my boss wouldn’t speak to me (but ate the £50 a head dinner anyway) and was rather dismayed to discover an old mate of mine was fairly high up in the parent company, which I didn’t realise until he said “Why did you invite *my boss* from company Y?” and I told him I worked for that company, he just said “mate, sorry to be the bearer of bad news, but find another job NOW. We’re gonna close that place in the next three months or so”. Shit. Still, at least I had the heads-up.

When I got back off honeymoon, I was informed that my position was being made redundant, though they made the mistake of showing someone I used to work with around the office while I was there. A little bit of digging revealed that he was being brought in to replace me. You can’t make someone redundant and replace them with someone else straight away. So I got my solicitor involved. The solicitor wanted me to take the redundancy and then sue for unfair dismissal. I had a better plan: knowing that the company was about to go west, I threatened to sue but then got my solicitor to draw up a “fair deal” that involved me signing a contract saying I wouldn’t sue and then quitting, in exchange for a (very) large payout. Since I knew the company didn’t have the funds to cover the payout, I refused to take a cheque and demanded a banker’s draft, which came out of the MD’s personal account. When he handed it over, I said “Thanks. I quit. I’ll see you in the dole queue” he just looked puzzled.

Three weeks later, the American parent company closed to office down, royally screwing over the staff in the process - only giving them statutory redundancy pay, which is somewhere between fuck and all. The MD begged my mate (who oversaw the closing of the office) for a job at the parent company. After being nice about it for a while, he told him to fuck off, in those exact words. I lived large off the payoff for six months; the MD sold his house, not least because he, personally, was paying my mortgage instead of his.
(, Tue 27 May 2008, 10:49, 6 replies)
he quit!
my friend evie went on a first date on saturday night with a guy she really, really likes. she was very nervous, but it all went swimmingly well.

so well, in fact, that when they were walking romantically along waterloo bridge at the end of the night (most romantic views in london? arguably yes!), he tipped her chin up, put his mouth on hers, hands cupping her face and stroking her hair, and kissed her. she said it was magical, an amazing kiss, lights of london spread out before them, stars twinkling, his mouth warm and firm on hers, knees buckling...

then, as they finished kissing, he pulled slightly away and looked deep into her eyes.

and what did evie do in response? drawing in a ragged breath, heart pounding, she announced...

"eeeees niiiiiiice!"

in her best borat voice. why? why?? she has absolutely no idea. all she knows is that he folded her into the next orange-lighted taxi and hasn't texted or called her yet..............
(, Tue 27 May 2008, 10:43, 25 replies)
My Job In A Haberdashery
It was all about material things to them. They spent so much time trying to stitch you up, or just needling away. In the end I couldn’t cushion the mental blows anymore. I'd had enough of the pricks. I quilt!
(, Tue 27 May 2008, 10:40, 6 replies)
I Quit
Smoking - Now 5 days without the fabled salmon and trout.
(, Tue 27 May 2008, 10:36, Reply)
at my last job I told them they paid starvation wages
so they took away everyone's lunch break.
(, Tue 27 May 2008, 9:43, Reply)
Did you know
Dr. Henry Walton Jones, Jr. better known as Indiana Jones or Indy, is a fictional adventurer, professor of history and archaeology, and the main protagonist of the Indiana Jones franchise. George Lucas created the character as a homage to the action heroes of 1930s serial films. Indiana Jones first appeared in the 1981 film Raiders of the Lost Ark. The film was followed by Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom in 1984, Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade in 1989, The Young Indiana Jones Chronicles from 1992 to 1996, and Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull in 2008. In addition to his film and television appearances, the character has been featured in novels, comics, video games, and other media. The character is also featured in the theme park attraction Indiana Jones Adventure, which exists in similar forms at Disneyland and Tokyo DisneySea

‘Doctor Jones’ was also an ‘Aqua Hit’

'beep, beep'

oh, that taxi will be mine... :S

Edit: Im quite proud of this pun, yet no- one is getting it :(
(, Tue 27 May 2008, 9:41, 8 replies)
I quit
being a cunt. For the first 27 years of my life, I lied to epic proportions, fucked around, cheated, took drugs and generally screwed my life up.

