b3ta.com qotw
You are not logged in. Login or Signup
Home » Question of the Week » Spoilt Brats » Post 267387 | Search
This is a question Spoilt Brats

Mr Newton sighs, "ever known anyone so spoilt you would love to strangle? I lived with a Paris Hilton-a-like who complained about everything, stomped her feet and whinged till she got her way. There was a happy ending though: she had to drop out of uni due to becoming pregnant after a one night stand..."

Who's the spoiltest person you've met? Has karma come to bite them yet? Or did you in fact end up strangling them? Uncle B3ta (and the serious crimes squad) wants to know.

(, Thu 9 Oct 2008, 14:11)
Pages: Latest, 15, 14, 13, 12, 11, ... 1

« Go Back

“Be very careful with this one. I don’t want to hear that your weird sense of humour has upset her and that I’m going to be facing some sort of tribunal!”

I re-read the words in the email from one of the firm’s partners. I’d been lobbying for an assistant for some time but the partner didn’t trust me to oversee the selection process, so he took care of it himself.

I thought I was going to be mentoring Doris Day judging by the way my trainee was described to me as sixteen years old and this was her very first job.

Sure enough she turns up the following Monday and seems polite, if possessed of an estuary accent, which she seemed to be attempting to soften, something like Kathy Burke’s “Yess Missus Patter-sahn” when playing “Perry” the teenager. I had to balance her training with trying to do a two person job single-handedly, but she was quick to learn and seems enthusiastic. Initial impressions were good.

The hierarchy in practice means that trainees often end up making the drinks, doing the filing and most of the simple but time consuming work. I did my best to lead by example and not unload all the drudgery, but at the same time explaining that she needed to learn the firm from the bottom up. Her Dad was a well to do builder who decided that his youngest daughter was going to get a job in return for a generous allowance. So she appeared to be cool with an initial low wage and the crappy jobs and for three few weeks she didn’t put a foot wrong, so the partner decided to take her on full time and paid her a decent wage.

Which was when my problems started.

“I ain’t farkin doin’ that!” she wailed

What? The suddenness and venom in her tone startled me. I’d asked her to use the telephone on her desk to call a client and verify the instructions on a smudged fax one Monday morning.

“I don’t wanna talk to no farkin client on the phone!”

I politely attempted to get to the bottom of her issue, given that she’d used the phone before without any problems when she dropped the bombshell.

“I told yer I ain’t using the farkin phone, yer farkin khant!

I was gobsmacked. Seething, I tersely replied “Boardroom. Right now”

The office was open plan and the best way to tell her in no uncertain terms not to speak to me like that in this office was to frogmarch her to the boardroom and let rip there.

“I didn’t wanna get no farkin job! Mi Dahd told me I had tah! I’m gonna look fur summing else, but don’t tell no farkah yet till I’m ready. Waaah…”

I wasn’t sure how to react; I explained that such outbursts weren’t acceptable, but that if she had a problem she was welcome to calmly explain the issue to me and I’d be sympathetic. I gave her a second chance, not least of all because I knew I'd be dropped in the proverbial if she went ape - Doris Day doesn't go ape, not according to the partners of the firm, anyway.

For a week or so, she meekly toed the line but it wasn’t to last. Over the weeks, the polite professional façade crumbled just like a bit of dodgy plasterboard supported by some shoddy scaffolding that her dad had let the apprentices put up in their tea breaks. Her fag breaks became frequent, as did hissy fits whenever she was asked to do some work. I explained that the firm’s bonus scheme was paid out according to attitude and productivity.

“I dun wahnt no ‘I got nuffink for ya’ or nuffink, gimme some farkin decent work to do” she demanded.

Within days she was telling me how to run the department. Another boardroom meeting was arranged.

“I know I’m being a fahkin spoiled bitch an’ a pain in the harse, but I’m used to gettin what I ask for at ‘ome” she defended, as the sobbing started once again. “It’s not easy, I kno I’m a difficul’ caah sometimes an’ll, I kno I’m farkin this job right up”.

She sobbed about how difficult her life was and how no-one understood her etc, etc.

I’m usually a sucker for damsels in distress and a young lady in tears generally pushes all the right buttons for me. However, I knew that this particular damsel was less in distress and more crocodile than her fake handbag. How did I know? She’d pulled this stunt at least three times with different members of the firm in order to get her own way. If it worked on Daddy surely it would work with the old gits here too.

