Ask me again in a week...

( brooza wonders how long a sig can be and if this will fit, Fri 23 May 2008, 16:48, Reply)

I quit...
My job picking up pages 232-245 of the Argus laminated catalogue of dreams off a conveyer belt line from a massive laminating machine, in a factory on an industrial estate in essex (4am - 1pm shifts too - fucking rubbish that was...) - (pardon the lack of grammmmmar. I'm rushing this before I leave)

I was only there a week, but got to dislike the jobsworth power-mad manager enough to throw a bin at his head and call him a fucking cunt whilst walking out mid-shift.

I also enjoyed phoning the agency that placed me and telling them that he was a massive bastard and that I expected to get paid until 11.13am when I threw the bin at him.

He didn't press charges either. Bonus.
(Pat_Gash, Fri 23 May 2008, 16:46, 3 replies)

Time to change directions here.
Thus far we've been having stories of job changes.

How 'bout relationship changes?

As many of us do, I had a major infatuation in my youth with a girl who took full advantage of it, making me run around doing things for her like the pussy-whipped little fool I was. For a few months I put up with some rather emasculating behaviors that I'd rather not detail, if it's all the same to you.

I don't remember the exact incident that was where I finally drew the line- probably she asked me to go to the Infirmary for her to get meds for menstrual pain or some such- but in any case I flatly refused, which angered her and caused her to say some very shitty things to me. The fight escalated pretty quickly, and as this was in a college dormitory we had a large, if unwilling, audience.

She yelled something intending to insult my masculinity, and at that point I replied with a phrase that I heard repeated often afterward:

"Girls like you are good for one thing and one thing only- landfill!"

And with that I slammed the door in her shocked face and left.
( The Resident Loon Not a demographic. Do not measure., Fri 23 May 2008, 16:40, 3 replies)

Why I quit drugs
An inspirational story by Kaol.

Back when I was 17, doing my A-Levels I used to drink a lot, smoke a lot of weed, and take a fair number of pills.
This was all good and well until once fateful night.

I was sitting at home, feeling pretty rubbish, due to being freshly dumped.
A carload of my friends turned up, decided that they were going to take me out to cheer me up, and managed to persuade me to take a bunch of LSD.

I still to this day have no idea what happened between the moment that the I woke up in hospital, covered in anti-climb paint, covered in cuts and bruises, on a drip.

That's about the most shocking wake-up-call you can have. It was at that point that I quit drugs.

I still drink (some would say a little too much), but that's it.
( Cawl, Fri 23 May 2008, 16:33, 12 replies)

Monopoly.
Yes, I am ashamed to say that at one point in my life I have worked as a delivery driver for a popular pizza home-delivery company that rhymes with "Geronimo's".

My job basically entailed dressing up in the most ridiculous-looking clothes possible (why oh why do fast food joints insist on their workers dressing in clothes that make you look like a clown? Is it to deliberately sabotage your self-esteem?), putting on some even more ridiculous-looking protective clothing over the top, and riding around on a Honda Lead scooter delivering pizzas at breakneck speed.

A couple of things pissed me off about the job - notably that the pay was shit (and my first wage was 4 weeks late), the manager had a nasty habit of shouting at people everytime they came back from a delivery because they'd taken too long (they tell you when you sign up that you're not expected to break the speed limits to make your deliveries - my arse! I had to do the scooter's shitty 50mph top speed all the way through town just to keep up), the fact that the manager wouldn't let me go home even if my last bus was due, and expected me to work Friday and Saturday nights even though I was told when I started that I was free to work when and only when I wanted, the Polish assistant manager who would sign all the drivers except for her mates, who she allowed to sit around doing nothing, off the clocking system when the profits were getting too low for the night, and chavs throwing fireworks/bricks/sticks at me.

I'm not going to tell the story of how I quit, because it wasn't very interesting (I worked there for two months and then I'd had enough) but I will say that there were a few high points - notably:

- Breaking a youth's foot by running him over with a scooter because he was standing in the middle of the road taking the piss,
- Learning how to wheelie,
- Getting 'air' over multiple humpback bridges,
- Deliberately putting people's pizza in the topbox upside down because they were rude on the phone,
- Riding the scooters around the kitchen

The moral? Don't ever buy your pizza from there - it's probably been fucked around with to high heaven and then taken on an urban moto-cross challenge during the delivery.
(Half of Stephen Fry's right buttock pissed on your dog on, Fri 23 May 2008, 16:22, 1 reply)

I'm going traveling?
After my A-Levels I started to temp for the finance arm of a well known motor company who shall remain unnamed (but let's just say they make the "Ford Mondeo" (wink wink))

Next thing I know it's four years later and I'm still there. Moving up the ranks I find myself in the Internal Auditing department. Yes, it is as boring as it sounds.

It was the most depressing year of my life so one day I just decided to quit. The hope being that it would force me into doing something about my life through lack of income. The chat I had with my boss went thusly:

"I've decided that I would like to hand in my notice."
"Oh OK. Who's stolen you away from us then?"
"No one, I've not got another job lined up."
"Oh. Then why are you leaving?"
"I really hate my job."
"Oh, ok then."

On my last day I recieve a card from all my loving co-workers expressing their good wishes for my trip and jealously that they hadn't gone travelling when they had the chance. I then had to explain to everyone that I wasn't going travelling and I was leaving because had I spent one more day sitting in that fucking chair i would have gone totally fucking postal on the lot of them.

Miss Bosslady looked like a right twunt. She just couldn't tell them that I was leaving becuase I thought the job that we all did was dull as fuck. I'm Auditing? Come on!