In September last year I got to know someone who saw through all that to the person I really was inside. Somewhat predictably I was a cunt in the worst possible way and fucked that up too, but losing her has left me empty in a way I didn't know was possible and I'm changing. It's not an overnight thing; there are horrendous things I have said and done that can never be made up or put right. But, one day at a time, I'm sorting my life out.

You know who you are, and I would never think of contacting you directly again but I just wanted to say, without hope or agenda, sorry and thank you. Losing you is the best and worst thing that's ever happened to me.
(, Tue 27 May 2008, 9:39, 4 replies)
It appears it's bindun, but I don't care
As well as his musical career, Tina Turner’s late husband had a lucrative sideline as a scriptwriter for some of America’s leading entertainers. Of course, people like Jay Leno and Bob Hope employ teams of writers, but Turner was noted for his ability to make a joke shine with an unusual combination of intelligence and humour. Many is the person whose career would have foundered without the unique Ike wit.
(, Tue 27 May 2008, 9:26, 4 replies)
Fashionable nonsense
Last time I resigned from my job, I did so in style. I wrote my resignation letter on special paper: it was a kind of silvery-grey in colour, and I’d heard that using it would make me instantly cooler than anyone else who might consider writing a resignation on normal paper. Compared to the slightly larger pieces of paper found in most offices, mine was more expensive, and the standard-issue bic from the stationery cupboard didn’t work on it. Naturally, once I’d found a pen that could be used with the special paper, I didn’t really notice all that much difference in scriptorial performance – but I did somehow feel superior to most other people.

I’m going to be using iQuit all the time from now on.
(, Tue 27 May 2008, 9:07, 2 replies)
Damn your system!
I celebrated my last day of employment with the JobCentre by carefully plotting out a flowchart of the Office Politics complete with gossip, behind the back tales and everyones dirty secrets, then posted it on the Intranet forums. I enjoyed this as I was quitting due to being suspended for having a blog apparently.
(, Tue 27 May 2008, 8:56, Reply)
Shove your job
The first thing that springs to mind is a cantankerous old bugger called Ken. And old guy with everything paid off in life. He was a contractor and only worked to boost his beer money.

There are many stories about Ken, like the time he was thrown out of the local pub. Some Americans had just got off the plane and, other than the taxi driver, the first person they spoke to was Ken. He told them of some graffiti he saw in a toilet in Saudi. It was of a cowboy hat sitting on a pair of cowboy boots with the words 'An American with the shit kicked out of him' written below. For some reason he was banned from that pub that very night.
But I digress...

The job I met Ken in was dragging on a bit. He was tired of it and had an offer of a job elsewhere. He was looking for an opportunity to put in his notice.
The boss called him into his office. He was pulled up about his timesheets (he claimed for 28 days work while having 4 days off in February, and it wasn't even a leap year) but he pointed out he was following the companies method of doing things, and in the companies own strange way of working out the timesheets, Ken had done nothing wrong.
Then he pulled Ken up for giving a load of typing to the secretaries.
Ken said to him "when we started here we were told to put as much of the typing on to the secretaries as we could to free ourselves up for other work.
"but I'll tell you what. You can take your job, roll it into a tube and shove it up your arse" and walked out.

Rest of office outside in stunned silence loving it.
(, Tue 27 May 2008, 7:45, Reply)
take this Question of the Week and shove it
I ain't postin' here no more!
My woman done left and took all the reasons
I was postin' for
You better not try to stand in my way
As I was walking out the door
Take this Question of the Week and shove it
I ain't postin' here no more.

