I am not very comfortable in Public Speaking situations, despite being able to talk to any loony, alcoholic, tramp or lawyer on the street.
So, when I was informed that I would be accompanying the commercial director and the marketing manager on their ‘Roadshows’ to present the work I have done on their e-commerce site, my knees wobbled slightly, I paled dramatically and my voice broke like a teenage boy’s.
For weeks, I have fretted about the forthcoming presentations, but resolved to use Power Point to the best of my (limited) ability and put on such a good visual display that they wouldn’t really bother to listen to me and my stammering deliveries.
The boss, a blunt Northerner if ever there was one, hauled me in to go through the presentation with him.
So, what the f*ck’s this mean? Whatcher on about ‘ere? Talk to me in Northern speak, not yer tecky stuff. I only just understand bits of what yer say, so f*ck knows what the rest of them’ll think if yer don’t speak normal.
But, I protested, I have to use these terms because...well...that is their name. Search Engine Optimisation does what it says on the tin. You optimise the site for the search engines. Moves you up the SERPs...er...Search Engine Results Pages...
Look. It’s all boll*cks to me. I know you’re bringing in the sales and I know we’re gettin’ loads of visitors, but I want you to show off to them. Actually, keep talking yer tecky boll*cks ‘cos then they’ll realise that you know what you’re on about and give us a load of online deals. Just make them visuals bigger. Can’t f*ckin’ read anything...
Off I went to make the visuals bigger.
The visuals were then pulled apart again as, unfortunately, we weren’t showing ourselves quite as favourably as the boss wanted in comparison with other sites who’d had an online presence for many years longer than us. I was called in to account for my action as to why I had left one particular slide in which didn’t look brilliant. This was first thing Monday morning, the morning of our first presentation. I had thought of this on the Saturday night and realised I had been a wally about it. Unfortunately, so did the boss.
Get it sorted out, he barked.
Yes, I know, I had thought about this over the weekend, and it was my first job today. Sorry.
S’alright. I don’t have the monopoly on being a tw*t, you know, he informed me, quaintly...
The presentation went OK, I guess. As I stumbled out of the meeting room with knees knocking and lit up my cigarette with fumbling hands, the boss came out after me.
Alright, Tiger? He asked me. What d’yer think of that, then?
I dunno? What did you think of it?
You were OK. You talked your tecky boll*cks and nobody knew what the hell you were on about. That’s fine by me. Just try to tell them what meta information is next time, though. That’s really weird stuff.
The next presentation was on the Wednesday. We were flying to Gatwick from Manchester in the morning, which meant a start of 5am for me. I was most distressed that Mr Parnsip refused to rouse himself from his pit to make me a cuppa as I showered. It is the last time I do it for him when he is travelling at ungodly hours, I have since vowed...(Charles, are you reading this?)
I was told to tailor the presentation for the second supplier by using slides of their products and some of the online collaborations I have supervised. I attempted to get it sorted out whilst rushing around like a headless chicken as my phone rang repeatedly with calls from my colleague in the e-Pharmacy who was having a panic about a knackered refund system which was deciding to credit a customer’s credit card with almost half a million pounds for two tubes of haemorrhoid unguent. I deemed sorting this out with our developers slightly more important than the presentation and thus only had half an eye on it all.
As the boss waddled off to the toilets and passed me as I skulked back to my desk from a sneaky fag, I asked if all was OK on it.
Aye, apart from not screen shooting the home page, and getting the procedure of purchasing in the wrong order. So, apart from it being sh*te, it’s fine. Gerrit sorted.
I did. I got it sorted, and as I went right through the presentation, slide by slide, I realised that yes, I didn’t actually have to take on the mantle of being a tw*t: rather than go right through to the end, the boss had left up the name of the supplier to whom we had presented on Monday. My somewhat sneering query as to whether I should alter it to the more appropriate supplier was greeted with: Stop being a smart*rse! And meet me at Boots in the airport tomorrow. 7.30am. Don’t be late. And don’t forget your passport.
I arrived at 7.15 and parked up in the long-stay car park, to which I had been ordered and where I handed over £19.00 for a day’s parking. It was bitterly cold and there had been freezing fog all the way. I deeply yearned for the warmth of my bed, where I knew Mr P slumbered and pushed out the zeds as his mouth gaped and slobbered across the pillow. I was not happy.
I was even more unhappy that I couldn’t, for the life of me, find Boots. Off I went to the Bureau de Change to ask where it was. Upstairs, I was duly informed.
Upstairs I went. No Boots. Not anywhere. So I then asked Security where it was. Through Departures.
Harumph! I was a bit narked that the boss couldn’t be fagged meeting me before check-in, but I did my bit, got strip-searched, bleeped a few times going through machines and finally got to Boots.
