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» Call Centres
The Revenge of the Miserable Call-Centre Monkey
I worked for a large multi-national camera/photocopier company in the early noughties (they "Can") and have never had a more depressing period of employment... I worked in their Photocopier repair call-centre and would take calls from companies all over the UK with broken copiers.
It was odd how, around mid-December, photocopier glass seemed to gain a propensity for unannounced breakage... "Heavy books" was always the shameful, sheepish explanation, but it was clear to all involved that the office Christmas party had gotten a little out of hand and that someone's cubicle was now plastered from floor to ceiling in sheaves of A4 copy-paper containing monochrome images of sweaty ass-cracks, pressed penises, blurry minges and flattened nipples...
On my final day, I got a little tipsy over lunch and decided to end my tenure with some payback. The following exchanges stick in my head:
Me: Good afternoon. ***** Customer Services. How can I help you?
Customer: Hi. I need to book a repair?
Me: Is that you?
Customer: I'm sorry?
Me: Is that you?
Customer: Errr...
Me: I told you never to call me here.
*CLICK*
--------------------------------------
Me: Good afternoon. ***** Customer Services. How can I help you?
Customer: Hi. I need to book a repair?
Me: Certainly. Can you give me the...
HOLY FUCK!! MY LEG'S JUST COME OFF!!
*CLICK*
(Fri 4th Sep 2009, 13:08, More)
The Revenge of the Miserable Call-Centre Monkey
I worked for a large multi-national camera/photocopier company in the early noughties (they "Can") and have never had a more depressing period of employment... I worked in their Photocopier repair call-centre and would take calls from companies all over the UK with broken copiers.
It was odd how, around mid-December, photocopier glass seemed to gain a propensity for unannounced breakage... "Heavy books" was always the shameful, sheepish explanation, but it was clear to all involved that the office Christmas party had gotten a little out of hand and that someone's cubicle was now plastered from floor to ceiling in sheaves of A4 copy-paper containing monochrome images of sweaty ass-cracks, pressed penises, blurry minges and flattened nipples...
On my final day, I got a little tipsy over lunch and decided to end my tenure with some payback. The following exchanges stick in my head:
Me: Good afternoon. ***** Customer Services. How can I help you?
Customer: Hi. I need to book a repair?
Me: Is that you?
Customer: I'm sorry?
Me: Is that you?
Customer: Errr...
Me: I told you never to call me here.
*CLICK*
--------------------------------------
Me: Good afternoon. ***** Customer Services. How can I help you?
Customer: Hi. I need to book a repair?
Me: Certainly. Can you give me the...
HOLY FUCK!! MY LEG'S JUST COME OFF!!
*CLICK*
(Fri 4th Sep 2009, 13:08, More)
» School Days
Humiliated Teacher - pearoast...
While at Secondary School (boys only – no preteen schoolgirls in this story, I’m afraid), our class was made up almost exclusively of useless, scheming fuckwits; we used to regularly reduce our poor teachers to gibbering misery, such was the misdirected vitriol of our classroom-based antics.
The worst this ever got was when a French student-teacher was working with us for a few months during the second year of our GCSEs. We treated her abominably – quite possibly because she was quite pretty and we got a bizarre, quasi-sexual schoolboy thrill out of regularly torturing her.
On one occasion, we were in class, laughing, shouting and generally behaving like depraved idiots, while she shouted at us to be quiet and waved her hands in the air. Suddenly, she stopped shouting – her face paling visibly and her hands rushing down to cup her crotch…
She was peeing herself - uncontrollably - right in front of us. As the news spread around the class, we were all still and silent, watching with a mixture of horror and guilt as the poor, pretty French girl wet her pants in front of 30 gape-mouthed boys. The moment seemed to last forever, but looking back it was probably a matter of seconds before she stood and half-ran / half-waddled out of the classroom, a trickle of urine leaving a thin, glistening trail as she left…
(Thu 29th Jan 2009, 15:16, More)
Humiliated Teacher - pearoast...