I've been postin' in this webpage
For nigh on 15 years
All this time I watch my woman
drowning in a sea of tears
I've seen a lot of good folks die
And had a lot of bills to pay
I give the shirt right off of my back
If I had the guts to say

take this Question of the Week and shove it
I ain't postin' here no more.
(, Tue 27 May 2008, 5:49, 2 replies)
vinegary justice
I worked at a petstore for two years, did everything from mopping up mini horse pee to bagging up hundreds of dead fish after a hurricane to expressing dog anal glands. One day the boss called me in the office to yell at me for bringing my pet sugar glider to work with me in my purse and for negating to put up some supplies the day my brother in law died. I shook the hand of the mulleted dyke I had been working with and told her it'd been fun and I appreciated her being civil to me and said nothing to anyone else and clocked out. Some time later I developed a odd sense of revenge by throwing random objects containing liquid at the sliding glass doors. Eggs, milk shakes and once a disposable douche. That'll learn them.
(, Tue 27 May 2008, 5:33, Reply)
Familiar story I guess.
Being the lazy student I am, i've only ever had two jobs (official jobs, paperboy doesn't count!!) It's fair to say that I quit my last job rather ungracefully...

Pubs. They're everywhere. Every corner of every village in nearly every country in the world (except Ireland. They ARE a pub). Obviously, a pub job sounds ideal for a recently turned 18 year old. Serving alcohol to people, how novel!! Plus it was literally 30 seconds from my old house; I could practicly see who was working before I got out of bed each day. To add to the "perfect job", it was going to be cash in hand, free bar at workers parties, and obviously mixing with the locals.

Turns out instead of getting to serve people, they shoved me in the kitchen for the first year to "make sure I got on with people".
I'm sorry, did I give them the impression I was recently let out of jail? Was it that I have extra limbs that might scare customers away? Maybe they thought I might be secretly an alcoholic and steal all the beer? Idiots! How hard is it to get on with customers??

After 12 months of plate scrubbing, tea making and feeding the already rediculiously overweight owner (he also smoked 40+ a day, slept 18+ hours a day, and spent EVERY evening drinking enough to kill a hores (fair play to him, he did own two pubs...)) I finally made it into the bar!

It was about this time that I realised how crappy customers really could be, and regretted ever taking the job. I had also planned a few weeks backpacking round Europe for the summer, and so my escape was set...

I planned to do the whole "see you next week" routine, to pack my bag, and vanish from the country, a bit like a cool drugs deal or something, only I had no drugs (at least not until Amsterdam, that of course is another story). I was just worried that the owner would take offence to me not turning up, and I may in fact be baring myself from my own local...

Happily my plan worked even better than I though. I arrived back from touring Europe to find my parents had moved to Sweden, and i'd receieved a place at Leicester University, over 300 miles from the pub.

That was nearly a year ago now, and i've not been back once. I did hear the owner got cancer though. Shame; he really wasn't such a bad guy...

Length? 4 weeks of 40 degree heat and spliffs galore.
(, Tue 27 May 2008, 2:05, Reply)
I should have quit while I was ahead
Walking towards a stream full of carp in my patchy old trousers, I noticed a bridge up ahead. I came closer and I realised that a lot of the carp had been caught up in some debris and were dying - even stranger still was the dead chicken lying there.

As I walked through the carpal tunnel in trousers on their last legs the foul smell wafted past my nostrils and made me almost gag. At this point, I realised I should probably quit...
(, Tue 27 May 2008, 1:22, 7 replies)
This question was made for me
First off, allow me to introduce myself - my name is Pavlov's Frog (formerly swiftyisNOTevil) and I am a quitter. You name it, I've quit it. I'm currently 22 (going on 13), and, ever since I left school I've been in and out of more shitty jobs than you can shake a brown sticky thing at.

Now, it may sound like boasting, but I was pretty smart in school. I could pass most exams with a minimum of effort, and I was constantly told by my teachers that I had a bright future ahead of me (they probably meant as a lightbulb salesman). During the whole of 5th year, I completed pretty much zero homework and still managed to obtain 5 highers (2 As, 2 Bs and a C). Unfortunately, being told how smart I was and finding schoolwork incredibly easy led to a certain complacency. In other words, I became a lazy bastard. Having obtained my 5 highers, I decided the best move would be to go straight to University, while my friends and classmates stayed to dick about in 6th year. So I left school at 16 and went to Glasgow Uni to study Chemistry and Biology. Biology, incidentally, wasn't one of my highers - I had taken it at Standard Grade, and assumed Degree level wouldn't be much of a jump. Oh, how wrong I was.