Now I think of it I had some very Camus sensibilities in my youth.
(Chester Elegante ........ladies., Fri 23 May 2008, 16:11, Reply)

The brain fart incident
I still get a warm feeling every time I remember this.

Back in the Harlequin’s misspent youth while at a higher learning institution he dallied with the idea of PR as a possible profession. It’s mostly filled with nubile blonde ladies, famous sorts and free stuff thought I. In order to truly live up to the middle class stereotype I skipped all that pesky interview nonsense and used nepotism to get some work experience. A friend’s mum is MD at a London agency and a quick chat and bit of charm got me in to learn the ropes. Trendy Soho sorts everywhere, the aforementioned females of blonde persuasion and some interesting stuff to work on, namely London Fashion Week.

I’ll say straight off that it was epic fun. Being one of five straight men in a three mile square radius with lots of stunning women running around drunk, stoned or high as a kite led to some rather enjoyable experiences to the extent that I went back to do three more seasons. The last one was the best as the harlequin had his job nailed – basically looking after the photographers and TV crews – and was a little older and wiser. Now fashion sorts are, with very few exceptions, a daft and bloody useless bunch and this extends to their own PRs. All of these seem to be twenty-something girls in leggings and acid yellow hot pants with clipboards and headset microphones. Buggered if I know who they were talking to on these, they were never on the event channels and their job seemed to be to run around and get in peoples way and annoy everyone.

So it was that on the last day of the week the Harlequin found himself arguing with one of these little darlings over why the show for the designer she was working for was running 45 minutes late. Lots of annoyed looking journos, celeb types and fashion people in the audience and Harlequin was getting an earful from the photographers as they had to be at another show at a different venue ASAP. So Harlequin tries to find out what the hold up is and is going backstage when he is waylaid by a slightly frazzled looking hot pant wearer.

“You can’t go back there” says she.

“Erm, I can actually” says I.

“No you can’t, it’s restricted access. Only fashion week staff are allowed I’m afraid” she sneers back, looking at Harlequin’s distinct lack of fashion sense.

“I know, I am staff and I need to know what’s taking so long as I’ve got forty increasingly annoyed photographers to calm down.” I fire back as I pull out the all access spiffy blue “god” pass that proved I was one of the anointed. “Now be a dear and run along and count the chairs or something” I snapped. It had been a long week, with a number of late nights involving booze and women in overly large quantities and so the fuse was pretty short.

I sauntered back stage to see a line of models ready to go and the stylists all looking nervously at a corner table where there appeared to be five people all talking a the top of their voices at the same time. One was the designer in question and he was looking increasingly agitated as I wondered over. Heads turned as I approached - the Harlequin is a tall chap – and a woman I then recognise turns in her seat. It’s a certain English supermodel with a reputation for throwing things at assistants and getting booted off airplanes. Shit the fucking bed. And now she’s glaring at me and barks in a somewhat testy tone “Well?”

“Sorry to interrupt, but I was wondering when the show is going to start”

“Who are you?”

“I work for Fashion Week, I’m a liaison for the photographers and television crews”

“That’s nice for you but we’ll start when I’m ready” she announces haughtily

“I’m sure that’s the case but I was hoping it would be soon as you’re running rather behind time and the guests and the media are getting quite restless.

“They’ll wait for me, they always do. It’s not my fault anyway. Those stupid women – she indicates the stylists – fucked up my make up so I’m doing it myself.”

“Er, I’m sorry things aren’t running smoothly. If you could just finish up as quickly as you can I’m sure everyone would appreciate it.”

She stands up at this point and looks me in the eye. Bloody hell, she’s my height in those heels. “I’ll be ready when I’m ready. I’ve been doing this a while and I don’t need some jumped up little fucking gopher telling me how to do my job,”

The Harlequin is not impressed by her tone. “There’s really no need for insults, I’m merely trying to make sure the guys I’m working with have enough time to get to the next show and know what’s holding them up.”

“I’ll decide if it’s time for insults! Those fuckers can wait for me, it’s their job”

And at this point the Harlequin’s brain / mouth filter failed.

“And it’s your job Miss Well-known-soup-brand to turn up on time and walk up and down a couple of times.”
…
…
Crap.
…
I just verbally bitch slapped a supermodel. Oh dear.

As what I said permeates her head a tactical withdrawal seemed like the proper move so the Harlequin about faces and marches out passed some rather awestruck make-up artists. I hear a fairly incoherent shout but don’t turn and then I’m back safe and sound front of house. Another 5 minutes and the show started with the snappers all commenting that a certain model had a face like a slapped arse on her. At the end of week party that night after a few glasses of bubbly I fessed up to the boss and made it clear that it was my last season. She agreed it was probably for the best and then got me good and drunk. Drunk enough that I had the balls to go and chat up an underwear model. But that’s another story…

No apologies for length, it was worth it.
(DarkHarlequin putting babies on spikes since, Fri 23 May 2008, 15:45, 5 replies)

lucky
I quit this week, only once i had a new job sorted. I am real glad i wasn't a bastard as they have come up with a "PLEASE PULLLEAAASE PLEASE stay" package way more than the new job.