One of the other partners worked in the office next to mine. I stopped by one Thursday evening to talk the issue through with him.

“Put it this way mate, she’s sixteen years old. You aren’t looked upon kindly each and every time she throws a hissy fit” he exclaimed, which translated as “we know the score, but we’re testing you pal”.

“Starting tomorrow, I want you to give her more work to do. Let’s put her to the test. You have my full support”. He avoided looking me in the eye as he delivered the last sentence. I was pretty much persona non-grata and was being manoeuvred into a no win situation. The term “Kobayashi Maru” sprung to mind.

The next day I explained that I’d be giving her some additional responsibilities to see how she got on. Sure enough, the new regime lasted roughly half a day before another hissy fit.

“Every farkin Friday this ‘appens. Every farkin Friday you gimme some farkin work to do that I don’t like!”.

I’d got a bloody cheek really – I mean, why on earth should I ask her to do some work when she had plans to make for the weekend?

Yet again I seethed – in fact I seemed to spend a good deal of my time seething when she was working there – not that I felt impotent with rage or anything.

My hands were around her throat, I was shaking some sense into her... and every time reality interrupted me.

The next week was the same – her - sullen all week then hissy fit on a Friday, me – seething quietly all week and murderous by Friday.

The following week? Sullen, hissy. Seethe, murderous.

The week after? Ditto.

Ditto. Ditto. Ad nauseum. Ad infinitum. Ad three fucking months.

Eventually came salvation.

A new guy was moved into the vacant desk in my office and took an immediate dislike to her – I was obviously rather surprised at this turn of events.

Within a week he’d pulled some strings and she was moved elsewhere – I could no longer seethe – have you ever tried seething when your mouth is open in stunned amazement that some smooth git manages to achieve what you’ve been attempting to do for fucking months in a matter of days.

She was thank goodness out of my life and my seething days were over – albeit temporarily as I am considering putting forward competitive seething as the 2012 London Olympics demonstration event instead of morris dancing or happy slapping.

Her story doesn’t end there. Oh no. Her new line manager had carte blanche to fire her if she put a foot wrong and she knew it.

For a few weeks she’d toed the line and been pleasant. She’d even managed to pass the milestones of her seventeenth birthday and her driving test without incident.
She was a reformed character, a roughly hewn diamond. Her father rewarded her with a car.

And a couple of weeks later, three times over the drink drive limit she span off the road and stuffed the car into someone's lounge, narrowly missing the startled occupants of the house who had been quietly watching ‘Who Wants To Be A Millionaire’ and were seconds away from winning £16,000 if only they could guess which one of the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles painted the Mona Lisa.

What did she get out of this mishap?

An eighteen month driving ban.

Then she discovered to her horror that it wasn’t just Fridays that caused her problems at work. Post traumatic stress is a bitch.

Mondays were bad, Tuesdays weren’t too good, neither were Wednesdays or Thursdays.

There was only one remedy – she had to give up work for good and let Daddy pay for all the shoes.
(, Thu 9 Oct 2008, 23:34, 8 replies)
I love it.
(, Fri 10 Oct 2008, 0:13, closed)
I'm annoyed just by reading it. Very good.
(, Fri 10 Oct 2008, 2:06, closed)
I am enraged
And so, as that seems to be the purpose of this qotw, a click is in order.
(, Fri 10 Oct 2008, 6:06, closed)
for apt use of "Kobiyashi Maru".

hee hee
(, Fri 10 Oct 2008, 6:58, closed)
has me griding my teeth and fuming into my coffee just hearing about her. Your epic tale, sir, has earned a *clicky* from me!
(, Fri 10 Oct 2008, 9:49, closed)
First of all
*click* for a good story, well told.

I do find myself seething in sympathy, however, that such a hideous creature should be allowed to use oxygen that another may make better use of.
(, Fri 10 Oct 2008, 9:55, closed)
Go Pyjamaman!!
Another case successfully wrapped up by refusing to get heavy!

Have a cup of hot chocolate.
(, Fri 10 Oct 2008, 10:39, closed)
How come this new bloke could pull the strings to get the spoilt cunt shifted?

I'd have shot her up the arse for the accent alone.

Good story *click*
(, Fri 10 Oct 2008, 11:17, closed)

« Go Back

Pages: Latest, 15, 14, 13, 12, 11, ... 1