Uni was a nightmare - I didn't know anyone, I was still living at home and had to travel an hour and a half each way just to get there, I was too young to drink so I couldn't visit any of the unions, and to top it all, the workload was massive. I started to feel snowed under, and the pressure began to build. And what did I choose as my coping method? Why, copious amounts of weed, of course! After all, when you're feeling pressurised and alone, what could be better than a mild halucinogenic notorious for bringing on bouts of paranioa?

I began to feel worse and worse, slipping further and further into depression, which culminated in a massive panic attack on the subway while travelling to Uni. I ended up skipping classes left, right and centre and hang around with my other friends who had dropped out of school at the end of 5th year to sign on the dole (not the best choice of mates, now I reflect on it. Hindsight is indeed a wonderful thing).

After 6 months of barely turning up, I eventually had a meeting with my guidance councellor (or the Uni equivalent), and, after a long chat, I told him that Uni wasn't for me, and quit.

After sitting at home feeling sorry for myself, I got a job as a Data Processor for Barclays Bank. Jesus Christ, that job was boring. It was like a never ending conversation with Gordon Brown about the history of taxation in the United Kingdom. After 3 weeks, I stopped working and simply sat at my desk, reading Terry Pratchett, until the agency asked me not to come in.

Next, I became a mortgage advisor for a certain bank in Scotland. It was royally shit. I lasted 4 months before simply putting my headset down and walking out.

After that, I drifted into shitty job after shitty job. My CV is longer than an evening with James Blunt, and contains more gaps than Janet Street Porter's teeth. I've sold life insurance, Sky TV, mobile phones, mortgages and digital cameras. I've worked in customer service for at least 3 companies. I even had a brief stint as a computer games tester, which is nowhere near as cool as it sounds. The only games I got to play were those mobile phone games for idiots who can't afford a real computer. After 3 days straight playing "Pippa Funnel's Horse AdventuresTM" I walked out.

My personal life fares no better. I have, over the course of my life, taken up the drums, judo, the piano, driving lessons, tai chi, cooking lessons and Warhammer 40K. The garage back at my Mum's house is like a shrine to my procrastination - full of judo belts, Warhammer figures and my old drum kit. I always start off with a burning passion for my latest project, which soon peters out into resigned indifference. I could blame it on my short attention span, no doubt brought on from watching too many cartoons as a child, but the truth is I'm just fucking lazy. If there was a 'Lazy Olympics', I wouldn't even turn up. The annoying thing is, every time I take up a new hobby I think, "This time I'll see it through" and I never do.

I even joined the merchant navy, during a period of panic at my directionless life (and yes, I have heard every 'Hello sailor' joke imaginable). I lasted 2 weeks, until I realised being at sea for 6 months out of every year with a bunch of hairy sailors wasn't really my idea of a good time.

I still can't decide what to do with my life. I have always wanted to be a writer - English was my favourite subject in school, and I'm a voracious reader. Every so often, I will get a burst of creativity, and write page after page of a story. Then, the well will seem to dry up, and I usually end up deleting everything I've written. It goes in cycles - one moment I'm manically typing away like a madman writing his memoirs, and the next I'll struggle for an hour to write one measly sentence. Almost all of the posts on my profile took me more than an hour to squeeze out, and were rewritten three or four times. I've even changed the first couple of paragraphs of this post twice now. Writing brings me a lot of joy, but it's a torturous process. I can never seem to silence my inner critic.

The only thing I haven't quit is smoking, and it's the one thing I really should give up.

I'd probably better quit writing, before the post gets any more epic. I hadn't actually meant to get so serious - apologies for lack of funny.

