A bit tragic really
I had a job as a receptionist at a backpacker hostel where all the staff lived-in, including the manager who was called Seagull as far as I know...never actually found out his real name.

It is fair to say the lifestyle is a reasonably lush one but Seagull was a raging alkie of the highest order. On several occasions he came home, spewed his ring everywhere and passed out (leaving us to clean up the mess) then pretended nothing had happened the next day. He also pissed on a keyboard in the reception area then tried to blame its brokenness on us eating toast in a careless manner while receptionning, pissed in dorms where customers were trying to sleep, repeatedly set off the alarms in the middle of the night by sleepwalking through fire doors and tried to get into bed with several frightened backpackers. He drank solely in the nearest underground pub with no mobile reception so noone could get hold of him ever (I sent prospective employees to the pub for interviews) and generally did absolutely eff all when it came to work, leaving us to deal with all the junkie scum/sex offenders/thieves that plagued us as the owner refused to install cctv. In retrospect I guess I'm lucky he never followed through and shit the bed.

Added to this Seagull was diabetic and would go into regular hyper/hypos which would have pub owners and other staff members calling me at all hours in a panic as I had somehow become his on call physician/person who did all the functioning he was incapable of. I lived in fear of him choking on his own sick and would roll him onto his side every night while trying to box him in with pillows. The worst 5 seconds of every day were spent listening at his door in the morning to try and hear if he was still breathing.

The last straw came when the owner awarded Seagull a spacious and furnished room to himself with a custom built bed. I had been sleeping in a 16 bed dorm which was always at full capacity for 5 months, had endured litres and litres of vomit and piss, had been robbed (some junkie bastard spent £200 quid on my credit card at the Odeon - THE ODEON??) and physically threatened by some proper full-mooners - all this time Seagull had either been in the pub, hospital or his box-room hovel avoiding his life. How DARE he be awarded a palace.

It was the other post about having sex in the bed of the boss which reminded me of this. I orchestrated a raging night of chafe-enducing passion with a fellow receptionist in Seagull's shiny new bed before he took up residence. I then left the next day knowing my co-worker would tell the world about it thus achieving the rare combination of concurrent sexual and job satisfaction (though it probably didn't last as long as this post I seem to remember a hefty girth).
( bland is bland, Thu 25 Jun 2009, 7:39, Reply)