My phone rang.
Where are you?
I’m outside Boots. I couldn’t answer the phone immediately because I was going through security.
Worra yer goin’ through security for? I told you! Meet me at Boots!
Well, I was told that the Boots was in the Departures lounge. That’s what I was told by security.
No, no, no! When you get to the top of the stairs, it’s on your right. You can’t miss it. Got that dirty big sign B-O-O-T-S outside it.
Well, I’m here now. So I’ll meet you at this Boots, eh?
Fifteen minutes later, he and another colleague pitched up. He wouldn’t meet my eye properly and so I asked R where the Boots was.
The silly s*d, she expostulated. There isn’t a Boots on the other side. You found the only one.
The boss had the dignity to look suitably sheepish and blustered about being sure it had once been a Boots but was now trading as WH Smith. It didn’t wash with R who shot him down. She’s a hockey player, so she takes no cr*p from anyone.
We stood and waited...and waited...and waited...
Eventually, the captain came to us and informed us that, due to a technical hitch, the plane would not be taking off and Gatwick was fog-bound.
We were not flying to London that day.
We left Departures, having queued for an eternity to have our tickets validated for refund and headed out.
Right, we’re off this way, said the Boss. Where are you? In Long Stay? Oh. Thought I told you to park in Short Stay where I am?
No, you bloody didn’t, I snarled.
I waited at the shuttle bus for 15 minutes in the icy wind and the -2degC temperatures, shivering in my short skirt and thin suit jacket.
Then I realised that I had left my parking exit ticket and couldn’t leave the car park. I rushed back in to the machines and some kind soul, bless his/her heart, had had the decency to leave my ticket atop the machine. That person will go to heaven one day.
Another fifteen minutes wait for the next bus.
And eventually, I got to the office. I decided not to stay long and made an excuse to slope off up to our internet pharmacy where I sat and drank lovely hot coffee with my opposite number up there until 3pm when she told me to clear off home and put my feet up.
I did.
And in a few weeks, I will be attempting to make the rescheduled Gatwick trip again. Wish me luck...
Showing posts with label wicked bosses. Show all posts
Showing posts with label wicked bosses. Show all posts
Wednesday, 27 February 2008
Wednesday, 30 January 2008
Career Woman versus Kept Woman
Have any of you ever worked in a kindegarten? Or a zoo? Or even a loony bin? Well, I am unfortunately in the position of working for an amalgamation of all three which masquerades as the Retail and Online Marketing department of a large pharmaceutical company in the UK.
I have six immediate female colleagues and one male boss. He hides in a goldfish bowl behind us and never hears the cacophony of burping, belching, farting, impressions of Borat, choruses of Fraggle Rock and the ubiquitous 'baby talk' which comes mainly from my 30-year old 'assistant' (I use that term very loosely - if she understood the meaning of the word, no doubt she would choose to ignore it in favour of sucking her thumb).
She is not one of the slimmest girls, nor was she first in the queue when God was handing out good looks. Consequently, she garners attention by behaving like a two year old having a temper tantrum most of the time. In order to show she is happy, she skips her 20 stone frame down the corridor, singing songs from The Muppet Show (her relatives, probably), which makes my coffee pound in a way reminiscent of the glass of water in Jurassic Park when the T-Rex is on its way. If she is cross that we are not paying her attention, she falls off her chair in the middle of the room and petulantly pouts, You weren't listening to me! Look what I had to do!
I've even known her to faint when she trapped her finger in a door. Poof? Probably...Put on? Yup...
I feel like ramming my fist into her mouth half the time, and I deem myself a bit of a pacifist, deep down...
Another girl suffers with IBS and don't we know about it! We hear, in minute detail, about her daily bowel movements, smell and hear her flatulence problems, and are subjected to her medical history with vivid, gesticulative accounts. She is marrying her long-term partner in July. I guess OK! magazine will hear about it at some point, because, by Christ, we do, in stultifyingly dull detail, every five minutes. I, conversely, keep my mouth well shut about my own nuptials. Nobody knows much about my wedding, apart from the date and venue, and none of them are getting an invitation, either, let alone organising a Hen Night for me.
If I am asked about my own arrangements, and answer honestly, I discover next day, that she has done the same, but bigger and better. Boring? Yes. Irritating? Most definitely. Resolving to keep my mouth firmly closed? Absolutely.
She bought her wedding dress a few weeks ago. It fits her perfectly, we are led to believe. However, oddly, she is now trying to get pregnant. Now, call me old fashioned, but weren't children supposed to traditionally come after the wedding? And is there anything more off-putting than seeing a Bride, in virginal white, waddling down the aisle with a 6-month lump protruding from her dress? Yes, I know it's the 21st century, but I know what looks good and what doesn't!