Its more difficult to take spunk/bell-cheese/tiny-rabbit-poo out of coffee than to put there in the first place. Wise words indeed.
( bazza van der trance , ooh baby baby, baby baby. Get up on this., Fri 23 May 2008, 15:42, 1 reply)

stupid website espionage
I worked at a large corporate engineering/architects firm for a few years in their graphic design department, long story short the company was in the shit and half of the staff ended up getting made redundant. I'd been there about a week less than the length of time you needed to qualify for redundancy so ended up getting bugger all. Understandably peeved at this situation my parting gift to them was to change the ultra crap flash screen on their website so if it was on for more than 30 seconds it started flashing up pictures of enormous cocks.... apparently it took them nearly 6 months to realise!
(unintendo rubbed another mans rhubarb, Fri 23 May 2008, 15:07, 1 reply)

I have no staying power
The longest I have ever stayed in a job is 3 months. The shortest is 8 hours. I'm 21. I even quit Uni temporarily (Although I'm in my 3rd year now)

I used to tend to jump into jobs without thinking about what they would involve. I worked in a local deli/butchers type place as my first part-time job at 17, selling things from sausage rolls to brawn (Minced brains etc.).
The staff lounge was a tip, and the assistant manager was a bitch from hell (Although the manager was quite a good bloke). I should have guessed from the joke of an interview (No application form, no CV required....just a 5 minute chat basically telling him my name and my hobbies) that the job wasn't up to scratch. I regularly got shouted at by the 60-ish year old assistant manager who must have smoked at least 40 a day; for nothing. On my first day, I was taking a long time serving the customer as the system was quite complicated; so she shouted at me. In front of the customers. I lasted 3 weeks surprisingly, before I jumped ship. Now, 4 years later, the shop has gone out of business after I heard they hired at least 1 new member of staff each fortnight to replace pissed-off employees. Good riddance, I say.

I have also tried my hand at going door-to-door selling house evaluations. This has been my worst job, by far. I went in a suit and tie, and wondered why everyone else was only wearing casuals. It was completely commission-based, and for want of a better word, all of the people in that job were chavs (As it was near Croydon, no wonder at it). I attended a day's training, with 15 other people in the same boat as me. Seemed fairly easy. When my first day came around, we waited around for an hour waiting for the 'drivers' to get ready. They were the people who got paid extra to drive the rest of us to the location, where we worked for the whole day. Now, this would be bad at most times. But, after we set off, the whole group decided to stop off at McDonalds for an hour doing fuck all. They were the sort of people you see on the Jeremy Kyle show every day, and I couldn't stand it. The job itself was terrible too. I got shouted at by homeowners pretty much every time, and to make matters worse, on the way home they blasted shitty rap music at full blast. I was in the back seat so I could hardly hear when we got back. Suffice to say, I told the manager where to stick his job.

However, the example which underlines just how little staying power I have, is when I started University. I decided to stay at home (To 'save money') so I had to commute into Guildford every day. Bad move. The first day, I travelled via train into Guildford for the induction day. I knew no-one, and everyone was talking about 'the great party last night' and I was left standing on my own. So I went home, dejected. But, I was determined to stick it out. The walk to the train station was a bit of a bastard, so I decided I'd take my bike the next day.
Tomorrow comes, and I happily ride my bike up to the station and buy my ticket. I wait for the ONLY direct train to Guildford from my station (Which departs at 7:20). The train is absolutely packed, and I can't fit my bike on. What would a normal person do? Wait for the next train, and simply be late for the lecture? Instead, I call the University and say that I don't want to do the course anymore. I ride my bike home, and spend the next year dossing around doing nothing. Although, I re-enrolled the year after and am currently half-way through my course. So it's always better the second time round I guess.

Apologies for length, but it's all about the girth.
(Dazzorifik is bored of b3ta, Fri 23 May 2008, 14:48, 3 replies)

Not me..
.. but a mate of mine only told his parents he had quit from uni by phoning them from the airport, just before buggering off to Australia for a year
(Moshi Moshi, Fri 23 May 2008, 14:29, 4 replies)

Pretend suicide
Now this turned out harsher than I expected, but seemed a cracking idea at the time.

I was young, hacked off, and as young and hacked off people are prone to (especially those who find themselves working in call centres taking gas meter readings over the phone), I'd decided to quit my job in style.

We had a team meeting/daily pep-talk scheduled for that morning, and as our line manager was a chain smoker, these were sometimes held in the car park at the side of the building - as was the case the day I'd decided to quit.

Now the building itself was on a hill, looking out over the city, and right at the end of the car park was a low wall, over which, to a casual observer there would seem to be a sheer drop of about 100ft - although it was actually slightly terraced, with something like a 4-5ft drop immediately the other side.

The pep-talk started as usual with our boss attempting to motivate us for the day ahead. Following this, we'd usually take it in turns to discuss any issues from the day before.

When it was my turn, I merely uttered "Sorry, but I can't take it any more, I really can't, I quit", ran across the car park like a demented, suicidal monkey, and hurled myself across the wall.

There was about 30 seconds stunned silence, followed by screaming, and then more screaming, and then plenty of crying.

When I emerged, rather than being treated as a jolly prankster they overlooked my "resignation", sacked me immediately and escorted me from the premises.

So yeah. Don't pretend to kill yourself at work kids. Not good.
( rofl harris, Fri 23 May 2008, 14:28, 15 replies)

Please, no more pasties!
Whilst I was still an Aeronautical Engineering student (what a fucking stupid choice of degree!) I made some extra money from working for the cafe branch of a certain well known chain of bakeries.

I had worked there for about 18 months and despite absolutely caning the overtime I was still a piss-poor student. So I decided to apply for a promotion to store supervisor (by this time I was already too aware that I was never going to be allowed to design aeroplanes for a living). To my surprise I was offered the position and started training almost immediately (on minimum wage I might add). Then, enter the new guy. Thick as two short planks, but with the looks of a Calvin Klein model. Naturally my manager (gay, but slightly self-conscious) takes a shine to him. Quite a shine it was too, as I discovered after returning from a few days off to find him in a supervisors shirt.