While at Secondary School (boys only – no preteen schoolgirls in this story, I’m afraid), our class was made up almost exclusively of useless, scheming fuckwits; we used to regularly reduce our poor teachers to gibbering misery, such was the misdirected vitriol of our classroom-based antics.
The worst this ever got was when a French student-teacher was working with us for a few months during the second year of our GCSEs. We treated her abominably – quite possibly because she was quite pretty and we got a bizarre, quasi-sexual schoolboy thrill out of regularly torturing her.
On one occasion, we were in class, laughing, shouting and generally behaving like depraved idiots, while she shouted at us to be quiet and waved her hands in the air. Suddenly, she stopped shouting – her face paling visibly and her hands rushing down to cup her crotch…
She was peeing herself - uncontrollably - right in front of us. As the news spread around the class, we were all still and silent, watching with a mixture of horror and guilt as the poor, pretty French girl wet her pants in front of 30 gape-mouthed boys. The moment seemed to last forever, but looking back it was probably a matter of seconds before she stood and half-ran / half-waddled out of the classroom, a trickle of urine leaving a thin, glistening trail as she left…
(Thu 29th Jan 2009, 15:16, More)
» I'm going to Hell...
Humiliated Teacher / Communion Wine
Hell-Bound: Reason #1: While at Secondary School (boys only – no preteen schoolgirls in this story, I’m afraid), our class was made up almost exclusively of useless, scheming fuckwits; we used to regularly reduce our poor teachers to gibbering misery, such was the misdirected vitriol of our classroom-based antics.
The worst this ever got was when a French student-teacher was working with us for a few months during the second year of our GCSEs. We treated her abominably – quite possibly because she was quite pretty and we got a bizarre, quasi-sexual schoolboy thrill out of regularly torturing her.
On one occasion, we were in class, laughing, shouting and generally behaving like depraved idiots, while she shouted at us to be quiet and waved her hands in the air. Suddenly, she stopped shouting – her face paling visibly and her hands rushing down to cup her crotch…
She was peeing herself, uncontrollably, right in front of us. As the news spread around the class, we were all still and silent, watching with a mixture of horror and guilt as the poor, pretty French girl wet her pants in front of 30 gape-mouthed boys. The moment seemed to last forever, but looking back it was probably a matter of seconds before she stood and half-ran / half-waddled out of the classroom, a trickle of urine leaving a thin, glistening trail as she left…
Hell-Bound: Reason #1: When I was a child of no more than 8 or 9, I used to attend our local Presbyterian Church on a Sunday with my family. On the Sundays when the congregation celebrated communion, I used to sneak into the room behind the main church hall after the service was over and quaff the remaining communion wine (non-alcoholic – fortunately) from all the little shot-glasses.
Occasionally, I’d eat the remains of the bread too, as a sort of debauched appetiser. To this day, I’ve harboured the repressed-guilt from this semi-sacrilegious act…
[ EDIT: Errr... "pop"? ]
(Fri 12th Dec 2008, 10:24, More)
Humiliated Teacher / Communion Wine
Hell-Bound: Reason #1: While at Secondary School (boys only – no preteen schoolgirls in this story, I’m afraid), our class was made up almost exclusively of useless, scheming fuckwits; we used to regularly reduce our poor teachers to gibbering misery, such was the misdirected vitriol of our classroom-based antics.
The worst this ever got was when a French student-teacher was working with us for a few months during the second year of our GCSEs. We treated her abominably – quite possibly because she was quite pretty and we got a bizarre, quasi-sexual schoolboy thrill out of regularly torturing her.
