» The Boss

Worth getting sacked for?
Back in the mid to late 1980's I found myself in deepest coastal Kent during the construction of the Chunnel.
As I worked for a dredging company (Rock'n'Roll), we worked by the tide. If said tide was too rough we put in to operation the old skeleton crew, whilst the rest buggered off site to do whatever they feckin well pleased. As we worked pretty hard whilst on duty, we did have a week off in every 4 to compensate. Many a trip to quality European cities were had during these times. I waffle & digress however as this tale is in regards to a Bar/Nightclub on Marine Parade in Folkestone called La Parissienne/Pigalle, and in particular a manager called George.

Young me scored a job on the door of said establishment to further fund my monthly soujourns across the water. Enter into this narrative our anti hero - The bossman! Now George was all that is wrong with mankind, creepy to the ladies (under the misapprehension that he was an Adonis-like super stud-muffin. He was Greek but hardly given to lapping up the delectable manna/ambrosia combo. Regularly hanging out with the door staff, George would regale us with his tales of derring do and allround hardman qualities. The thing that really pissed me off however was his shoddy treatment of the bar staff and in particular one glass collector (Brian), who was very young, green and if truth be told a little simple. The girls loved him though as he posed no threat and they got all maternal about him. George of course treated him like shit.

To the night of the dirty deed. La Pigalle had set up a mud wresting night (Classy huh!). Said girls were writhing around in a large rectangular pool thingy as the gathered, predominately male crowd bayed for more. After about 20 minutes of slippy grappling, things were hitting a lull in proceedings. No more of the punters seemed keen to join in, fair enough really as it involved getting filthy and the more discerning male had pulling activities later on in the club. At this point George spies young Brian duly going about his pot collection and summoned him towards the pool thingy. A brief conversation ensued, cumlminating in George throwing naive Brian into the pit. The wrestlers naturally took the cue and smothered the helpless pup.

Brian freaked! I mean really freaked. The pitiful cries are something you dont forget easily. The wrestlers spotted that the kid was so distressed that they stopped and tried to calm him down. A deathly silence enshrined the whole bar. Even George looked shellshocked, only for a second as he grabbed the mic and continued to berate the inconsolable Brian. The whole gathering started booing George who slunk away towards the door. You know when sometimes snap decisions can go either way? On this occasion I decided that the best course of action, was to leap to the bosses side in case things got nasty. A cunning ruse however as what I did next brought the house down. As I reached George the opportunity presented itself magnificently. I made it to George's side and stuck out my hip, connecting perfectly with his and sent him sprawling, resplendent in his pristine white dinner suit, straight into the mud pool. The place erupted, and I just carried on walking straight out of the door and home.

P45! - Fuck him the greasy pustule of mongtardery!
(Wed 24th Jun 2009, 9:37, More)

» School Days

Not exactly the Harlem Globetrotters
Ah the best days of your life eh?

A stage for piss take and brutality more like.

I digress. My tale centres around one P Learmonth, erstwhile Maths teacher and P.E dept leech, who would offer to help the staff out with lunch time activity clubs, even though he was about as useful as a homosexual with hemorrhoids.

I was roped in (peer pressure - sad sheep like fool that I was) to appear at the basketball club - nothing to do with my 6ft 3 gangly frame I presume! which our hero presided over.

Bedecked in bright red track suit, 2 striped Adidas Winfield (RIP Woolworths) with those hoops at the bottom of the legs. Top always unzipped as I am sure it could not contain the girth of the man, trying to restore order to a circus of 16 year olds launching basketballs to all 4 corners of the gym hall. After much bellowing and collar grabbing he had whittled down the unruly mob to just my mate Alan & my good self. He was however at the opposite end of the hall and decided to take a couple of paces towards us and hurl his own basketball in our direction. Easily avoided by your 2 anti heroes by easing our heads to the side to allow the projectile to carry on in its way. At this point however, the gods of good fortune completely abandoned Learmonth as the rector (Scots term for head teacher) appeared; holding the door open for the latest visiting dignitary - None other than the Moderator of the General Assembly of the Church of Scotland (wow what a feckin title), who yes got a face full of orange synthetic missile. Enough to not only knock him to the floor but also to induce a torrent of claret from his unprotected hooter.

Cue dying fly frenzy from the collective youth.

Post script - Fair play to the messenger of God, he took it in good spirit, but alas this proved to be Learmonth's swansong and never again did he darken the P.E dept of a lunchtime.

Length?
(Fri 30th Jan 2009, 13:41, More)

» The Boss

My Boss - World class skiver
She has been with us for over 18 months and has yet to complete a full weeks work.
Excuses include
Working from home today - On too many numerous occasions to come up with any sort of accurate figure
My car has to go to the garage - At least 15 times. If that was your car would you not consider a new one?
I have to wait at home for the plumber/electrician/builder/Jehovah's witness/postman et al. Again at least a dozen incidents
I have to take my niece (aged 22) to the hospital with a 'sore finger' -erm what about this particular adult conveying her own carcass to hospital or maybe her own parents perchance?
Sickies aplenty.

The troops naturally love her - NOT
(Thu 18th Jun 2009, 13:30, More)