If you've lasted this far, thanks for bearing with me - I hope it was worth it. And now, I'm going to go to sleep.

Funnily enough, those are often the same words I use after sex...
(, Tue 27 May 2008, 0:42, 14 replies)
publishing = murder
From 1994-1996 I worked for a large UK publishing company, doing PC testing and writing computer reviews. I wasn't one of those "name" journos, who got credit on articles in the consumer mags - my work appeared in the business-focused mags, the ones paid for by advertising. I wasn't even hired to write reviews in the first place, but ended up doing it anyway.

By the end of my time there, the demands got heavier and heavier. On one occasion the editor of one magazine stood behind my chair while I wrote a conclusion to a piece, because the presses were waiting. I never falsified any tests, but insisted on doing the work proper like; this led to some extreme hours, and it took its toll on me. I managed to fall over in my chair in a restaurant during lunch, woozy, banging my head on the next table. Too much coffee made me a gibbering wreck, though I did manage to make some weird art mural collage, using a colour laser I was testing.

After the second 36-hour day in a week - all of it working, not on call or standby - I knew I would have trouble getting up the next day, and set three different alarms. I still slept through them all, was three hours late to work, and got moaned at for it. I handed in my notice there and then.

Since then I have not allowed any job to get under my skin like that, which has probably cost me career opportunities e.g. during one contract job I refused an offer of a permanent position, because I could see where that would lead. I eventually moved to Ireland for a permanent job. In 2006 I was diagnosed with a chronic disease that is exacerbated by stress and poor nutrition, and may have started during - or was triggered by - the events of 1994-6. That's the publishing world for you: they genuinely don't give a fuck whether you live or die, as long as you deliver the words in time.

(If anyone wants to ask what's wrong with me, well, I'll just say that it has nothing to do with MicroSoft. )
(, Tue 27 May 2008, 0:30, Reply)
Not me, but a good story nonetheless
I used to work as a cash office supervisor in a shitty overpriced supermarket chain. I temped a bit in a shop about half an hour from mine, because half the management had to be suspended when about three grand went missing out the safe, but whatever.

This place had a pay & display car park outside, and the attendant, can't remember the name, was allowed to use the shops break room/lockers/staff toilets/etc. He seemed like a sound enough bloke, only spoke to him a couple of times when he told all the shop staff he was going to walk out at the end of the week because he had had enough ticketing old biddies cars who didn't have the brains to remember what time they parked. (parking was farmed out to a private contractor, so no-one cared).

Friday came round, and the bloke turns up in a long-wheel base transit, One of the lifetime supermarket employees shouts "[insert attendants name here] is at it again, come look!" So me and half the staff wander over to watch the scene unfolding outside.

The transit was full of clamps and the guy was randomly clamping every car he could as fast as he could. He already had a good number done when we started watching him, and he had some guy in a suit trying to persuade him to take the clamp off his car. The attendant was eerily serene, completely failing to acknowledge that this guy even existed. Just working around the guy As he pressed on, the suit got more and more irate, and louder. After about 10 to 15 mins the suit was screaming down the attendants ear, as he carried on clamping cars. They guy just completely ignored him. I mean screaming, spittle flying, swearing and insulting this guys family, the works. By this time word had got round, and there was a crowd of onlookers watching this guy clamp cars.

Eventually the attendant gets into his own car (which apparently he left the night before and got a taxi home) and fucks off. The car park company did come out and remove all the clamps about an hour or so later, apologising profusely.

Apparently this attendant had had two previous incidents, one where he smashed the company transit (different to the one he bought with him) into the back of the shop loading bay, and one where he emptied all the machines and threw the change all over the car park. According to the shop staff he always came back after about three weeks, working for the same company, doing the same job, and they expected him back again!
(, Mon 26 May 2008, 22:19, Reply)
Not so much quit...
...as never started.

Summer. Need a job. Unigate advertises. Can you put a cherry on a trifle, 8 hours a day?

Yup, I can do that.