I never did ask what my manager meant by "better qualified", but suffice to say I left work early and found another job on the very same day (thankfully I have been promoted since then and am earning a not brilliant, but respectable-ish wage). When it came to working my last day I decided that I was owed something for all my trouble, so I filled my bag with frozen pasties and sandwiches (after purposefully making too many), hid the managers car keys in a fridge and pissed of early to go to the pub.

Those pasties kept me fed for at least two weeks, but now, nearly four years later, I still feel queasy when confronted with the smell of hot, flaky pastry. Maybe its karma, maybe its just healthy paranoia.

Whatever it was I am interested to see what I can get away with if I ever get fired from my current job as a projectionist. Sexy scenes spliced into kids movies anyone?

Disclaimer: For my colleagues whom I know read B3ta - I am of course kidding and would never do such a thing. For the rest of you - if you ever met our technical manager you would understand why!
(fan-dan-go because mutton chops are cool!, Fri 23 May 2008, 14:26, 1 reply)

I tried to quit...
Over the course of 13 years, I tried to leave my bar job several times. I've only just managed.

The explanation is long and tedious - but the point is that, having got the job in February 1995 while still doing my A-levels, and notwithstanding having moved to and lived in several different cities in the interim, I still got a phonecall on the 23^rd December last year:
"Are you around this Christmas, Enzyme? Do you want some shifts?"

Of course I did.

I tried to quit in 1995. But like some kind of minimum-wage singluarity, the bar keeps pulling me back... 13 years later, I still don't think I've properly quit.
( Enzyme is powered by sunlight, Fri 23 May 2008, 14:20, 62 replies)

Telewest
I moved from Manchester to Wirral a few years back, i was offered a job when I was in Manchester to go and work in Telewest in Liverpool Albert dock. Which was cool as it was near where I was going to be living - what luck!

After 3 days I had had enough, the system we were being trained on was about 15 yrs old – in fact probably older... the job itself was to manually connect telephone lines contracts or something... Either way, on the day I left I rang the Agency i was working for and advised them I wouldn’t be returning. the response i got was shocking: quotes:

"You’ll never be successful"
"You’re stupid"
"How dare you waste our time?"
"Dont be thinking of coming back to us"
"Waste of space"

I was shocked... I had been really polite and explained the job really wasn’t what I expected.

On returning back to my desk to collect my things, i spoke to one of trainers - a really nice bloke, he said there was a bet around the office to see how long I would last, and apparently the position had been filled and repeatedly lost several times over the passed few months. I had stayed longer than most people thought.

The agency was struggling to do its job, and instead decided to blame me for its failings.

cunty cunts.... GRRR
(Dan dan dan They tik urh jerbs!!!, Fri 23 May 2008, 14:18, 4 replies)

Short and sweet
The day I left a certain higher-end supermarket, the name of which rhymes with "Barks and Sensor", I decided to write off (the technical term for 'reduce beyond the point where it can be sold') and proceeded to eat a brand new tub of ice cream. I sat at the back of the freezer so I wouldn't get caught.

Best shift ever.
(The Oscillating Gibbon is eating curried squid, Fri 23 May 2008, 14:07, 2 replies)

ooh Gunter reminds me
of some creative stock-taking I did just before leaving a manual labouring job, landed me an at-the-time rather sophisticated bit of video cassette recording equipment. Nice. I didn't hate that job. I spent a good chunk of it stoned and when there was a sale on and much manual labour was required, we generally dropped a pill or two (cos they were good back then and you didnt need loads) and enjoyed the benefits of flexing our muscles for hours on end. Nyar, nyar, nyar, nyar - laaaaaaaaaaavly!!!!
(bazmorningstar efil4nat3b, Fri 23 May 2008, 13:56, Reply)

A tale of tedium...
The young Gunter strode carelessly from university: fresh faced, full of ambition and excited about what his future held. He had gained a Desmond, to use the parlance of our times, in his music degree and felt content that he'd balanced fun and study as well as he'd intended.

He was also on the verge of releasing an independent album with some friends (only 1,000 CDs pressed), which represented the realisation of his dreams and, he was convinced, would be the first step on the path to success and glory. More than that; it meant his music would be heard by people all over the country, perhaps even the world (he was a very naive boy back then) and that made him smile, and smile he did.

The initial plan had been to last long enough without gainful employment to be eligible for the generous donations meted out by local government in support of those without any income. However, a fondness for the "smelly green shit" soon eroded any funds that had survived the final few months of study and, growing weak from an absolute absence of sustenance, our hero was forced to abandon his lofty plans of going on the dole, and to take up a job with Parcel Force.

Now this was by no means a step on any rung of the career ladder. If anything he'd tumbled down a ditch at the foot of the ladder, and would have to reach ground level again before beginning his rise to the levels of mediocrity he currently enjoys. But if throwing boxes around put food on his table and weed in his rizla, then he would throw boxes for all the hours that were absolutely necessary. He worked with a few friends and he had loaded lorries and stacked pallets before, so this was nothing new. This is a man, after all, who's upbringing was decidedly rural, so there was no fear of physical labour.

He did, however, find this job to be particularly tedious. Perhaps as a result of the stimulation he'd received from three years of study. Or maybe because his mind and attentions were firmly fixed on the musical success that surely lay at his feet. Most likely as a result of the copious quantity of skunk that was fouling his lungs on an hourly basis; his efforts waned and his commitment was soon called into question.

