Interview

We've moved on a bit - Johnson is being interviewed in an unspecified location about his actions and what led him to act like he did.



Interview Phase VII

“More ice?” I asked him.

“Thanks,” said Johnson, pushing his glass across the table. I dropped in a chilly handful of slippery cubes. “Hope there’s no egg on your fingers.”

“No egg,” I promised.

“Thanks,” said Johnson, sucking in half of the liquid in a couple of gulps. He coughed a sliver of ice from the back of his throat and crunched it noisily. He had shaved this morning, though his hair looked a little greasy-damp it was hard to tell whether that was down to hygiene or the heat. He was dressed in yet another crisp, clean shirt and smooth, light cotton trousers.

“Not drinking today?” I asked.

“Oh, you know. It is a little early isn’t it?” sighed Johnson, indifferently, he was gazing, unblinkingly at the ceiling, executing his rocking back-and-forth on the chair movement, testing the angles. Such a show of boredom and weariness so early in the day didn’t seem to be a good omen.

“Fancy a walk?” I asked, brightly.
“A what?”
“A walk, you know,” I struggled, “A walk.”
“Get out of this room for a bit?”
“Why not?” I smiled.
“Are we allowed?” he asked, seeming suddenly cowed. Back to the person he was long before any of this happened.
“Of course,” I assured him, “of course we are. I’m in charge here, you know.”
“You are?”
“Come on,” I said, “before I change my mind. Hang on. You wait here. Just got to make a call.”
“You’re in charge though?”
“Yes, Johnson,” I said, “I am, and don’t think for a minute that you can pull one on me, alright?”
“Because you’ve got help?”
“Exactly. So don’t be a …”
“Clown. I know,” said Johnson. He added, “Don’t worry, I won’t give you any trouble. I’ve got nowhere to go.”

We took the lift down to the ground floor and walked across the expansive reception area and through the atrium. Plants towered over us like huge umbrellas, fifteen, twenty-feet high and in terracotta pots as wide as I am high. Our footsteps hit the cool marble as we passed the desks, the staff, the security. Refusing the offer of a car and driver, we felt the goodbye-blast of the air-con and the cooling electric fans on our backs and walked out onto the street.

Released from our cocoon, the pure daylight was blinding, the heat, track-stopping, the noise hit us from all sides, an intense wall of sound. Suddenly there were other people on the planet. Real people, not just characters in Johnson’s story. I’d lost track of the hours, forty-eight? More than twenty-four, certainly. I couldn’t see much smoke, a few slim twirls here and there in the distance, but the smell was everywhere. Not the smell of cooking or of fuel being burned for heat, God knows, more heat wasn’t needed here, no, this was the smell of burning garbage, of smouldering tyres and plastic and shit. The humidity meant that it hung around the face and you pulled it into your body with each struggling breath, and with each step breathing became more of an ordeal.

“Let’s go down to the harbour,” I suggested after we had walked for a hundred yards or so, bumping through the crowds, determinedly not buying anything despite the pressure.

“Taxi!” shouted Johnson.

I looked at him sharply.

“Sorry. Don’t mean to take over. I mean, you’re in charge and all that. But, honestly, fuck this. I mean, fuck it over up sideways down. How do people cope with this all the time? How? Paradise. Some people at home, offer them the chance to live somewhere like this and they’d think, I’ll have some of that, tear your fucking arm off, they would. But, honestly. Look. Feel. Christ. It’s bloody unbearable. I feel like one of those blokes hundreds of years ago, you know, press-ganged. One minute you’re having a pint in your local in the Yorkshire Dales where it’s pissed down forever and you’ve been cold all your life, this is before the invention of the umbrella of course. Although I grant you, you might have looked a bit of a twat herding up your sheep in a smock and a brolly. Next minute, alright, couple of months down the line, on some ship being flogged and buggered all the way, or is it sodomised rather than buggered? I’m never sure of the distinction. You’re being bitten to buggery, buggery again, see? Bitten to soddery by these monster flies that don’t bite like that back home, no way lad, not in’t Yorkshire, and you’ve got sunstroke and sunburn, and all your clothes have rotted away, and you’re permanently thirsty. You’ve got a crazy itch in your nethers because you’ve caught a social disease from the bastard who was there before you. Shit, and now your descendants are doing all of that for fun. Taking a year out. Backpacking. The great adventure. I’m a traveller, not a tourist. All that crap.”
Johnson was laughing. His face already bore traces of sweat-streaked grime and his shirt and trousers were spotted with dirt and speckled with damp.