Go to interview. (interview? wtf?) and get the job, but they want me to start immediatly and I have a holiday all booked up. Can I take two weeks holiday straight away and then start?

Ah, go on then. We're short of cherry-on-trifle-putter-onners and someone of your skills in that department we're willing to wait on.

Cool. Go on holiday. Get poorly with dodgy food.

Come home, supposed to start work but really a bit sick with diarrhea and vomiting, not something you really want in a trifle factory. Ring up and say I'm sick, and sign off for a week.

After a week, feel better but worse about working in a trifle factory. Ring up and hand in my notice. No-one seems to notice that I've never actually ever set foot on the trifle-making line.

So, I never actually ever went to work, but I did get paid two weeks holiday pay and a week sick...
(, Mon 26 May 2008, 22:15, 1 reply)
My last weekend/evening retail job I had during my time at uni was at Tk-Maxx in Manchester (when it was under primark for all you mancunians). I absolutely hated it- most managers were wankers (as you often find in these establishments) and they would keep us up to an hour after our finishing time if the shop was tidy- which meant during the week, for 3 days I would often leave my house at 7 to get to uni in Manchester (I lived at home and had an hour and a half commute in the morning) and get home for 11 at night.

It was awful, and often rang in sick at weekend.

Anyway on the eve of my last ever shift, I drank a whole bottle of merlot to myself, was in at 12 and was sick before then, spent an hour in work and decided I wasn't well and went home.

And that, my friends is the only time I've actually ever had to go home from work due to sickness. The moral of the story? Avoid Merlot, especially avoid drink a whole bottle and then going to work the next day.
(, Mon 26 May 2008, 21:16, Reply)
A question for you all
First up, the background:

Last year I quit a promising but dull career in local government for what at the time seemed like a dream job. A friend of mine who I'd met at uni seven years ago had sold his IT company and come into a serious amount of cash. He asked me to be a director of a new company he was going to form to help him invest the money, with a really good salary, pension and a 15% stake in the company. Naturally I jumped at the chance.

After a couple of months of pretty hard work, the problems started. In order to keep his remaining stock in the company he'd sold (which will be worth a fortune when it's floated in a couple of years) he was contractually obliged to do work for them. This changed from the odd task here and there to working almost full-time for his old company, totally pinned down by his 'golden handcuffs' deal.

So our new business ground to almost a complete halt, and I had less and less to do. It's now got to a situation where I'm being paid a good wage to sit on my arse and do nothing. Sometimes I go a week without speaking to my boss.

He has quite openly said that he can afford to pay me to do nothing forever, as my salary doesn't even make a dent in the interest payments on his massive amount of wonga. He'll be able to start work properly when the company is floated, but that won't be for a year or two. In the meantime I only have enough work to fill two days a week, sometimes less.

Now being (well) paid to play Rome Total War, practice guitar and post on b3ta all day, all with the approval of your boss, may sound like heaven, and for the first week or so it was. But not doing anything significant for week after week starts to eat at you. I didn't feel I was making a difference to the world, that nobody noticed me and that it didn't matter whether I lived or died. I've been unemployed before, and this situation is producing the same feelings of uselessness, just without the poverty.

I used to think that people who won the lottery and went back to their old jobs to "have something to do" were crazy, but now I think I understand.

So, with all this in mind, yesterday I applied for a local government IT job that I'd pretty much walk straight into. I'd be commuting again, losing my shareholding and working very hard for about 20% less money, while coping with the kind of dullards who infest local councils.

But if they offer me the job I think I'd accept it.

My question to you is this:

Am I completely insane?
(, Mon 26 May 2008, 21:06, 27 replies)
Gas Bag...
Oh Lord. Let me start by saying that one of my personality traits is I just don’t do confrontation. So quitting in a blaze of glory is not my style. Sneaking out the back while the object of my ire is distracted, I’m your girl. But telling a boss, a friend, a lover what I really think… ugh. No, better to keep it all in till it gives you an aneurysm, that’s my motto.
I’m also averse to starting things I can’t finish. I rarely engage myself in projects I think I might fail at or not enjoy, purely because the notion of having to admit to anyone, least of all myself that I couldn’t hack it is not something I can do.