Then we have Animal. I call her that in my own head because she reminds me of Animal, the Muppet drummer. She even talks like him when she is on the phone to her father. She has a very chequered love life which involves jealous lesbian ex-wives, homeless criminals, men on the verge of drawing their pension, and her most recent, a white Aborigine (her words, due to his plethora of tattoos). She regales us with her most recent 'romantic' mishaps (again, I use that word loosely because any story of love punctuated with every expletive known to man doesn't exactly conjure up images of doves, red roses and Barbara Cartland to me) in an exceptionally loud voice every Monday morning. I find them amusing to a degree, and somewhat smug in that I have been lucky enough to only ever get embroiled with peaceful loonies as opposed to violent ones. There but for the grace of God go I, I guess...
Out of the other three females, one is part-time, a new mother, and exceptionally quiet. I like her. Another is a middle-aged harridan who has had a sense of humour bypass and has become a bit of a diet bore. She goes on a new diet every month and has lost a grand total of 3lb. The last girl makes me laugh, but has a tendency to get rather over-emotional from time to time and can take off into day-long crying sessions. It must be her hormones, I reckon.
The boss is the best of them all. He possesses a fantastic sense of humour, is one of the laziest blokes I have ever met, wants us all to do his work for him, and effs and blinds like a Merchant Seaman. For some reason, he appears to view me as 'One of The Lads' as opposed to one of his 'Bitches'. He also told me at my staff review that he found me one of the scariest women he had ever met - Psycho Hose Beast were his exact words, which threw me marginally, until I recovered and held a carving knife to his throat until he retracted.
I've never had a boss like this before, and I would be very, very loathe to leave him...
And then there's me: The Techy Freak. That is their name for me because I understand what an XML feed is, I know how to write in HTML and I remember ALT functions. I also say very little because I realise that my sense of humour simply wouldn't be understood by them and it is easier to keep my thoughts to myself than to attempt to make some intelligently witty remark which would only be assimilated if they could interpret words of more than one syllable.
I actually enjoy my job - it is stimulating, full of new things to learn, and fantastic opportunities to develop oneself, but I cannot abide working with Morons. You never know until you get there, though, do you?
I continue to press home to Mr Parsnip that I would make a fantastic Retro Housewife as I enjoy having a clean home, can bake bread as well as The Dough Boy, and would love to wear gingham dresses, and sport a demiwave and bright red, indelible lipstick. I can also grow my own vegetables, shoot and gut pigeons, and dig over gardens, all whilst wearing aforesaid gingham frock. He doesn't seem to take the hint, so if there are any gents out there who fancy making me their 'kept woman', drop me a message with an outline of your earning potential, your bank account details and PIN number, as well as a photograph, and I shall assess your competency as My Hero and let you know...
I have six immediate female colleagues and one male boss. He hides in a goldfish bowl behind us and never hears the cacophony of burping, belching, farting, impressions of Borat, choruses of Fraggle Rock and the ubiquitous 'baby talk' which comes mainly from my 30-year old 'assistant' (I use that term very loosely - if she understood the meaning of the word, no doubt she would choose to ignore it in favour of sucking her thumb).
She is not one of the slimmest girls, nor was she first in the queue when God was handing out good looks. Consequently, she garners attention by behaving like a two year old having a temper tantrum most of the time. In order to show she is happy, she skips her 20 stone frame down the corridor, singing songs from The Muppet Show (her relatives, probably), which makes my coffee pound in a way reminiscent of the glass of water in Jurassic Park when the T-Rex is on its way. If she is cross that we are not paying her attention, she falls off her chair in the middle of the room and petulantly pouts, You weren't listening to me! Look what I had to do!
I've even known her to faint when she trapped her finger in a door. Poof? Probably...Put on? Yup...
I feel like ramming my fist into her mouth half the time, and I deem myself a bit of a pacifist, deep down...
Another girl suffers with IBS and don't we know about it! We hear, in minute detail, about her daily bowel movements, smell and hear her flatulence problems, and are subjected to her medical history with vivid, gesticulative accounts. She is marrying her long-term partner in July. I guess OK! magazine will hear about it at some point, because, by Christ, we do, in stultifyingly dull detail, every five minutes. I, conversely, keep my mouth well shut about my own nuptials. Nobody knows much about my wedding, apart from the date and venue, and none of them are getting an invitation, either, let alone organising a Hen Night for me.
If I am asked about my own arrangements, and answer honestly, I discover next day, that she has done the same, but bigger and better. Boring? Yes. Irritating? Most definitely. Resolving to keep my mouth firmly closed? Absolutely.
