Iceland for the epic win
But I can say why I WAS fired from my job, right?

I worked at Iceland from October 2005 to November 2006. It was the best work of my life, I worked with two of my best friends and every single person there, even the bit-of-a-cunt manager, was a great bloke/girl, and the drinks down the pub after work were legendary.

Stuff I did that should have got me fired but didn't:

-Regularly took 50-100% more of my break than I was entitled to. Between the employees the record was 300%, something I couldn't quite match with my 200%, taking 45 minutes instead of 15.
-When the shop was particularly quiet (usually) me and my friends would take it in turn to make a noise that we described as the sound an oriental woman would make if a large cock was suddenly rammed up her bum, but which, in all honesty, sounded a lot like a cat being raped and strangled. You'd hear these death-calls from one end of the store, then an answer from the other end. If a customer looked at you in a "WTF" manner, you simply shook your head and said "bloody kids coming in here mucking around " before setting off round the corner to do it yourself.
-Making a suit out of cardboard boxes. Well, who hasn't?
-Epic duels with brooms and/or mops in the warehouse. Spiffing stuff.
-Outright swearing at dense customers who wouldn't notice. Just a few of these are examples of real conversations that took place:
"OK, madam, that's £2.34 change and your reciept, you cunt."
That was a regular when giving change on tills. Also:
"Excuse me, young man, where might I find the caster sugar?"
"I'm afraid we don't have any here, but you can fuck me in my cunt if you'd like."
Our logic was that no one would notice the offensive utterances, and that if they did, they would simply think "he couldn't have possibly said that."

The real stand-out moment in my mind, though, is thus: Iceland, as you may well know, have a home delivery service. How it works is that a customer comes to the till, asks for a delivery. Till-bitch rings for a shop floor-bitch, who packs up bags, takes them out back, crates them up and leaves them for the driver. Dead easy, but fucking hassle, and you learn to dread the bell that signals a delivery.

Iceland closes at 2000 hours. At approx. 1957, some old bint comes in with a massive trolley and wants a home delivery. Who's the bitch who has to crate it? Me.

I wanted to buy myself some dinner. Now this old cunt is standing over me, ten minutes after I've stopped being paid, telling me to make sure her cheese doesn't get squashed. She's highly adamant about this. I smile politely and tell her not to worry, it won't be.

Six or seven minutes later, and my colleagues come out back to find me whirling a plastic bag over my head, smashing it into the walls and desk and anything, blowing it to buggery. Rectum? That's right. Inside the bag- old hag's cheese. From that day forth, whenever one of us was dealing with a cuntish customer who wanted a delivery, the till-bitch would ask the packer to "get some cheese once you've done that." In this manner, sugar was pierced and split, fizzy drinks shaken to fuck and bread squashed for months on end.

What got me fired in the end was mine and another friend's "foolproof" way of robbing the tills. We got about a grand between us but got found out, fired and arrested.

So don't steal kiddies, you lose a brill job where you can call customers cunts and make fantastically surreal screaming noises.

I now work at Sainsbury's on the tills after conveniently forgetting to mention that I ever worked at Iceland. It's boring as fuck.

Length? Best thirteen paid months of my life.
(MJPerry was crude but clickable at, Thu 9 Aug 2007, 23:00, Reply)