“Are you getting in this cab or what?” he asked.

We found a harbour-side eating and drinking place, although eating looked to be a dangerous option. Anyway, it had a stretch of tatty but pretty, red and white-striped awning which was cool underneath, and we took a table near the rail and overlooking the water. Two impossibly large, and frosted with the cold, bottles of beer arrived together with two tiny glasses.

“Did I ask for mouthwash?” remarked Johnson, quietly, the waiter long departed.
“You’re not so brave after all, are you?” I said.

There was a welcome breeze zipping gently off the water and we sat in comfortable silence for a while, watching the disorderly river traffic. Johnson smoked constantly, but called for water with the next round of beers.

“Bit dehydrated,” he explained, removing his sunglasses and wiping the lenses on his cottoned thigh.
“After yesterday’s intake?”
“H2O’s the way to go.”
“The, er, Big Red Book,” I ventured.
Johnson replaced his shades and turned his head back to the water.
“Not the time.”
“Why not?”
“Structure.”
“Structure?”
“Dramatic tension.”
“What?”

He turned his head back to face me, rested his elbows on the table and his hands assumed a praying position. He rubbed the tips of his fingers along his jaw line, hands still pressed together.

“A story has structure. I mean, I don’t want to take the wind out of your sails or anything, or upset how you want to structure things, but we’re going forward here in a certain fashion, we’re at a particular point in the story. OK, I’m taking the mick when I say ‘dramatic tension’, but it all leads to that thing.”

“That thing?”
“You know.”
“The book? The Big Red Book?”
“Of course.”
“I’ve seen it you know. The book.”
“I guessed you had. You had to, didn’t you?”
“Is that the only one?” I asked.

His fingers reached up behind the sunglasses and gave an exaggerated rub and dismissed a loitering waiter with studied politeness.

“Now, you know there’s more than one, so don’t.”
“Don’t do what?”
“Make it harder than it should be. Don’t take me for an idiot. Don’t make me out to be some sort of prize prick. And don’t play the innocent by asking and prompting and nudging and wheedling, bloody wheedling, that’s what you were doing, trying to get under my skin.”
“I did though, didn’t I?”
“Get under my skin?”
I nodded.
“Yeah. Just for a minute,” grinned Johnson, “just a tad. It’s a good job we get along isn’t it?”
“It is,” I agreed.
“Right,” he said, “let’s get on, then.”
“If we can’t talk about the book yet, that’s OK. How about this thing you did with Tim? The complaints thing?”
“Alright,” he assented.

A canopied craft slid past and hit the horn or hooter. Johnson and I both leapt a foot into the air, and I spilled beer down my front.

“Let me get that,” offered Johnson.
“I’m OK.”
He reached forward.
“It’s no trouble. We’ll get some water and just mop it off.”
“Leave it, Johnson, please,” I said, “I’m OK.” I pressed my back into the seat and crossed my arms in front of my chest.
“Fine,” he said, “just trying to help.”
“I know, just leave it, it’ll dry soon enough.”

Although the side on which we sat was populated with old-style low, mainly wooden, buildings, there were some modern high-rise buildings across the water. We watched besuited staff on their lunch breaks streaming out of the office buildings.

“Think I’d stay inside,” mused Johnson, “next to the air-con. Spent all morning cooling off then you dive out for lunch and end up all sweaty again. Makes no sense.”
“Get some fresh air, I suppose.”
“Fresh air?” he replied. “Fresh exhaust fumes, maybe.”
“Fair point.”
“Do you think any of this stuff in the air is carcinogenic?” asked Johnson, firing up another Rothman.
“What difference would that make to you?”
“None whatsoever,” he smiled, expelling a grey funnel of fumes from his mouth. “The way I see it, my cigarettes are affording my lungs vauable protection from these thousands of noxious pollutants.”
“Protection?” I protested. “That’s a new one.”
“Through years of dedicated smoking, I have formed a protective barrier around my airways and thus no nasties can find their way in,” he said happily.
“I suppose they get stuck on the tar.”
“It works for me.”

The waiter had been zig-zagging his way across the floor to our table. Finally he reached us, with two menus tucked under his arm and an expectant look on his face.

“We’d better order something,” I decided.
“He’s not going to take no for an answer is he?” observed Johnson.

The waiter stood still, His glum expression accentuated by his floppy dark hair, long face, and a droopy moustache. I reached out and took a menu, Johnson took the other.