Ultimately Gunter found it increasingly difficult to drag himself out of his pit each morning just to hurl boxes about for 8 hours. The incidents of sickness increased, while productivity decreased. Tardiness became more and more of an issue and there was more than one occasion where his boss requested a 'brief chat'.

The final one of these chats ended quite abruptly as, in no uncertain terms, the young Gunter made plain to his boss that he wouldn't be requiring their less than generous pay slips any longer. The meeting ended amicably enough, but that didn't stop our hero helping himself to a little parting gift courtesy of Sony, as it happened, as he meandered out of the warehouse and into the sunshine beyond.
( Moey, Fri 23 May 2008, 13:51, 5 replies)

Pat your arse supermarket.
When I was 17, a lovely girl I'd been having a dalliance with kindly informed me that she was 'with child'. (EDIT: This turned out to be a blatant lie. I could have finished 6th form and acheived a slightly higher level of mediocrity by now if it weren't for her.)

Stupidly, I believed that the responsible thing to do would be to get a job, sharpish. The first thing that I came across was shelf-stacking at the above. The selection process didn't really apply as it was the pre-Christmas period and they were (assumedly, from the shambles that was my 'interview') employing anybody who wouldn't openly masturbate on the shop floor.

Three weeks later, I found alternative employment as a post-room boy. The pay was a lot higher and actually referred to as salary rather than wages (always a good sign!). There even looked to be scope for some progress with the employer.

The supermarket 'team leader' was distracted or disinterested or both when I informed her of my iminent departure. No more was said about it duing my 3 remaining shifts. In retribution for making me work with mongs, retards, fuckwits and the general public (go shopping in ADSA and actually look at the people debating between chop pork and corned beef!) I stole anything that would fit into my pockets and kept their gnatty green waistcoat (in case I went to a fancy dress as a leprechaun).

I'm still gainfully employed at the second company and am soon to leave, although I'll hang on for my substantial redundancy payment in lieu of another shitty waistcoat, ta.
(Greencloud Wanted to go fishing on, Fri 23 May 2008, 13:25, 2 replies)

Jobcentre Misery
As many already know, I spent far too long towing the line and working for the DSS (or Benefits Agency as it was), before going on to work for the Employment Service (now Jobcentre Plus. Plus what? Half decent jobs, perhaps? Or is it all still cleaners and security guards?)

The BA, whilst not a particularly mind blowing environment to be in, was nonetheless made bearable by the people with whom I worked – a cracking bunch, we had a laugh, and generally the days went by quite quickly. However, after being fucked over after not being permanently promoted into a job I was already doing anyway, I decided enough was enough, and applied for a job with the ES – same grade, but more money. “That’ll show ‘em”, I thought. Sure enough, after a somewhat convoluted recruitment process, I was in. I finished the BA on the Friday, and started with the ES on the Monday.

In Alnwick.

Oh, cock.

Despite it being named recently as one of the most fantastical places to live in England, and whilst it is indeed very pretty and historic and has a big fucking castle just outside the town centre, it’s fair to say that some of the people that live there or in the surrounding catchment area wouldn’t even fall into the category of ‘sub-human’. (Anyone who lives or has family in Alnwick, please note the use of the word ‘some’. It’ll save you hurting your fingers as you furiously type flaming responses later). I was familiar with some of the clientele anyway, as I had to do a couple of stints there when I worked for the BA, who had a satellite office based there. However, professional that I am, I thought I’ll go and do my job, and diligently.

After the first week I realised that I’d made the worst mistake of my life, and spent the next two and a half years looking for a way out. It wasn’t so much the clientele – most were OK, some were quite interesting (one punter had been a sound recordist and had worked on Aliens, for example – he brought a scrap book full of signed photos of people he had worked with, including Kathleen Turner and Ken Loach. Nice bloke). My colleagues were a mostly decent bunch, but being in an open plan, public office didn’t give much scope for irreverent banter. I very quickly got disillusioned, and repeatedly refused to go for promotions on the basis that I hated what I was doing, why would I want to do something that gave me more stress and made me more miserable for an extra £3k a year? No, I’ll carry on as I am, and continue looking for something else. A prolonged process of applying for jobs and getting nowhere, not even responses, ensued. Pretty ironic considering my role involved offering advice of job hunting…

And so over the months I got more and more fed up of being part of a team that was asked to meet ever increasing targets on an ever decreasing caseload of clients, and ever decreasing staff numbers, and applied for a job that I thought sounded interesting, but would mean dropping down a couple of grades again, and losing about £3k a year. Not a problem, the missus was on a good wage and we could cushion the loss a bit by getting rid of the second car. I applied at the last minute, got an interview, and informed my office manager that I needed the afternoon off, and why.

The interview itself was the best I’d ever had, and I came out of it feeling buoyant about the whole thing. I’d done my research on the organisation before hand, and played some blinders during the questions. I was told I’d hear by Wednesday. But, come Wednesday, there was nothing. When I got back from work on Thursday, there still was nothing. By Friday I was starting to fear the worst. So I made a decision, picked up the phone, rang the organisation and got the best answer I could have hoped for.

“Yes, we sent a letter out yesterday, it should have arrived today. You were on a reserve list, but someone has declined their job offer and we want to offer you a position”.

Fucking brilliant. I went straight into the manager’s office, beaming. “Can I have a word, Diane”?

“You’ve been offered the job, haven’t you”?

“Yes”.

“You’ve accepted it haven’t you”?

“Yep”.

“Oh”.