She bought her wedding dress a few weeks ago. It fits her perfectly, we are led to believe. However, oddly, she is now trying to get pregnant. Now, call me old fashioned, but weren't children supposed to traditionally come after the wedding? And is there anything more off-putting than seeing a Bride, in virginal white, waddling down the aisle with a 6-month lump protruding from her dress? Yes, I know it's the 21st century, but I know what looks good and what doesn't!
Then we have Animal. I call her that in my own head because she reminds me of Animal, the Muppet drummer. She even talks like him when she is on the phone to her father. She has a very chequered love life which involves jealous lesbian ex-wives, homeless criminals, men on the verge of drawing their pension, and her most recent, a white Aborigine (her words, due to his plethora of tattoos). She regales us with her most recent 'romantic' mishaps (again, I use that word loosely because any story of love punctuated with every expletive known to man doesn't exactly conjure up images of doves, red roses and Barbara Cartland to me) in an exceptionally loud voice every Monday morning. I find them amusing to a degree, and somewhat smug in that I have been lucky enough to only ever get embroiled with peaceful loonies as opposed to violent ones. There but for the grace of God go I, I guess...
Out of the other three females, one is part-time, a new mother, and exceptionally quiet. I like her. Another is a middle-aged harridan who has had a sense of humour bypass and has become a bit of a diet bore. She goes on a new diet every month and has lost a grand total of 3lb. The last girl makes me laugh, but has a tendency to get rather over-emotional from time to time and can take off into day-long crying sessions. It must be her hormones, I reckon.
The boss is the best of them all. He possesses a fantastic sense of humour, is one of the laziest blokes I have ever met, wants us all to do his work for him, and effs and blinds like a Merchant Seaman. For some reason, he appears to view me as 'One of The Lads' as opposed to one of his 'Bitches'. He also told me at my staff review that he found me one of the scariest women he had ever met - Psycho Hose Beast were his exact words, which threw me marginally, until I recovered and held a carving knife to his throat until he retracted.
I've never had a boss like this before, and I would be very, very loathe to leave him...
And then there's me: The Techy Freak. That is their name for me because I understand what an XML feed is, I know how to write in HTML and I remember ALT functions. I also say very little because I realise that my sense of humour simply wouldn't be understood by them and it is easier to keep my thoughts to myself than to attempt to make some intelligently witty remark which would only be assimilated if they could interpret words of more than one syllable.
I actually enjoy my job - it is stimulating, full of new things to learn, and fantastic opportunities to develop oneself, but I cannot abide working with Morons. You never know until you get there, though, do you?
I continue to press home to Mr Parsnip that I would make a fantastic Retro Housewife as I enjoy having a clean home, can bake bread as well as The Dough Boy, and would love to wear gingham dresses, and sport a demiwave and bright red, indelible lipstick. I can also grow my own vegetables, shoot and gut pigeons, and dig over gardens, all whilst wearing aforesaid gingham frock. He doesn't seem to take the hint, so if there are any gents out there who fancy making me their 'kept woman', drop me a message with an outline of your earning potential, your bank account details and PIN number, as well as a photograph, and I shall assess your competency as My Hero and let you know...
Tuesday, 13 November 2007
Hex The Boss
Now, some of you may remember that I wrote an educational post under a similar name a few months ago, but this post is to try to illustrate why I wish certain bosses would be hexed, as I have had a fair few clots in my time. The ones who spring to mind immediately are the crème de la crème of berks and I am sure that our two readers will be able to empathise with me in my descriptions of them.
My last boss, Bernard, was a jumped up, arrogant, little toe-rag who claimed that any woman (including me) fancied him, and that he had to ‘beat the women off with a stick’. Probably using their white canes, as a matter of fact.
It wasn’t just the fact that he didn’t have a clue about my job and would thus attempt to humiliate me in front of clients that makes me want to hex him; nor was it his turbulent, manic-depressive temper which made the other staff go into a huddle and try to work out if the temper was ready to explode or would just rumble away for a few more days.
It wasn’t even his constant boast that he attended an Oasis gig, needed to pee, urinated into a burst beach ball and lobbed it into the crowd where it drenched a young girl.
No, it was the fact that I rarely got any money out of him…
Salaries were never paid on time…Expenses? Don’t make me laugh. He still owes me around £100 for fees, petrol and bank charges for when he didn’t put my salary in to my account.
The first time I didn’t get paid on time, I was rather horrified to receive two snotty letters from my bank, charging me £60 for the privilege of having two direct debits bounce. When I diplomatically broached the subject of being paid on time with him, he took great umbrage, made me out to be a liar and gave me hell for the rest of the day.
