Ian and the Fish
I had a Uni summer job working in the Sainsbury's in New Cross Gate (just weeks after they'd had an axe-wielding lunatic as it happens, but I was too disconnected from reality to notice at the time). Of the many middle managers with an inflated sense of self there, the worst was by far Ian.

Ian was a small man with a face like a crumpled antique leatherette handbag. He was also a particularly officious little Hitler, and woebetide anyone who dared disagree with him.

During my time there, reluctantly scanning the dates of various rotting fruit and veg, I managed to get on good terms with the ladies working on the fish counter. You know the sort, advancing years but a sense of humour more crude than an oil rig worker's dungarees. Having been there since the dawn of time, they had a pretty good idea of what they were doing. All of which made not on iota's difference to Ian.

After a long shift he was wandering around telling people to jobs they already knew how to do when he found himself at the fish counter.

"Right ladies, I want you to hose this down it's looking disgusting!" chirped Ian, taking what he assumed to be an official and authoratative tone.
"We can't hose it down Ian, it'll..."
"Look love, don't tell me what you can and can't do, I'm a manager, now hose it down!"
"We can't do that or it'll..."
"LOOK! I. AM. YOUR. MANAGER. If I say hose it down, I want you to bloody well hose it down, it's not difficult, even for you. Get on with it!"

And so with that, the ladies did as they were told, got the hose out and washed down the fish counter, which is partially refridgerated, the motor and cooling mechanism being located... underneath the counter. The counter which is not designed to be hosed down, even when a manager tells you to. The counter with the electrics underneath it that are not, despite what the manager says, waterproof. The electrics which then begin to emit rather a lot of smoke and heat of the burning variety.

Ian no longer tells them what to do, or anyone else at that store, having been fired for being a clippy-tie wearing, beige shirted cockstapler of the highest order.
( Sonic James Doom forgetting the date since... umm..., Thu 24 Jan 2013, 20:37, 7 replies)

'a clippy-tie wearing, beige shirted cockstapler of the highest order.'
You get a click for this phrase alone.

*clicks*
(Captain Placid 24/7 ball gags, brownie mix and clown porn, Thu 24 Jan 2013, 20:44, closed)

What she said

( Snappyuk gets BIGGER with free sample., Thu 24 Jan 2013, 21:59, closed)

what it said

( Rotating Wobbly Hat That's not a banana. THIS is a banana., Thu 24 Jan 2013, 22:21, closed)

what the monkey said

(andythepieman Is surfing the waves of indifference on, Sat 26 Jan 2013, 17:56, closed)

Ians...
I think every branch of every supermarket has at least one, as standard issue equipment.

Is there purpose to invoke pity? A stark warning to others of the dangers of mediocrity? Who can say.

Meanwhile, they carry out their shallow and pointless Ian existences.
(The Incredible Sulk Finally remembered his password on, Thu 24 Jan 2013, 22:05, closed)

I was at college with one
His surname was 'Bland', which just about sums it up, really
( shinyshinyscalp less a man, more a way of life, Fri 25 Jan 2013, 15:30, closed)

I'd have sacked the two as well, or at least a final written warning.
They clearly knew the consequences. If they had any serious concerns over their "orders" they could have gone to the next manager up for clarification. Before the guy got the sack they would have to point out they objected but he demanded it.

Knowing something is wrong and causing hundreds of pounds of damage but doing it because "Ian told me too" isn't a good enough cover.
( Maffers I flow kinda strange like Spina Bifida footprints, Fri 25 Jan 2013, 20:40, closed)