“Fancy anything?” I asked.
“Another drink,” said Johnson. “You know what they say, one of the rules of foreign travel? Never eat anywhere which has pictures of the food on its menu.”
“Better than drawings,” I replied. “Just order something, you don’t have to eat it.”
“Cheer up, squire,” Johnson addressed the waiter. “I’ll have this thing that looks like it might be chicken. What is it anyway?”
“Chicken,” said the waiter.
“Two of those, thank you,” I said.
“Big mistake,” offered Johnson. “Might be awful. If it’s awful then we’re both stuck with it. If, on the other hand, you order something different, then that might be OK and we can share yours.”
“Or vice versa.”
“Or vice versa.”
“Can I change my mind?” I asked the hovering waiter. “I’ll have this fish dish. That is fish isn’t it?” I asked, pointing.
“Chicken,” said the waiter.
“Do you have any fish?” I asked.
“Today we have chicken.”

We settled on two chicken dishes and another round of drinks.

“The job with Tim?” I prompted, when we were alone again.
“As you know,” Johnson began, “it was dealing with complaints from all sorts of nut jobs. Not all nut jobs, I suppose, but after a while…” he tailed off and took on that worrying gaze that might mean we were in for half-an-hour of meanderings.
“Doing what exactly?” I asked, sharply, anxious to keep him from straying.
“Taking calls, correspondence, writing letters.”
“Who was this for? Which company?”
“It was centralised operation. They handled complaints for all sorts of places. Supermarkets, airlines, travel agents, railways, you know.”
“These places have their own departments for this sort of thing don’t they?”
“You’d think so, wouldn’t you? But, no, dealing with disgruntled punters has become very specialised. People are such arseholes now that they go on holiday with a notebook and a camcorder specifically looking for problems, all they want is to screw themselves a few quid in compensation. It means they’re not appreciating the natural beauty of the place, or enjoying dinner in the hotel restaurant. They’re picking holes in the local driver or guide and hunting under the table for cockroaches. Greedy, ignorant bastards. So a lot of places farm these things out to the professionals,” Johnson started laughing.
“You and Tim being the professionals?”
“Yeah,” he laughed louder, “can you believe it? To start with we were committed and diplomatic and did all that was asked of us.”
“But then you started writing letters like this?” I handed him a slim ring-binder containing twenty of the choicest, and he recited the first one.


Mr Gallimost
Thank you for your letter in which you claim (in your rather simple, child-like fashion) that you have reason to be dissatisfied with the service you have received from Jammesters Supermarket.
We at Jammesters Supermarkets are committed to providing top-flight service and high-quality products at competitive prices to our valued shoppers. Unfortunately, judging by your sketchy command of the English language, your atrocious handwriting, and your grubby notepaper which was covered in dirty finger marks, you are not the sort of person with which Jammesters Supermarkets wishes to be associated. Our new mission statement makes it perfectly clear that one of our main aims is to keep the riff-raff out of our stores. As we deem you, Mr Gallimost, to be riff-raff of the very worst kind, we have no interest in dealing with you or discussing your rather laboured points any further. Your letter has been consigned to the waste-paper bin, perhaps you will come across it in the future on one of your scavenging trips to the local dump.
Yours sincerely
Jammy Jammester
Chief Twat Co-Ordinator
Jammester Supermarkets


Johnson’s eyes misted over with tears, and his laughing-cough rattled its way around the patio and across the water.

“I’d forgotten that one,” he said, eventually.
“Was that one of yours, or Tim’s?”
“Joint effort, as I remember. I think he gave me the riff-raff line, oh, and the bit about the local dump was his too. Very good.”
“Why did you go down this route?”
“It was a horrible, horrible job,” he spat, venomously. “We started out with all the best intentions. Talked to the unhappy, talked them down, all of those angry people. Reached agreement, compensation, or not. Wrote the letters, took the flak. We were tactful, diplomatic. But the money was crap and it was no way to earn a living, you know? I just wrote one of these letters one day as a private joke. I showed it to Tim. He looked at me and there was never any question of not sending it. We’d both had enough, and it seemed like it might be fun.”
“Fun?” I queried. “Surely you knew it couldn’t last?”
“Of course,” he said, pushing away the plate of pale and anorexic chicken which the waiter had just placed before him. “Looks nothing like the picture,” he explained, “looks more like an insect.”
“So why not just leave?”
“This way was just more fun. Shake up some of these tossers who had nothing better to do but piss and moan all day. Shake up the companies too, give their precious reputations a bit of a caning. They’re no better. They’re out to screw the punter and I guess you can’t really blame the punter for trying to get something back.”
“So the complainer is in the right?” I asked through a mouthful of gristle and bone.
“No.”
“The company?” I spat the disgusting lump into a napkin.
“No. They’re both wrong.”
“What’s the answer?”
“Haven’t a clue,” replied Johnson, “but it was up to me and Timothy to chuck a stick in the spokes.”
“For the greater good?”
“Not really,” said Johnson, “for a bit of a laugh. I’d forgotten this one,” he said as he turned the pages
“I’m not surprised,” I observed, “you managed to bang out quite a lot in your last three days didn’t you?”
“Timed it around a Bank Holiday. Though it would give us an extra day or two before the first of the letters hit the doormats and by then it would be too late,” said Johnson, smugly. “Here, look at this one.” He passed the folder back to me and I read:


Dear Mrs Swottley
Thank you very much for your letter regarding your apparently less than rewarding holiday. I hope you will excuse as, handicapped by the sole option of using mere words from the English dictionary, like, we cannot quite convey to you the mounting levels of our excitement and eventual hilarity as we read through your interminable and dreary list of small-minded, petty gripes and whinges. While you undoubtedly raise some points of interest, sadly I have to report that they are of no interest to us in the least.
May we respectfully suggest that when the benefits office next gives you a fortnight off that you spend the time at home, thereby giving the civilised population of the world a well-deserved break from you pissing all over it and generally polluting it with your stench.
I remain, your obedient servant,
Jack Off
“Wanker by Appointment”
Toss-Off Holidays Inc.


“I wasn’t sure about the name, but Tim insisted,” grinned Johnson, “Jack Off. Quite funny I suppose.”
“And this one?” I asked. “To a Mr Smith?”


Oi Smiffy
Why don’t you fuck off and die?
Yours truly
The Customer Service Team
“Because you’re not worth it”


“Perhaps we were running out of ideas by that stage. Got a bit boring.”
“I’m getting the impression that you’re easily bored.”
“We knew the game was up. Tried to get our point across succinctly towards the end.”
“I’ve heard some of the phone calls.”
“Oh, that’s true is it?” asked Johnson. “Calls may be recorded for training purposes?”
“Oh yes.”
“I wouldn’t mind hearing some of those,” he suggested.
“Well, I haven’t got them with me, they’re all back at…”
“Fine. Fine. That was right at the end, of course. Just before we got fired. Probably wouldn’t add much to my life right now, would it? Hearing them again?”
“Apart from the nostalgic value? No.”
“Ice cream, dessert, fruit salad?” asked the waiter, who had slid up to the table unnoticed and was clearing away the barely touched main courses.
“He’s kidding isn’t he?” asked Johnson, nodding first at me and then at the droopy waiter. His eyes were masked by his shades, but I knew he was winking.
“Just some more water and another beer, please,” I looked questioningly at Johnson, who nodded his assent.
“Everything was fine?” asked the waiter.
“Absolutely delicious,” Johnson replied, “so beautifully presented and delicious that we didn’t want to spoil it by actually eating anything.”
“Thank you sir.”
“Please be sure and present our compliments to the half-educated toss-pot who threw this abomination together and expected us to eat it,” grinned Johnson, winningly.
“Thank you sir.”

The waiter returned quickly with our drinks and the bill. I settled it while he waited, placing a few worn, moist notes on the table.

“We’ll have these and move on, shall we?” I suggested.
“Sure,” agreed Johnson, pouring my water.
“Fancy a walk?”
“Why not? I was getting far too comfortable sitting here. Must be time to lose a few litres in sweat.”
“You don’t have to,” I said, I was just trying to make things a little less tedious, get us out of the dreaded room.”
“That’s fine,” he said, amenably, “appreciate it.”

We stuck to the riverside, seeking out the odd patches of shade. From time to time we sat on benches or steps. Johnson had bought a local newspaper.

“Best insight you get into a new place. That and going for a drink,” he said, fanning himself with the paper as we sat in an adjacent park. A small, recently constructed area with a few trees, some concrete seats and a pond which was spanned by a low, narrow stone bridge.

