Best boss I ever had
Donald. A great guy, hard-nosed businessman and THE most charming man I have ever known. I knew I wanted to work with him as soon as we met.

When I went for interview with the board of the holding group for my job as European technical sales liaison manager I decided to be a little belligerent after Donald asked me what I could "bring to the party"*. So I asked each one in turn what they 'brought to the party'. Each answered in some detail (never get an accountant to detail his job FFS) and, when it came to Donald's turn (I didn't know at the time he was the de facto owner) he just smiled and said "I'm charming". I got the job just on the fact I had the balls to interview the board!

We had many many adventures together in the wilds of the former eastern bloc (see my posts abou expenses, bullet holes in cars etc) but the one that springs to mind is the time that we were in Paris about to close a very large deal with a French car company (not renault).
I could hear him swearing intermittently about the internet connection going down, then ranting over the in-house phone about it, getting reconnected, the line going down etc etc ad nauseam for about an hour.
I then heard "BOLLOCKS!" shouted in his best glaswegian accent, then the door slamming and him ranting his way down the stairs to the front desk.
Then I heard a few muffled screams. "Oh shit" I said to myself, "he's gone fucking postal" and ran down to see the carnage.
There was Donald, tearing a strip off the concierge, berating him for the crapness of connection, how important the internet was, how much this deal would cost if we lost it etc etc. The concierge was taking none of this in at all, probably because Donald was standing there, in a small boutique hotel (on the Boulevard des Italiennes if anyone's interested) at 7 pm STARK BOLLOCK NAKED!!

I ushered him upstairs, apologised to the concierge in my schoolboy French (what is the French for 'he's a bit mental'?) and got the connection sorted.

The working breakfast at the hotel with the buyers of the aforementioned company was a tad strained as the hotel staff all pointed and giggled. After the meeting I asked him about his 'plan'** when he went down to reception naked.
His reply was "It worked didn't it? Anyway I got three room numbers pushed under my door last night".

Great guy.

He died suddenly 12 days ago. We're burying him tomorrow at midday, the dress code is no black, cheery colours only.

RIP Donald, the world's going to be a lot less fun without you.



*And party it was! The absolute epitome of the work hard play hard ethos. Great days.

** "What the fuck were you thinking, you mental twat!?"
(Captain Placid 24/7 ball gags, brownie mix and clown porn, Tue 23 Jun 2009, 16:12, 6 replies)

Sounds
like a top bloke.

(If you want cheery colours you could go dressed in the new Newcastle away kit - absolutely shocking).

*click*
( SpankyHanky, Tue 23 Jun 2009, 16:20, closed)

I think the phrase you want is
something like "desolée, il est timbré"

Completely and utterly timbré by the sound of it. What a marvellous story.
(LongJohnBaldry, Tue 23 Jun 2009, 16:34, closed)

French for "He's a bit mental"
"Il est un peu fou"


oh and ...*Click*
(Eggstrovert isnt patronising you...honest..., Tue 23 Jun 2009, 16:35, closed)

The thing with Captain Placid and I...

...is that our when we read each other's posts, it is normally the second time we've heard the story, having told them all to each other over the years (and over several beers).

...but this is a new one on me, and a great tale it is too, sir.

Unlike you, Captain, I am not a current 'hand-spakka', so I will engage my fully-armed-and-operational knuckles to click this post...

*clicks*
( Pooflake braces for an onslaught..., Tue 23 Jun 2009, 17:06, closed)

Duly clicked!

( jim_bob can herd cats., Tue 23 Jun 2009, 17:11, closed)

Have a similar story with regard to getting a job..
*this isn't another wind up by the way, but still 100% true*


I was interviewed by the Sales Director at 9 am. I was there suited and booted applying for a (50k a year!!!) job. The friendly and frankly gorgeous assistant showed me to the interview room and left me with a smile and a promise of a cup of coffee. I got my coffee and another smile and was told that my prospective new boss was running a little late.

A little late turned out to be nearly 2 hours. He rolled in, wearing jeans and a t-shirt and reeking of stale smoke. To be honest, at first I did not believe this tattooed steroid junkie was my prospective employer.
It didn't bode well. I got asked the usual questions, figures, ambitions, salary demands and by the time we got done with those I could tell I'd lost him. He finished by asking me what I like doing in my spare time and whether I can hold my drink.

I told him truthfully, that spending a lot of time in germany and being nearly 22 stone, I have yet to meet any other englisher that can outbeer me, but as soon as someone brings out the liquor I have the stomach of a 7 year old. He then asked me again, his eyes barely open, what I liked doing in my spare time. I told him that I liked literature, cinema, lifting weights and occasionally, when the mood takes me, strapping a vaccum cleaner to my cock, slipping the gimp mask on and dancing round the livng room.

I had an offer within 24 hours and started work the week after.
(Fausted Sticking his faust where the sun don't shine, Wed 24 Jun 2009, 1:11, closed)