Two weeks later and I was gone. That move took me in a totally different direction, and the next four years were, without question, the best four working years of my life. I worked with good people, whom I’m still in touch with today. Had I had the choice, I’d still be there, but the curse of restructuring reared its head and the organisation was wound down and absorbed into a new body – one I didn’t see myself having a place in. But of all the jobs I’ve had, including my current one, it was the most satisfying thing I’ve ever done workwise.

Length - 10 years too long.
( Davros' Granddad a voice of calm reason in a world of spastics., Fri 23 May 2008, 13:24, 12 replies)

Carpet Flouncing
My very first ever job, YTS, was as an assistant to a carpet fitter in a family run, local, and reasonably successful business.

At first it was OK, i like the smell of new carpets, unfortunately back then new carpets and their method of manufacture would likely give you teh cancer. Anyways. One Friday i was meant to be meeting a girl i had met just a few weeks earlier, even phoned her from a customers house to make sure she was still up for it, she was. I had arranged to meet her at 7pm. It was now 6pm and we had just finished a job, with 2 more to go. As we approached the train station, which was on the way to the next job, i told the guy to stop, and simply got out and walked away, much to his scorn about being sacked on the monday, big fucking deal. I countered with something along the lines of...I had some 16 year old pussy to explore and that, my hairy faced friend, is infinitely more important than gripper boards and fucking underlay. Goodbye.

At my current job, i work in a windowless dungeon and, get no breaks, save a dinner time and am managed by creatures more suited to swinging from trees, the fucking chimp cunts. Anyways, when i do leave here, which will be sooner rather than later, i have already dreamt up a few 'presents'

1. A frozen fish stuck above the roof tiles, frozen because by the time it thaws out the day will be over and i will be off to fuck. Frozen prawns shoved into gaps too small to be able to retrieve them.

2. Im going to shit in the cistern so that when flushed there will be a sickening influx of yellow/brown water for the forseeable future.

3. Send the head chimp an anonymous card stating that she is in fact incapable of bipedal locomotion, has a 'hair dont' and should consider cutting her own fucking throat.

Then again, i will probably leave quietly, but with a smile.
(Cancer Joy was short lived, Fri 23 May 2008, 13:02, 3 replies)

I'm
Quitting my relationship very soon. Why??? Onion rings and a Cornetto. I cant stand the sound of anyone eating never mind in bed. Its over mate.
(conzo21, Fri 23 May 2008, 12:55, 1 reply)

it's also
my last day at work today. Get in!
Not fired - however the day hasn't ended yet...
(Handel blah blah blah, Fri 23 May 2008, 12:44, Reply)

Student jobs
Best student job ever: Walkers crisp factory, Leicester. On the first night, fixed the foremans PC, after that - he let me do half hour on, half hour off. £8 an hour on nights to do basically fuck all. Brilliant. Hate crisps now though. Was gutted to quit. Might have crushed a few packs on the way out.

The real story however was my first student job.

Find something plastic, have a look carefully for a tiny little nib of plastic sticking out from somewhere - example, look at the bottom of a lighter, theres usually a little round bit with the nib in the middle. This indicates the item was produce by extrusion/injection. There is a mould, and hot plastic is injected into it, it cools rapidly and the machine ejects it, usually trailing a little length of extruded plastic - think little bit of gob that you get sometimes when eeating sloppily and it stetches between your mouth and food.

All those little bits have to be cut off by someone. Usually, very very very very working class people. People who during their entire lives have never amounted to anything other than being someone who cuts off tiny little pieces of plastic from extruded plastic items.

Or students. Enter me.

I got the joyous 10pm-6am shift, mid august 1995. A fucking hot night. On arrival, the grunting fuck who ran the place pointed out "the canteen" (agency description) or what I would describe, as "filthy plastic garden chair in corner" and my "workstation", or more accurately "molten plastic furnace with jet engine attached". This contraption spat out little newly minted round plasticy things, something to do with "make-up innit?" at the rate of - 3 in 2 minutes. I had to remove them from the press, and cut off the little nubby bits with a scalpel.

It says something when you have pretty much mastered every little nuance of a job within about 30 seconds. 29 of those seconds briefly held me, an engineering student, in moderate awe at seeing a nice big grown up machine and 1 second to understand my entire remit for the next 8 hours.

Did I mention the scalpel?

This is how it went for the next 3 minutes:

Grab plasticy thing. Locate nubby bit. Scrape scapel along edge, cut off nubby bit. Wait 45 seconds. Repeat. Grab. Locate. Scrape. Cut. Slice open thumb. Ow. Wait. Grab. Locate. Scrape. Cut. Slice open thumb. Fuck. Grab. Ow. Locate. Shit. BRAIN SHUTS DOWN. Slice. Fuck. This. GRAB. BREAK PLASTICY THING IN OUTRAGEOUS ANGER. Slice. FUCK OFF CUNTY SCALPEL BASTARD.

How I lasted an hour I dont know. I did the one thing I was told not to do - hit the big red emergency cut off button. Wasnt supposed to do it "fuckin cos it takes fuckin ages to fucking get the fucker fuckin started again innit" and walked out.

The agency cunt phoned me back in the morning asking why I walked out and I told him because I would kill myself if i stayed in order to numb the pain of my brain cells dying.
( I have run out of coke is a little sweaty, Fri 23 May 2008, 12:36, Reply)

I once got sacked for laughing at work..
...mind you, I was driving a hearse at the time.


Ithankyou.......I'm here all week.
( sneep used to date Freddie Starr's hamster, Fri 23 May 2008, 12:23, 1 reply)

The monolith
My favourite 'I quit' moment actually occured two months after I handed in my notice. Mainly due to the fact that I couldn't afford to leave due to various bonuses and paydates due to me and also so I could tease the other staff by turning up week after week when they'd thought I'd left.