“These seats are comfortable aren’t they?” observed Johnson.
“Must be to deter the rough sleepers,” I said.
“Brilliant idea, concrete seats. Surprised they didn’t add a little broken glass.”
“So you and Tim got yourselves fired,” I said.
“Yes,” Johnson replied, standing and stretching.
“Was he still seeing Kate?”
“Do we have to?”
“What?”
“Go through all of this detail?” Johnson asked, hands on hips.
“For my notes,” I said.
“But you know this bit, at least.”
“I need to get all the details down, put everything in order, there are things you or I might not see as being relevant. But when they appear as part of the bigger picture they might, do you see?” I explained.
“If you say so,” he said, petulantly.
“Was Tim still seeing Kate?” I persisted.
Johnson sighed deeply.
“Don’t pout,” I advised him, “it makes you look like a spoilt little schoolgirl.”
“They saw each other on and off but not for long. They weren’t really much of a match. Tim, you couldn’t expect Tim to have a proper relationship with anyone. As soon he was out of their sight he was out marking his territory like a tomcat, sniffing around. And he wasn’t fussy either. You know, if he hadn’t pulled by two AM or so, then anything, absolutely anything would do. It was like a horror film at the flat some mornings.”
“That’s awful,” I said.
“Awful’s the word, some right old nightmares.”
“I meant that was an awful thing to say.”
“Oh, right,” said Johnson, “true, though. You never saw the aftermath.”
“Right,” I said, “you were out of work, without money or any income, and without anything to recommend you to a prospective employer. What did you do?”
“I made a phone call.”

Party Night at the Palomino

Locked-Recruitment have had a highly profitable day and Johnson is informed that his attendance is required at the evening's celebrations. He cavils, he pleads a night in, he buckles, he gives in, he asks which pub he is expected at:


“Locked-In don’t hold their formal events in pubs Johnson,” said Kate, disdainfully.
“They don’t?”
“Certainly not.”
“Where are we going then?” he persisted.
“The Palomino,” replied Kate.
“The Palomino? What’s that?” asked Johnson.
Kate tutted and sighed.
“Where have you been? It’s about time you stopped hanging out in grotty pubs.”
“You go to pubs,” rejoinder Johnson, accusingly.
“I never stay for long. I go purely for the sake of social expedience.”
“Social expedience?”
“A meeting place. One drink. Move one somewhere a little more classy, or for a nice meal, perhaps.”
“Right,” sighed Johnson. “So this Palomino, it’s a right classy gaff is it?” he said, trying to needle her.
“It’s the coolest new bar,” said Kate, “fantastic cocktails.”
“Has it got a pool table?” Johnson asked.
“No.”
“Can’t be very cool then. What about a dartboard?”
“No. It hasn’t got a bloody dartboard. This is not one of your usual haunts, so don’t be stupid, Johnson,” warned Kate.
“Alright. Sorry. What are we doing for food?” he asked.
“Grab something on the run, eat later, whatever,” sighed Kate.
“I’ll get a couple of cheese and pickle rolls or some pork scratchings in this Palomino place,” remarked Johnson.
It was hard to establish the size of The Palomino. The place was full of mirrors and reflective silver surfaces, Johnson resolved not to drink too much as he feared the real possibility that later in the evening he might attempt to strike up a conversation with himself. Kate ditched him as soon as they arrived, she would have done so sooner but he had tagged along determinedly all the way from the office, trying to establish whether he would be able to get a brown ale or a barley wine at The Palomino.
Johnson waited for an age while the barmen tossed bottles back and forth, poured luminous liquids into glasses from great heights, and fannied about with fruit and frivolities. He propped an elbow on the bar and held aloft a ten pound note.
He watched as it took three people ten minutes to serve two drinks. They wouldn’t last five minutes in the Grey Horse, he decided.
“Cocktail, sir?” a barman surprised him by wandering over.
“Me?” asked Johnson, “already?”
The barman smiled, shrugged, and walked away, and Johnson spent another ten minutes watching two drinks being prepared.
“Cocktail, sir?” another barman had approached.
“Pint of bitter please,” said Johnson.
“Sir?” asked the barman.
“A pint of your finest draught bitter please,” said Johnson.
“No draught,” said the barman.
“No draught? said Johnson, “funny old pub.”
“Sir might like a bottled beer.”
“I might,” agreed Johnson, “what are the choices?”
“We have Bishop’s Finger, sir.”
“Anything else?” asked Johnson.
“Just the Bishop’s Finger, sir.”
“Alright. Nun’s Delight it is then,” agreed Johnson, “in a jug.”
“Sir?”
“In a jug. A glass with a handle. Not a straight glass.”
“I don’t think…” demurred the barman.
“There’s one behind you look, said Johnson, “it’s got matchbooks in it.”
“Sir, I couldn’t…”
“It’s fine,” said Johnson, “I’ll have it. Pint of Nun’s Delight in that glass over there, and if you won’t give it to me then I demand to see the manager.”
“What about the matches?”
“The matches? Bloody hell. Well, why don’t you stick them in one of your funny straight glasses?”
“Right sir, good idea.” said the barman, “coming up.”
“Thank you,” said Johnson, “could bring me two of those bottles, please?”
“Another glass, sir?”
“Just the jug will be fine,” said Johnson.
Johnson found a leaning post and a shiny ashtray and stood alone surveying the scene. He was sure they were nice people, these brayers and gigglers and shouters, underneath the veneer of bravado. Some of them had packed in too much strong liquor in too short a time and were a little unsteady, a little sweaty about the brow, and a little too, well, forward. Some looked overanxious as well. Loud music played without variation, the relentless and ultimately harrowing sound of James Brown. Johnson shifted along a burnished shelf and positioned himself a little further away from the speakers.
“You did good work today,” said Richard Nork, appearing at his side and draping an designer-clad arm over his shoulder.
“Er, thanks Richard,” said Johnson, edging sideways, “sorry, if you don’t mind, I’d prefer that you didn’t touch me.”
“No problem,” said Richard Nork, removing his arm. “Just a gesture you know. Gesture of comradeship. Welcome you to the family. Make you feel like you belong. Nothing in it.”
“No, I’m sure there isn’t, Richard,” said Johnson, apologetically, “it‘s just me, I‘d just prefer you didn’t. That’s all,” Johnson supped his beer, fingers wrapped through the handle of the chunky jug.
“No problem,” replied Richard Nork, “not having a cocktail? I can recommend their rusty nail.”
“No. I’m not big on cocktails, thanks,” said Johnson, burying his face in his glass.
“Like the glass,” said Richard Nork, enthusiastically, “where on earth did you get it?”
“Here,” said Johnson.
“You can’t have done. It’s not very Palomino is it?”
“I did,” Johnson assured him.
“Doesn’t fit the image of The Palomino, though. How did you manage it?”
“I insisted,” said Johnson, “I saw it behind the bar and I insisted on having it.”
“You saw something you wanted and you went for it?”
Oh dear, thought Johnson.
“I did,” he replied.
“That’s good work again, Johnson,” said Richard Nork, approvingly, “I’m impressed with that sort of thing.”
“Are you?” said Johnson.
“Certainly am. Let me tell you, after the work you’ve put in today, we notice that sort of thing at Locked-In, you know, the work you put in during the day,” Richard Nork was swaying a little and his breath reeked of scotch, “and I can tell you somebody else who would be impressed,” he continued, “and here he is now.”