The second time my salary wasn’t paid on time, I was left stranded over a long Bank Holiday weekend, penniless, with no response from him to my increasingly urgent voice mails which culminated in the question, ‘Where’s my f*cking salary?’ The next day, I didn’t even have enough money to fill my car up with petrol to get to work. It was only when I didn’t turn in that he decided to answer my calls. I had that day off deducted from my holiday entitlement…
A female boss of my acquaintance – let’s call her Bridget, because that is her name, and a nastier woman you could never meet - possessed the most revolting personal habits known to man. Everybody knows someone who picks their nose and eats it, but have you ever watched someone, in deep concentration, hook a whopping piece of earwax from their ear and chew on that? I felt my jaw seize up with the shivers when I caught her at it. She would adjourn to the Ladies, perform her ablutions, and leave, without ever washing her hands…When she had a cold, she found it hilarious to sneeze all over my predecessor’s work station – poor old Lou, who had suffered with an immuno-deficiency virus in her earlier years, was constantly off sick with colds and stomach upsets. When Lou decided she had had enough putting up with the Muppet Show and left without a job to go to, Bridget’s reference to potential employers made a major point of her sick leave, and Lou left each interview jobless…
Bridget’s husband, Mario, was equally as nasty. An egotistical, jumped up little oik, who claimed to have killed a King Cobra with his bare hands: he informed me on a number of occasions that he was ‘available’. After the third occasion, when I quite firmly told him that he was way too married for my liking, the atmosphere in the office suddenly became quite frosty.
Non-contractual demands were soon made of me, which I was totally unable to fulfil, and warnings of sackings dished out left, right and centre. I attempted to beat them at their own game, and succeeded in passing an exam with flying colours, despite not having studied for it in the stipulated minimum of 90 days – taking it after 44. This still wasn’t good enough and at the end of my probation, I was told that I didn’t quite cut the mustard. I did what all good Hexers do: bunged a load of laxatives into their drinks and breezed out and off to home where I proceeded to apply for every job advertised and was back in work within two weeks. For the next two weeks, they sat on the toilet, groaning…
One boss became a bit of a fling. I have mentioned him before in the excommunicated priest guise. For some very odd reason, I fancied him like mad, despite the massive age difference, and obviously, being a single 40-something, he was quite taken by the attentions of a 19 year old. When I realised he was interested, I stupidly, and mercilessly, dumped my stalwart boyfriend, who was heartbroken and called my mother every day, begging her to dissuade me from my actions. Her response was to tell me what I HAD to do: I did the opposite, so she sent me to Coventry (for our American reader, this means you don’t speak) for weeks. After meeting the boss (another Bernard) in Birkenhead Shopping Centre where he had attempted to look ‘trendy’ by wearing trainers (always a no-no in Agnes’s book), a sweatshirt and tight jeans, I knew this was not the Man For Me…particularly when he proceeded to compare the shape of my legs against former girlfriends…
When I quite gently told him that I didn’t think I wanted this to go any further (dear reader, it ventured no further than a furtive grope and lots of Confession), he got rather spiteful and reduced my lunch hour, denied me my study leave, and generally made my life hell. He fell very ill, and during his hospitalisation, I found another job and left without a trace. I was, however, rather sad to learn, two years ago, that he had actually died of the same condition…so he shall, despite his bitterness, remain unhexed.
My current boss is a broad Yorkshireman who says what he thinks, without any allusions to grandeur. He is shorter than me, standing at around 5’ 7”, whereas I am 5’ 7.5” (and that extra ½ inch is very precious to me!). He probably also weighs twice my weight. He is foul-mouthed, but finds it hilarious in that he has met his match with me. He brings out the worst in me – and I love it!
I think I may have found the boss of my dreams!
My last boss, Bernard, was a jumped up, arrogant, little toe-rag who claimed that any woman (including me) fancied him, and that he had to ‘beat the women off with a stick’. Probably using their white canes, as a matter of fact.
It wasn’t just the fact that he didn’t have a clue about my job and would thus attempt to humiliate me in front of clients that makes me want to hex him; nor was it his turbulent, manic-depressive temper which made the other staff go into a huddle and try to work out if the temper was ready to explode or would just rumble away for a few more days.
It wasn’t even his constant boast that he attended an Oasis gig, needed to pee, urinated into a burst beach ball and lobbed it into the crowd where it drenched a young girl.
No, it was the fact that I rarely got any money out of him…
Salaries were never paid on time…Expenses? Don’t make me laugh. He still owes me around £100 for fees, petrol and bank charges for when he didn’t put my salary in to my account.
The first time I didn’t get paid on time, I was rather horrified to receive two snotty letters from my bank, charging me £60 for the privilege of having two direct debits bounce. When I diplomatically broached the subject of being paid on time with him, he took great umbrage, made me out to be a liar and gave me hell for the rest of the day.