My resignation letter was googled and written in the style of an old school MD wishing the company all the best for the future and how all the things I had implimented should be carried on into the future. I was almost fired on the spot for the letter, but they needed the staff, so kept me on with the promise that I wouldn't do anything too bad on my last day.

Thing is, my line manager had been longing to do something destructive as a general Fuck you, but needed to keep her job, so we decided that I could do anything I liked and she would write me a glowing reference in return.

So my last day arrived...1st July 2006...A lot of bags of sweets found themselves opened by mistake so they had to be written off for staff, regular customers from my section were told the truth about the pisswater they were drinking and referred to the nearest Threshers with a list of what they should be buying instead, email addresses were exchanged, tears were shed blah blah blah.

The thing about the Monolith company I worked for is that they had these incredibly irritating cake stands for putting wine on which looked like wooden christmas trees and would overbalance if too much wine was put onto one side, so the most expensive champagne was duly ordered several days in advance and loaded up onto the trees during the day in proper stacking fashion. Throughout the day customers chose the bottles they wanted and so they were restocked in my own fashion. One tree fell to it's vinigary smelling death half an hour before closing, so I was dispatched to clean up the mess, smiling all the time.

Seeing as it was my last day I was allowed to leave half an hour early so two hours later I made the final walk along the shop floor past the two remaining trees of wine, stopped to adjust my shoe and gave it a swift kick. The tree swayed left to right for a tantalising moment while I beat a swift retreat, but I later saw the CCTV as one tree fell into another and the whole lot came crashing down, causing a spillage 50 metres long and about £2000 in write off costs.

To be fair I worked there for two years, hating every moment of it, but didn't have the confidence in myself to apply for a job I'd enjoy. I know better now.
( fuck shit up the best you never had, Fri 23 May 2008, 12:23, Reply)

Quittage repost
Captain Placid's topical repost reminded me of a place I was working at about seven years ago, where I was "managed" (using the term in it's loosest possible definition) by an utterly inept individual called Rob.

I reponded to an advertisement from a company seeking helpdesk analysts support a well known brand of Payroll software. I duly applied for the job and was invited in for a rather gruelling round of interviews and tests before being informed that I'd missed out by the tiniest of margins. A few weeks later a second letter arrived to say that I was hired anyway.

It turned out that the person originally hired stuck it out for a couple of weeks and then mysteriously fucked off. Determined to make a go of it and having just signed up for a mortgage with ex-Mrs PJM I snapped up the job offer like a hungry terrier.

I was introduced to my boss, who had been with the company since leaving school some twelve years before. He looked vaguely familiar to me. I wracked my brains and remembered that he used to attend my local scout group. I remembered that he'd been a loud, gobby shite, but perhaps time had mellowed him somewhat...

All was rosy for the first couple of months as I trained on the software and started to churn through dealing with client queries. However, a few weeks later Rob recruited another analyst and duly paid him £5k a year less than me. Then my problems started.

Rob quickly showed his true colours, he was both a monumentally insincere arse-licker and also liked to manage by fear. This dual side to his temperament rattled me, one minute he'd be publically praising me and the next the knife would be drawn. Being the only non-smoker on the helpdesk meant that at 9am every morning I'd have to deal with all the urgent shite while he went off for a fag and to stick the knife in.

Our latest release of software was as buggy as hell. I had been dealing with a particularly unpleasant client trying to resolve their issues for them prior to my wedding, however I wasn't satisfied that I was getting anywhere with dealing with the root of their issue.

Rob asked me to step outside with him.

"I can't help noticing that you're bringing your wedding nerves to work with you. It's not acceptable, you must make sure they stay out of the office." he said sternly.

I nodded and apologized. I held back, as Rob was going through a messy prolonged breakup with his wife. What's worse? A wedding or a breakup? I made the guy a cup of coffee as a concilliatory gesture.

Later that day I could not believe what I was hearing.

"Well, we have been talking to Marriage Guidance and I'm doing what I can. I don't want to lose the boy..." said Rob, on the telephone in front of the whole office.

"...she wants more excitement in the bedroom..." he continued.

I kid you not. Not only was he bringing his personal life into the office, but he was discussing it on the phone with clients who we were supposed to be assisting. Professional or what?

On the Friday before I was due to fly off on honeymoon, I went through my outstanding problems with Rob. We came to this issue and I asked how should I proceed and who it should be assigned to.

"Close it" was his response.

"You sure?" I asked

"Yeah, I'm sure it's a data input problem" he replied. I duly completed the log and saved it.

Two weeks later I came back to work and was duly summoned to a disciplinary meeting with Rob and the Customer Service Director.

"You closed a serious issue without due consultation and thus caused an embarrassing incident with the client" said Rob

My mouth fell open. I could not believe what I was hearing.

"You told me explicitly to close it!" I retorted.

"Trying to pin the blame for your actions on a manager is a very serious matter" replied Rob, much to the Customer Service Director's interest as he sat there nodding.

Fuck. I was being stitched up good and proper. I had no proof of this episode and obviously Rob was about as trustworthy as the rhythmn method. The fucker had also edited my helpdesk log details too.

"You have to buck your ideas up sunshine".

I had no choice but to sit there and nod.

From there on in, I was very, very careful with Rob. Whenever we discussed anything at all, no matter how trivial I scribbled a summary down next to the time and date. This annoyed the bejeesus out of him.

Then the outright bullying started.

"You're not pulling your weight sunshine" was a phrase oft uttered.

However, I had access to the helpdesk statistics and could prove that I was indeed pulling my weight. I was resolving more calls than the other guys - including him.