On one occasion, we were in class, laughing, shouting and generally behaving like depraved idiots, while she shouted at us to be quiet and waved her hands in the air. Suddenly, she stopped shouting – her face paling visibly and her hands rushing down to cup her crotch…
She was peeing herself, uncontrollably, right in front of us. As the news spread around the class, we were all still and silent, watching with a mixture of horror and guilt as the poor, pretty French girl wet her pants in front of 30 gape-mouthed boys. The moment seemed to last forever, but looking back it was probably a matter of seconds before she stood and half-ran / half-waddled out of the classroom, a trickle of urine leaving a thin, glistening trail as she left…
Hell-Bound: Reason #1: When I was a child of no more than 8 or 9, I used to attend our local Presbyterian Church on a Sunday with my family. On the Sundays when the congregation celebrated communion, I used to sneak into the room behind the main church hall after the service was over and quaff the remaining communion wine (non-alcoholic – fortunately) from all the little shot-glasses.
Occasionally, I’d eat the remains of the bread too, as a sort of debauched appetiser. To this day, I’ve harboured the repressed-guilt from this semi-sacrilegious act…
[ EDIT: Errr... "pop"? ]
(Fri 12th Dec 2008, 10:24, More)
» Asking people out
Dirty Knickers
At the beginning of our final year at uni, my best mate and I moved into a flat on the outskirts of the city. The flat – on the top floor of a dodgy tenement building, which has now been torn down - was a cheap rental, used by different groups of people every year. It was pretty nasty, to be honest – no lights in the communal hallway, used syringes littering the floor of the basement – but it was, as I’ve said, dirt-cheap, and was, as a result, favoured by hard-up students who preferred to spend their cash on more alcoholic diversions.
We’d been moved in for about a week before I’d amassed enough laundry to warrant opening the washing-machine ... When I did, I was greeted by the sight of 8 or 9 pairs of skimpy girl’s knickers, all of which looked like they’d been worn at an after-show party for Ron Jeremy’s retirement. Every kind of stain was present, from standard piss-yellow, through monthly-red, right up to crusty semen-leakage white ... I was single and horny, so I’m ashamed to say I inspected these items in rather TOO much detail ...
Our moving-in party was a rather sordid affair, with much drunkenness and vodka jelly-induced vomiting. I was more sober than most, which is when I was approached by a rather fetching young thing who promptly sat down on my knee and initiated a startlingly-interesting conversation. I turned out that this girl was a nurse (aside: niiiice!) who had lived in this flat the year before. She now lived on the ground floor, which is how she’d been invited (by my mate) to our shindig. We talked and flirted shamelessly, but nothing happened that night.
It didn’t occur to me until much later (the next day, in fact) that the dirty knickers from the washer would have belonged to this girl. When I did realise this, my hormones went into 100% overdrive – the thought of this randy, clearly filthy girl, just one floor down from my bedroom ... I resolved to get my hands on the pair of dirty pants this girl was currently wearing as soon as possible.
My plan – while moronic on reflection – seemed like a dead-set winner at the time, which is how I found myself, after much beer and little deliberation, standing in the darkened hallway outside her front door holding her bunched-up used panties in front of me. She opened the door:
“If you’re as filthy as these knickers, then I think I might be in luck” ...
Now, as I’ve said, there wasn’t much light in the hallways in this apartment. In fact, there was no light at all really, especially if you were on the inside looking out. I hadn’t thought this through, clearly, as when this girl opened her door, all she saw was a shadowy figure, shrouded in girl’s knickers, uttering obsenities in a deep, threatening - slightly inebriated – manner. The door was duly slammed and I was left alone in a dingy, drafty hall, with only the feel of her silk underthings to keep me company, along with the fading scent of crusted femininity drifting from each tainted gusset ...
*We did hook up later that week and spent a goodly month in each other’s bedrooms… It turns out she was slightly more prudish than her panties suggested, but did manage to leave a new (not so fresh) pair for me to enjoy almost every evening! I blame her for my current fetish tbh ...
(Tue 15th Dec 2009, 15:10, More)
Dirty Knickers
At the beginning of our final year at uni, my best mate and I moved into a flat on the outskirts of the city. The flat – on the top floor of a dodgy tenement building, which has now been torn down - was a cheap rental, used by different groups of people every year. It was pretty nasty, to be honest – no lights in the communal hallway, used syringes littering the floor of the basement – but it was, as I’ve said, dirt-cheap, and was, as a result, favoured by hard-up students who preferred to spend their cash on more alcoholic diversions.