The second time my salary wasn’t paid on time, I was left stranded over a long Bank Holiday weekend, penniless, with no response from him to my increasingly urgent voice mails which culminated in the question, ‘Where’s my f*cking salary?’ The next day, I didn’t even have enough money to fill my car up with petrol to get to work. It was only when I didn’t turn in that he decided to answer my calls. I had that day off deducted from my holiday entitlement…
A female boss of my acquaintance – let’s call her Bridget, because that is her name, and a nastier woman you could never meet - possessed the most revolting personal habits known to man. Everybody knows someone who picks their nose and eats it, but have you ever watched someone, in deep concentration, hook a whopping piece of earwax from their ear and chew on that? I felt my jaw seize up with the shivers when I caught her at it. She would adjourn to the Ladies, perform her ablutions, and leave, without ever washing her hands…When she had a cold, she found it hilarious to sneeze all over my predecessor’s work station – poor old Lou, who had suffered with an immuno-deficiency virus in her earlier years, was constantly off sick with colds and stomach upsets. When Lou decided she had had enough putting up with the Muppet Show and left without a job to go to, Bridget’s reference to potential employers made a major point of her sick leave, and Lou left each interview jobless…
Bridget’s husband, Mario, was equally as nasty. An egotistical, jumped up little oik, who claimed to have killed a King Cobra with his bare hands: he informed me on a number of occasions that he was ‘available’. After the third occasion, when I quite firmly told him that he was way too married for my liking, the atmosphere in the office suddenly became quite frosty.
Non-contractual demands were soon made of me, which I was totally unable to fulfil, and warnings of sackings dished out left, right and centre. I attempted to beat them at their own game, and succeeded in passing an exam with flying colours, despite not having studied for it in the stipulated minimum of 90 days – taking it after 44. This still wasn’t good enough and at the end of my probation, I was told that I didn’t quite cut the mustard. I did what all good Hexers do: bunged a load of laxatives into their drinks and breezed out and off to home where I proceeded to apply for every job advertised and was back in work within two weeks. For the next two weeks, they sat on the toilet, groaning…
One boss became a bit of a fling. I have mentioned him before in the excommunicated priest guise. For some very odd reason, I fancied him like mad, despite the massive age difference, and obviously, being a single 40-something, he was quite taken by the attentions of a 19 year old. When I realised he was interested, I stupidly, and mercilessly, dumped my stalwart boyfriend, who was heartbroken and called my mother every day, begging her to dissuade me from my actions. Her response was to tell me what I HAD to do: I did the opposite, so she sent me to Coventry (for our American reader, this means you don’t speak) for weeks. After meeting the boss (another Bernard) in Birkenhead Shopping Centre where he had attempted to look ‘trendy’ by wearing trainers (always a no-no in Agnes’s book), a sweatshirt and tight jeans, I knew this was not the Man For Me…particularly when he proceeded to compare the shape of my legs against former girlfriends…
When I quite gently told him that I didn’t think I wanted this to go any further (dear reader, it ventured no further than a furtive grope and lots of Confession), he got rather spiteful and reduced my lunch hour, denied me my study leave, and generally made my life hell. He fell very ill, and during his hospitalisation, I found another job and left without a trace. I was, however, rather sad to learn, two years ago, that he had actually died of the same condition…so he shall, despite his bitterness, remain unhexed.
My current boss is a broad Yorkshireman who says what he thinks, without any allusions to grandeur. He is shorter than me, standing at around 5’ 7”, whereas I am 5’ 7.5” (and that extra ½ inch is very precious to me!). He probably also weighs twice my weight. He is foul-mouthed, but finds it hilarious in that he has met his match with me. He brings out the worst in me – and I love it!
I think I may have found the boss of my dreams!
Friday, 21 September 2007
Food for Thought...
While Matt & I were having our early morning MSN rant, we were, as per usual, moaning about previous employers and how they simply do not appreciate the quality staff they have in us two. I recounted an employer for whom I had worked about 15 years ago during the summer break from University as a waitress and how, two years ago, she banned me from her pub - for breathing in a happy manner, I think.
The pub occupies a great position in the small village, Cronton, where my ageing, cantankerous parents still live. It was once a coaching inn and is about 300 years old (I think), almost the same age as the landlady, S.
I don't think anything gave S pleasure apart from bitching. She rarely smiled and if she did it did nothing to lighten her nasty, slitty, gimlet eyes. As a boss, she was totally unfair, and as a landlady she was not the genial host. I hated her and so did my mates, who were also banned one particular day after she wrongly accused one of them of using her payphone to order drugs - a completely inaccurate statement - Al was simply asking his mate to drop some mucky videos off at his house for a massive porn marathon - a considerably innocent past-time, in comparison. She lost the custom of five alcoholics that day who moved over the road to the other pub where they could have lock-ins until 5am if they so wished.