With this in mind, I wonder how the hell I ever thought I was going to make a living as a door-to-door sales monkey. Back in the mists of time, when I had no money and was slowly beginning to realize that my embryonic alcohol problem was not going to pay for itself, I spent a summer back at my mum’s house, applying for every god forsaken job that your average sized sea side town has to offer. Firstly, I applied for a position as a bartender at a local “sports bar” (for “sports” read “full of televisions in lieu of an atmosphere”). I was prompt to the interview, polite and engaging, even when the bar manager, a slicked back 30 something called Dwayne stopped mid interview to ask me, at full volume, whether I thought the customer on the table next to us was wearing a wig. The fact that a pile of kittens would have made a more convincing head covering kind of gave it away, but to be polite to the gentleman I muttered something non committal, thus sealing my fate as unemployable in Dwayne’s eyes.

My search for an alternative seemed to be fruitless. I applied to a vaccine company to work as a chicken checker – the person who looks at embryos to see whether the current vaccine lot has caused the chicken to chirp its final cheep. I applied to the same company for a job packaging the anthrax vaccine. Apparently I was over qualified, with my A levels and half a degree.

Finally I resorted to the small ads in the paper. I found something tempting; “Earn stacks of cash doing fuck all” was what it seemed to say.

I duly went to the “open day” where I was brainwashed into believing that persuading elderly couples and young mothers to change their gas supplier for the small fee of 30 quid was indeed a philanthropic service.

Armed with a uniform and clipboard (to be paid for out of my first weeks sales) I set out in a nice suburb, not too far from my house. Initially I was sent out with an experienced sales rep to see how the patter went. The technique was basically charm your way into the home of someone vulnerable, scare the shit out them by convincing them that there was an outside chance they were paying thousands of times over the odds for gas, then browbeat them into signing on with you. I was discomfited by this approach. It seemed bordering on immoral; “Nonsense,” my co-worker told me, “no one’s forcing them to sign up.” I wasn’t too sure.

I was let loose on my own, to work my own patch. I lasted 10 minutes; it was the sight of yet another terrified granny hiding behind the net curtains, praying that this shiny jacketed foghorn would leave her in peace and stop bellowing “can I, CAN I INTEREST YOU IN SAVING 200 POUNDS A YEAR, MADAM? MADAM???”
But then, salvation came. I knocked on a door which was opened by the mother of a friend of mine. I poured out my trauma to her. She listened, nodded, called the people I was working for “a bunch of thieving scum” and took me inside. We spent a happy afternoon getting leathered on Chablis and smoking cigarettes.

At our allotted time to meet the rest of the “sales team”, I rolled into the pub, cross eyed with drink. A survey of the group showed they’d had mixed fortunes, some had got the knack of the job, others, like me, had hated each wretched second.

Finally, my team leader approached me. “And how did you get on, Rakky?” Swaying, I put on my best big-girl smile and said “I didn’t sell a fucking thing.” “That’s okay, Rakky, there’s always tomorrow.” “No there isn’t,” I beamed, “because you can shove your job up your arse.” My team leader laughed. “I trust you’re joking” he replied. “Nope,” I responded, swaying a bit more this time, “job, up, arse, shove. Would you like it written down? Maybe I could illustrate it through the medium of sock puppetry?” Leaving him aghast, I waltzed (staggered) to the door and flounced out…

…where my natural cowardice kicked in and I promptly did a sick all over my shoes and had to phone my mum to come and pick me up.

I spent the rest of the summer working for the Child Support Agency.

Apologies for lack of funny, but if you’d like to sign this form and give me your bank details, we can make sure that you get access to the best QOTW answers each week for a small fee. Hello? Hello? Oh…
(, Mon 26 May 2008, 20:37, 11 replies)

This question is now closed.

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