We’d been moved in for about a week before I’d amassed enough laundry to warrant opening the washing-machine ... When I did, I was greeted by the sight of 8 or 9 pairs of skimpy girl’s knickers, all of which looked like they’d been worn at an after-show party for Ron Jeremy’s retirement. Every kind of stain was present, from standard piss-yellow, through monthly-red, right up to crusty semen-leakage white ... I was single and horny, so I’m ashamed to say I inspected these items in rather TOO much detail ...
Our moving-in party was a rather sordid affair, with much drunkenness and vodka jelly-induced vomiting. I was more sober than most, which is when I was approached by a rather fetching young thing who promptly sat down on my knee and initiated a startlingly-interesting conversation. I turned out that this girl was a nurse (aside: niiiice!) who had lived in this flat the year before. She now lived on the ground floor, which is how she’d been invited (by my mate) to our shindig. We talked and flirted shamelessly, but nothing happened that night.
It didn’t occur to me until much later (the next day, in fact) that the dirty knickers from the washer would have belonged to this girl. When I did realise this, my hormones went into 100% overdrive – the thought of this randy, clearly filthy girl, just one floor down from my bedroom ... I resolved to get my hands on the pair of dirty pants this girl was currently wearing as soon as possible.
My plan – while moronic on reflection – seemed like a dead-set winner at the time, which is how I found myself, after much beer and little deliberation, standing in the darkened hallway outside her front door holding her bunched-up used panties in front of me. She opened the door:
“If you’re as filthy as these knickers, then I think I might be in luck” ...
Now, as I’ve said, there wasn’t much light in the hallways in this apartment. In fact, there was no light at all really, especially if you were on the inside looking out. I hadn’t thought this through, clearly, as when this girl opened her door, all she saw was a shadowy figure, shrouded in girl’s knickers, uttering obsenities in a deep, threatening - slightly inebriated – manner. The door was duly slammed and I was left alone in a dingy, drafty hall, with only the feel of her silk underthings to keep me company, along with the fading scent of crusted femininity drifting from each tainted gusset ...
*We did hook up later that week and spent a goodly month in each other’s bedrooms… It turns out she was slightly more prudish than her panties suggested, but did manage to leave a new (not so fresh) pair for me to enjoy almost every evening! I blame her for my current fetish tbh ...
(Tue 15th Dec 2009, 15:10, More)
» I don't understand the attraction
Sports in General
I just don't get sports... Football in particular doesn't make any sense to me as a form of entertainment - it's just a few blokes running around kicking an inflatable from one end of a field to the other.
The only thing that gives football any semblance of interest, is the introduction of 'rules', which only really serve to lend structure to the pointlessness of it all.
Ditto Formula 1 - it's just some men driving round and around and around. One man drives the fastest. He is the best of the men.
Following sports is like using Twitter... it's only really important to you and those who follow along with you. Even then, it's not actually important, you've just convinced yourself that it is to give you something to have in common with the others.
I know movies are set in stone and invariable, but I change, so that every time I watch The Shining (for example) it seems like I'm experiencing it in a different way... That for me, is wildly more exciting!
(Thu 15th Oct 2009, 17:02, More)
Sports in General
I just don't get sports... Football in particular doesn't make any sense to me as a form of entertainment - it's just a few blokes running around kicking an inflatable from one end of a field to the other.
The only thing that gives football any semblance of interest, is the introduction of 'rules', which only really serve to lend structure to the pointlessness of it all.
Ditto Formula 1 - it's just some men driving round and around and around. One man drives the fastest. He is the best of the men.
Following sports is like using Twitter... it's only really important to you and those who follow along with you. Even then, it's not actually important, you've just convinced yourself that it is to give you something to have in common with the others.
I know movies are set in stone and invariable, but I change, so that every time I watch The Shining (for example) it seems like I'm experiencing it in a different way... That for me, is wildly more exciting!
(Thu 15th Oct 2009, 17:02, More)