One particular night, the 'restaurant' (and I do use that term loosely) had a gourmet night and I was waiting on along with a few other girls. It was a set menu and the entrée was a dish which contained truffles (those prohibitively expensive fungi dug up by pigs and dogs from dirt). As it was a busy night, the chefs were a bit manic. One of the truffles fell on the floor and I bent over to pick it up and throw it in the bin. One of the chefs grabbed it out of my hand, licked it, wiped it with his dirty tea towel and sliced it up for the plates. "Don't throw that away! They're f*ckin' priceless those things!" he barked at me. I was speechless at the lack of hygeine, and knowing how he put himself about with any awl slapper he picked up at the 'Dope & Anchor' up in Prescot (that's where the drugs were purchased in the late 80s), concerned that the unwitting truffle-eating patrons might end up with a dose of clap by the end of the night.
Towards the end of the shift, I was the last member of staff remaining. I was starving and had been rushed off my feet. I hadn't had chance to eat all day due to all the poxy jobs I did to pay off my student overdraft and decided to pinch a sliver of cheesecake from the fridge. I think, by this stage, the cheesecake was about seven days old and had I dropped it on the floor, it would have bounced back up into my hand, but my belly thought my throat had been cut, so I demolished it.
Five hours later, I woke up with severe cramps and just about made it to the loo where I exploded from practically every orifice. I woke my mother up with the noise and she came hurtling in to accuse me of being wasted on beer. In between heaving, I protested my tee-total innocence, and she finally realised that I had a massive dose of food poisoning. The doctor was called, checked me out and confirmed it. He asked what I had eaten and I mentioned the cheesecake...
The next day, I received a rather aggressive phone call from S. Under duress, I was forced to confess that my food poisoning was probably from the lemonade I had been drinking and most definitely not the listeria-riddled cheesecake. She'd received her training from the Gestapo back in the 1940s, you know. I was actually surprised she hadn't docked my pay packet for the dessert - perhaps she considered I had got my just deserts* instead.
Considering this was the pub which had been shut down by Health and Safety a few years previously for dishing up mouse pie, their standards of hygeine hadn't particularly improved. Within a few weeks of them starting to serve food, a mouse had accidentally fallen into the meat filling of the quaintly termed Cronton Pie (the filling was made from Scousers, footballers' wives, wellies and used condoms - probably). The pie was cut at the table of the unsuspecting diner and there, peering out at him (if a dead mouse can peer), was good old Mickey. The story was considered newsworthy and that fount of all local gossip, The Widnes & Runcorn Weekly World ran it on the front page.
My mother's friend, who used to clean for the pub, swore she once unwittingly saw S and her now deceased husband** getting jiggy atop the polished wooden bar top. I cannot verify this as Mrs X was a terrible gossip, but it made for a great tale and was soon all round the village. Allegedly, all S was wearing were two Christmas baubles dangling from her little fingers. It sort of gave a new meaning to 'bar meals' in my eyes.
Anyway, two years ago, I stopped in at the pub for a drink and was at the bar chatting to some local residents whom I knew. I was stood by the bar hatch and was asked to move by S as I was in the way. There were only about four people in the whole pub, so the staff weren't exactly rushed off their feet and needed urgent access. However, polite to a fault, I did move. I asked her if she remembered me from my waiting on days and she peered at me. She remarked that I obviously hadn't impressed her much as she couldn't recall me. I smiled and said, "You haven't lost any of your charm, have you, S?" I was promptly told to clear off. I considered whether to finish my drink and then turned to her and said, "You'd better keep this and re-sell it. At the rate you lose customers, you're going to need to save as much money as possible" and I walked out. A bit of a lame come-back, really, but I simply couldn't be bothered getting into a slanging match with such a completely egregious woman.
They are still doing business....just. The carpark is rarely busy and most people drink and dine at the other pub which has been taken over by a chain and knows how to treat its patrons. If you ever find yourself in the vicinity of Cronton, don't go to the white pub - go to The Black instead...
*And I have spelt that right - check it out if you don't believe me: it's from the Old French 'deserte', to deserve. Don't tell me I never teach you anything on this blog.
**Maybe he'd eaten the food as well...
The pub occupies a great position in the small village, Cronton, where my ageing, cantankerous parents still live. It was once a coaching inn and is about 300 years old (I think), almost the same age as the landlady, S.