Johnson looked up to see Simon Hart’s baby features framed by his crown of blond curls. He was cradling a glass of champagne.
“What’s this then, Richard?” said Simon Hart, “talking up the new blood, eh?” Simon Hart landed a crisp punch on Johnson’s bicep, and Johnson spilt a little beer on the floor. Simon Hart laughed, and Richard Nork joined in shortly afterwards.
“Sharpen up, eh, Johnson?” said Simon Hart, “spilling your drink’s not the Locked-In way, you know.”
“I’m sure it isn’t,” agreed Johnson.
“Not the way at all, eh, Richard?”
“Certainly not, Simon,” said Richard Nork, slurring both the ‘certainly’ and the ‘Simon’, and not making much of a job of the ‘not’ either.
“Just to change the subject for a moment,” suggested Simon Hart.
“Sure,” said Johnson.
“You a bit of a writer, Johnson?” asked Simon Hart, sharply.
“A writer? No,” Johnson assured him.
“Or a wit? Fancy yourself as a bit of a funny man, do you?”
“Can’t say that I do,” said Johnson.
Simon Hart was cold-eyed for one who was blessed with such otherwise angelic features, and Johnson felt a definite blast of the chill from Simon Hart’s eyes.
“I understand that you’ve made a good start, Johnson, and that’s to your credit.”
“Thank you, Simon,” said Johnson, draining his beer and snatching up the second bottle in one smooth manoeuvre. Before he had finished swallowing, he was refilling his jug.
“So, no playing silly buggers, eh? There’s a good lad,” Simon Hart’s mouth was smiling at Johnson, but the eyes remained Arctic-cold.
He knows, thought Johnson, he knows. Well, it can’t have taken much working out. I’ll just have to be more careful in future.
“Simon,” Johnson assured him, “I’m not a silly bugger.”
“Would you like to get us some more drinks?” said Simon Hart, in a tone that made it clear that this wasn’t a request.
“Sure,” said Johnson, “champagne, rusty nail, beer.”
“Champagne, water, beer, I think,” said Simon Hart, glancing at Richard Nork.
Johnson talked the barman into preparing three simple drinks without tossing any of the glassware around, and returned to Simon and Richard, who had ousted some underlings and taken occupation of three seats and a table. Johnson fancied that he felt envious eyes on his back as he carried the drinks over.
“So,” said Simon Hart,” as Johnson took his seat, “are you looking forward to our little weekend away?”
Johnson regurgitated a little bitter into his glass.
“Weekend away? What, us three?” he asked, a little agitated.
“Us three?” Simon Hart was laughing, “away for a weekend together? That’s good. No, no, that really is good.”
“Obviously hasn’t checked his e-mails,” said Richard Nork, who was slumped a long way back in his seat.
“E-mails?” said Johnson, “well, I haven’t looked since this morning, to be honest. Been so busy.”
“No excuses, Johnson,” said Simon Hart, “think of a suitable punishment will you Richard? For dereliction of E-mail duty?”
“I’ll get on to it first thing,” said Richard Nork, eyes closed.
“Make it suitably harsh and painful, eh?” smiled Simon Hart, “something nasty.”
Richard Nork appeared to be asleep.
“He’s a good man, Richard,” said Simon Hart, “but he can’t hold his drink, Johnson, you see?”
“I see,” agreed Johnson, pouring from his new bottle.
“Now, to business.”
Johnson sat up attentively.
“Our little weekend away. Coach arrives at the office at nine-thirty next Friday. We all pile on with our kit for the weekend. Coach all the way east, cross to France, get the tents up, all set for the activities,” Simon Hart sipped his champagne and sat back in his seat. “Pencil you in can we?” he asked.
“Kit?” asked Johnson, faintly.
“Got a list here somewhere,” said Simon, hunting in an inside pocket, “here we are, two pairs thick socks, running shoes one pair, walking stroke climbing boots one pair, shorts pairs two, swimming gear, T-shirts at least two but recommend more, sweatshirt or rugby shirt, casual wear for the evening, oh, and a flower and a hat. Prepare to get wet, to get shouted at, to get bloody exhausted, and let’s not forget, to have a whole barrel-load of Locked-In fun and laughter.”
“I’m busy that weekend,” said Johnson, forcing beer into his mouth through the gaps in his gritted teeth.
“Disappointed in that, Johnson, I have to say. Disappointed. After such an impressive start too. I understand you’ve really hit the ground running.”
“Well, there we are,” said Johnson, keen to be making his way home, risking a mugging.
“What are you doing, then?” asked Simon Hart.
“When?” Johnson replied.
“Next weekend,” said Simon Hart precisely, as if addressing a child.
“Usual stuff. I’m busy most weekends,” said Johnson, adamantly.
“It sounds to me Johnson,” said Simon Hart, “like you’re being a little more evasive than is necessary here.” He made a gesture with his hand and a bottle of beer and a glass of champagne arrived within thirty seconds. “If you’re planning a weekend at home watching nauseating television programmes or consorting with some of the more repulsive members of your friends or family then you only have to tell me. I won’t hold it against you,” said Simon Hart, reassuringly, but in a voice which didn’t seem to Johnson to drip with empathy.
Johnson took a steadying pull of Bishop’s Finger, Simon Hart had succeeded in rattling him.
“As a matter of fact,” said Johnson, rolling the words around his lips, “I’m going sky-diving.”
“Sky-diving, eh?” said Simon Hart, “how exciting. Tell me all about it,” he smiled, encouragingly, folding his arms and affecting an interested look.