Without a word, I printed the stats together with a few emails from clients thanking me for my help and pinned them to the noticeboard, leaving copies on the Customer Service Director's desk.

He was enraged. Determined to prove a point, he started to take calls himself and reduced my allocation of unresolved calls. He got the other analyst geed up to compete and it was obvious whenever I was on the phone that the pair of them were emailing each other, looking at me and giggling. This went on for some months, with the most toxic issues being farmed out to me and Rob pouring over the stats every Friday afternoon. I raised my game and refused to be beaten, however it was clear that I was on the losing side.

My confidence was shattered, so I had one last move left. Without too much bother I got hold of some of the emails Rob had sent round about me to, which clearly crossed the line (stupid fucker didn't delete them all...). I took copies and compiled a small dossier. With another job to go to, a plan formulated in my mind.

"Rob, I need a meeting" I said

"Yeah mate. Maybe later?" replied Rob as he wandered out for another cigarette break.

I put my written resignation in his intray, knowing he wouldn't read it. I put a copy in the Customer Service Director's intray and sat back in my chair waiting for it to kick off.

Phone rings. Rob gets up and walks into Customer Service Director's office. Door closes.

Fifteen minutes later he comes out with his tail between his legs. Apparently Rob had taken a kicking for not responding to my requests for an apprasial (which I'd noted in my resignation letter).

"Fuck, we did need to talk!" he snarled as he walked past me.

Amazingly, Rob seemed to be the only person surprised by my resignation. The Customer Service Director was concerned that Rob had done fuck all to deal with some of my grievences I'd listed and had torn him off a strip. I'm delighted to say that worse was to come.

Six weeks after I left, I sent my dossier of Rob's emails to the Customer Service Director by confidential mail together with a summary of events, dates and times and my take on the proceedings.

And that was that.

*postscript*

I was enjoying a drink with an ex colleague prior to my resignation who filled me in on a few colourful details. Rob's missus was a very difficult woman, she'd been knocked up at sixteen and met Rob when her first kid was a toddler and she was in the final throes of a relationship of sorts with the good for nothing father. The suspicion was that Rob was her meal ticket. Being extremely needy she'd phone him at work and demand he came home to replace a lightbulb in the bathroom that had blown, as she was too scared to turn on anything electrical "in case the house burned down". She'd decided that life with Rob wasn't much cop (clearly possessed of a reasonable degree of perception) and had started chatting to guys online.

Just prior to my wedding, Rob had apparently been discussing with colleagues that his missus had asked him to take raunchy pics of her which she then emailed to one of her online flirtations, with the intentions of meeting for sex - with Rob's full prior knowledge.

Just to rub it in to the guy, like... He deserved it.
(Bicycle Repairman "you're also a bit of a wanker", Fri 23 May 2008, 12:14, 2 replies)

I've quit a couple
And been fired once (well, I was working as a mushroom picker, was rubbish at it, and they simply didn't give me any more shifts). Both times I quit were from pubs.

1) The Rupert Brooke, Grantchester, Cambs. Landlords were dodgy (I was paid cash in hand, but they deducted the amount I should pay for NI and pocketed it), the chef a psycho, and when I asked for my weekend off because my mother was having a nervous breakdown, they refused. So I said "well, I'm off then" and drove back home.

2) A place in London that I'm not going to go into any more detail about. The bouncers were perverts (naturally) and we got sent to help out at other pubs in the same chain, where it turned out that they were low on staff because the locals kept attacking them and putting them in hospital. I also seduced a colleague and a regular, which made the landlord jealous as he didn't get anywhere with me, so he turned into (more of) a twat. I quit when I realised that my mental health was less than perfect, and that my job was a major contributor to that (details may be given some other time).
(The Empress it seems you CAN polish a turd!, Fri 23 May 2008, 12:13, 1 reply)

Revenge.
I used to work in a call centre for a well-known energy supplier. It was shit. It was the worst job ever.

The trainers would tell you to "sell sell sell" even if the person had phoned up to complain about service. I'd get yelled at a lot.

Our calls were monitored and if we took so much as a break to yawn we were pulled up on it.

So, after about 3 months of this, I handed in my notice. Had to work 3 weeks, as it was a permanent job.

For the first 2 weeks and 4 days of my notice period, I worked hard as normal, put up with people yelling/cursing/hanging up etc.

Then, on the last day, I come in and do...

Nothing. At all.

My team manager sees me from her desk and says, "LMS, are you... not taking calls?"

"Yep."

"Are you... eating at your desk?"

"Yep."

"Did you just go on an unscheduled break?"

"Oh, yes."

It was the best day ever. There wasn't a thing my manager could do about it, as I'd already handed in my notice weeks ago.
(YayLady is cold, Fri 23 May 2008, 12:09, Reply)

I flounced from the Odeon
I was a lowly Haagan dazs seller for the Odeon Leicester Sq and only took the job as I got free entry to all the cinemas in Leicester Sq. I'd been there 2 weeks when I was given a letter - on Valentines day no less - to say that they weren't going to keep me on as my timekeeping was appalling. Feeling a bit miffed about that I went in the next day for my shift and asked for some tickets to Casino Royale which was showing at a neighbouring cinema. I was told that as my contract was being terminated with 10 days to go I wasn't able to take advantage of their free offer any longer.

I wrote my resignation on a napkin, presented it to the floor walker nazi, grabbed my bag and a 2kg tub of icecream and walked out.

Oddly enough I never got a P45 from them.
( fuck shit up the best you never had, Fri 23 May 2008, 11:41, 6 replies)