I don't think anything gave S pleasure apart from bitching. She rarely smiled and if she did it did nothing to lighten her nasty, slitty, gimlet eyes. As a boss, she was totally unfair, and as a landlady she was not the genial host. I hated her and so did my mates, who were also banned one particular day after she wrongly accused one of them of using her payphone to order drugs - a completely inaccurate statement - Al was simply asking his mate to drop some mucky videos off at his house for a massive porn marathon - a considerably innocent past-time, in comparison. She lost the custom of five alcoholics that day who moved over the road to the other pub where they could have lock-ins until 5am if they so wished.
One particular night, the 'restaurant' (and I do use that term loosely) had a gourmet night and I was waiting on along with a few other girls. It was a set menu and the entrée was a dish which contained truffles (those prohibitively expensive fungi dug up by pigs and dogs from dirt). As it was a busy night, the chefs were a bit manic. One of the truffles fell on the floor and I bent over to pick it up and throw it in the bin. One of the chefs grabbed it out of my hand, licked it, wiped it with his dirty tea towel and sliced it up for the plates. "Don't throw that away! They're f*ckin' priceless those things!" he barked at me. I was speechless at the lack of hygeine, and knowing how he put himself about with any awl slapper he picked up at the 'Dope & Anchor' up in Prescot (that's where the drugs were purchased in the late 80s), concerned that the unwitting truffle-eating patrons might end up with a dose of clap by the end of the night.
Towards the end of the shift, I was the last member of staff remaining. I was starving and had been rushed off my feet. I hadn't had chance to eat all day due to all the poxy jobs I did to pay off my student overdraft and decided to pinch a sliver of cheesecake from the fridge. I think, by this stage, the cheesecake was about seven days old and had I dropped it on the floor, it would have bounced back up into my hand, but my belly thought my throat had been cut, so I demolished it.
Five hours later, I woke up with severe cramps and just about made it to the loo where I exploded from practically every orifice. I woke my mother up with the noise and she came hurtling in to accuse me of being wasted on beer. In between heaving, I protested my tee-total innocence, and she finally realised that I had a massive dose of food poisoning. The doctor was called, checked me out and confirmed it. He asked what I had eaten and I mentioned the cheesecake...
The next day, I received a rather aggressive phone call from S. Under duress, I was forced to confess that my food poisoning was probably from the lemonade I had been drinking and most definitely not the listeria-riddled cheesecake. She'd received her training from the Gestapo back in the 1940s, you know. I was actually surprised she hadn't docked my pay packet for the dessert - perhaps she considered I had got my just deserts* instead.
Considering this was the pub which had been shut down by Health and Safety a few years previously for dishing up mouse pie, their standards of hygeine hadn't particularly improved. Within a few weeks of them starting to serve food, a mouse had accidentally fallen into the meat filling of the quaintly termed Cronton Pie (the filling was made from Scousers, footballers' wives, wellies and used condoms - probably). The pie was cut at the table of the unsuspecting diner and there, peering out at him (if a dead mouse can peer), was good old Mickey. The story was considered newsworthy and that fount of all local gossip, The Widnes & Runcorn Weekly World ran it on the front page.
My mother's friend, who used to clean for the pub, swore she once unwittingly saw S and her now deceased husband** getting jiggy atop the polished wooden bar top. I cannot verify this as Mrs X was a terrible gossip, but it made for a great tale and was soon all round the village. Allegedly, all S was wearing were two Christmas baubles dangling from her little fingers. It sort of gave a new meaning to 'bar meals' in my eyes.
Anyway, two years ago, I stopped in at the pub for a drink and was at the bar chatting to some local residents whom I knew. I was stood by the bar hatch and was asked to move by S as I was in the way. There were only about four people in the whole pub, so the staff weren't exactly rushed off their feet and needed urgent access. However, polite to a fault, I did move. I asked her if she remembered me from my waiting on days and she peered at me. She remarked that I obviously hadn't impressed her much as she couldn't recall me. I smiled and said, "You haven't lost any of your charm, have you, S?" I was promptly told to clear off. I considered whether to finish my drink and then turned to her and said, "You'd better keep this and re-sell it. At the rate you lose customers, you're going to need to save as much money as possible" and I walked out. A bit of a lame come-back, really, but I simply couldn't be bothered getting into a slanging match with such a completely egregious woman.
They are still doing business....just. The carpark is rarely busy and most people drink and dine at the other pub which has been taken over by a chain and knows how to treat its patrons. If you ever find yourself in the vicinity of Cronton, don't go to the white pub - go to The Black instead...
*And I have spelt that right - check it out if you don't believe me: it's from the Old French 'deserte', to deserve. Don't tell me I never teach you anything on this blog.
**Maybe he'd eaten the food as well...
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