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This is a question Why should you be fired from your job?

I spent three years "working" in the Ministry of Agriculture carefully crafting projectiles out of folded paper and drawing pins that I would then fire at colleagues with an elastic band. On discovering I'd been conducting all-out warfare when I should really have been in a field counting cows, I was asked to "reconsider my career options" outside the service.

Why, then, should you be fired from your job?

(, Thu 9 Aug 2007, 13:04)
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Races! Police Cells! Office Humiliation!
By sheer coincidence we had our office day out last week. Here's what happened... I should be fired, and there are so many more stories...

How to impress your colleagues

I have worked at the same company for five years. This years have been generally successful, ambitious and moderately sensible. However they have been punctuated with some notable disasters. From the Christmas party when I ended up 60 miles from home, to the races of two years back when Natalie and I caused mayhem and she was threatening to force sex on Andy, to the incident with Rob in the car park which led to speed humps being installed, to the incident with Rob, the earpiece and the maggots. I have been told that for all my qualities I remain the person most likely to generate a lawsuit by accident. This is not something I'm proud of, and I promised myself I would change.

"This year's horse races will be different" I said to Nat, meaning I'd have a few pints, get a bit merry and go home and do some household chores. Naturally, bearing in mind the title of this journal, you've probably anticipated that this isn't what happened.

Natalie, being a knob, was pissed within the first five minutes of getting to the track. The afternoon was spent in the company of lots of people going "Aah" and "Ooh" as the races were run, the crack of opening cans, the sound of Oli and I skinning up and cries of "Fuck!" "Cunt!" "You know, don't you!" and the World's Loudest Cackle were heard coming from the balcony of our hospitality suite. These sounds were audible from the trackside bookies sites' some distance away. "Lo!" I thought smugly. "Surely that isn't the fair Nat! Not at the races? Again? While I'm sober?" I may even have laughed out loud.

It was Nat. And I was about to learn that smugness heralds embarrasment. Embarrasment, Inconvenience and a bit more embarrasment.

The embarrasment began as we were leaving the course. That hideous gravity that compels us together on company days out, pissed, began to come into affect. Nat's volume grew, my irrelevance became worse, and our MD (a patient and forgiving man, fortunately), knowing what was coming, kept us apart as we reached the coach, ensuring a peaceful journey home and nothing dreadful to worry about the next day.

His plans were thwarted. Nat bashed a colleague, a lot and called everyone a bunch of cunts (all affectionately meant). I had a falling out with my mate Andy. He affectionately called me a fat cunt. I suggested that the hobbit should fuck off back to The Shire and slapped him on the head and so he punched me.

There was unseemly grappling for a moment, a colleague began doing a racecourse commentary, we agreed to fight later and then we forgot. Then I remembered as we diembarked the coach and am told I had him in a headlock. We again forgot it and made friends again. Now it's amusing. Then it was a sensation.

I left the pub and met a friend to do something else, briefly, before returning. Natalie and I were thrust together once again, a brief and obscene conversation followed, and then, after explaining we wouldn't change one another for the world despite our occasionally frosty working relationship, and exclamations of "If you didn't exist I would have had to invent you!" we decided to leave the pub, enjoy some personal time, and get smashed.

We stumbled out of the door clinging on to one another for both balance and support and made our way to my local. I was removed from this pub 3 days prior to this as my mate couldn't stand (thanks Steve!). I hoped Natalie would be better behaved. Foolish really, aren't I.

We went outside, smoked, argued, and decided on Sambuca. Natalie, who is a lady with a loud voice, and louder cackle, somehow pissed off the landlord and I was asked to escort her out. So I did. So we went to another pub. I fell over. Nat was waving her arms and howling for the moon. They wouldn't serve us. We went to a shop to buy vodka. We did, but were once again ejected.

I called a cab. Nat needed a wee. Found a hidden doorway and let go. Class act! Then she was confused as to why her wee looked so dark. Convinced she needed a doctor, a bit of worry crept into her voice and was only dispelled when I pointed out she was on tarmac, it was 10.30 at night and demonstrated that mine looked the same.

We then thought we'd like to stay out longer so we cancelled the taxi and stumbled to another pub, swigging from the bottle. This was silly. We had planned to go to mine with more booze, get some sleep, cope with the inevitable innuendo the next day at work and not feel too hungover. Yeah. As if it was likely.

The next, and final, pub started well. In between gossip and mutual assurances of our deep yet platonic affection for each other, punctuated by creative swearing, we began to get more pissed. And louder. Then it happened. A man bumped into Nat, spilt her drink and suggested she should get the fuck out of his way. Nat asked him to be more polite ("What the fuck are you doing, cunt?"). He called her a whore, or something a little worse. I objected, to calm things down, but my hearty greeting was misinterpreted, I was assumed to be Nat's champion and defender (correctly, as I'm the only person allowed to cast doubt on her sexual habits, parentage, and history) and I'm sad to say he clocked me one. I nutted him, Natalie joined in with relish, and there was a brawl that culminated in 7 or 8 people getting nicked. Us amongst them.

This was bad, but got worse. I had something naughty with me, got some privacy in the bog with an officer on the door and boshed the lot, swallowing the container. This led to my calling my accompanying officers PC Munchkin and PC Cheesy Feet.

Nat and I were separated, desolate, and asked what had happened. Neither of us were really sure, and suggested we had been unjustly set upon. They believed us as we were evidently that daft looking at the time. We kept in overnight, Nat was released at 7 and I was kept until 6pm. PC Cheesy Feet was evidently a vindictive man.

The crowning glory of the night were the phone calls to our already disgusted sales director, half an hour apart, saying "We got nicked! Might be late in." This was bad. The Ballad of Disasterprone & Nat 2007 (Summer) is ended, other than the incessant Bonnie and Clyde jokes, the Free The Office Two posters, the photoshopped prison images and other piss taking.
(, Thu 9 Aug 2007, 15:01, Reply)

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