“Sorry?” said Johnson.
“Tell me about it. Sky-diving. I want to know what you do.”
Johnson gained a little thinking time by pulling out a cigarette. He placed it in his mouth and fiddled in his jacket pocket, he found the lighter, but brought out an empty hand.
“I’ll just get some matches from the bar. Seem to have lost my lighter,” he announced.
“Use mine,” said Simon Hart, leaning forward and proferring a slim gold affair.
“Thanks,” said Johnson, forcing a smile, “I didn’t know you smoked.”
“Oh, I don’t,” said Simon Hart, “I used to, but I stopped some time ago. I was always attached to this lighter, though, so I never stopped carrying it around. Filling it up, replacing the flint, cleaning it and so on. Comes in handy too, means people don’t have to disappear when they need a light. If they do you can so easily lose the thread of the conversation, don’t you find that? I do.”
Johnson, inhaled, exhaled and nodded.
“Now where were we?” asked Simon Hart.
“Oh. I’m not sure,” said Johnson, “now then, what was it…?”
“I know,” announced Simon Hart, banging on the table and making Johnson jump and waking Richard Nork, who greedily gulped down all of his glass of water.
“You do?” asked Johnson, sounding depressed.
“Our activity weekend in France,” said Simon Hart, proudly, “see, I remembered.”
“So you did,” agreed a happier Johnson, “France, of course.”
“And then you were going to tell me all about sky-diving,” said Simon Hart.
“I was, wasn’t I? How about another drink?” Johnson asked.
“Just got one, thank you.”
“I think I might get myself another one,” announced Johnson.
“You’ve got a full one there.”
Johnson had drained his jug before Simon Hart had finished the sentence. A little beer ran down his chin, but most of it was racing to join the rest, settling in his near-empty stomach.
“I’ll get another,” said Johnson, rising to his feet.
“No need,” said Simon Hart, “here’s the waiter. Another beer over here please, and you’d better bring him some more water,” he gestured at the red-eyed Richard Nork.
“Thanks,” said Johnson.
“So,” said Simon Hart, expectantly.
“So,” said Johnson.
“Sky-diving. Take me through it.”
“Well,” Johnson screwed up his eyes, this shouldn’t be too difficult, “A group of us are going to meet on Saturday morning, at the airfield, and we’re going to get on a plane, which will take off from the land and go up into the sky.” Johnson’s right hand did a useless imitation of an aeroplane.
“With you so far,” said Simon Hart.
“And then we all jump out,” said Johnson, triumphantly, “the end,” he took a self-congratulatory gulp of beer.
“And that’s it?” asked Simon Hart, puzzled.
“That’s it,” concurred Johnson.
“Well, I have to say, you’re very cool and calm about something that always terrified me,” smiled Simon Hart.
“Sorry?” Johnson choked out the word.
“From my days in the paras.”
“The paras, really?” Johnson felt hot and flushed.
“Then it was all safety checks. Thorough, methodical, potentially life-saving safety checks. You didn’t say anything about checking your ‘chute, or anything else.”
“I didn’t want to bore you with mundane details.”
“I see,” said Simon Hart, “and which airfield do you use?”
“Which one?”
“Yes. Which airfield do you fly out of?”
“It’s to the north,” said Johnson. James Brown pounded on in his ears.
“To the north? To the north of what?”
“North London,” said Johnson.
“Called?”
“I always get a lift,” said Johnson.
“And you’ve never noticed where you’re going?”
“Usually asleep in the back, you know.”
“Or the name of the place once you’re there?”
“Put it down to adrenalin,” explained Johnson, “I’m just focussed on the moment. I’m in the zone, that’s what we call it you know, the zone, we call it being in the zone. When you’re in that hyped-up state unimportant details just don’t register.”
“Of course,” said Simon Hart, “I understand. What’s the bird?”
“Eh?” asked Johnson.
“The plane. What is it?”
“Oh, I’m not good on that technical stuff,” said Johnson.
“You don’t know what sort of ‘plane you fly in?”
“Nah,” said Johnson, “I’m only interested in getting up there and jumping out as quickly as possible.”
“I see,” said Simon Hart.
“And then going home again,” said Johnson.
“I see,” repeated Simon Hart.
“I mean I get the underground at least twice a day but I’ve no idea who makes the trains,” said Johnson, confidently. He felt that he might have weathered the storm.
“Fair point,” said Simon Hart.
“Cheers,” answered Johnson.
“Listen, I have to circulate,” said Hart.
“Of course,” replied an understanding Johnson.
“I’ve enjoyed talking to you, it’s been most interesting. Not to say enlightening.”
I wouldn’t have said it was particularly enlightening either, thought Johnson.
“Likewise,” said Johnson, waving his jug in acknowledgement, “catch you later, Simon.”
Simon Hart disappeared into the crowd and Johnson abandoned the still sleeping Richard Nork at the table. Johnson headed for the corridor and, after a brief detour to the gents, which bore so much resemblance to a hall of mirrors that in the confusion he pissed on his shoes, he made his escape to the street.

Japanese Tetris - A New Team-Building Idea

Remember Endurance, the Japanese game show popularised by Clive James?

Even if you don't, here's something fantastically funny from Japanese TV.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YgnloJgui1U


Beware, my feeling is that the mongrel-managers, the twats-at-the-top will have us all doing this before long to aid us in our typing or adding up or something.
Unless we tell them where to shove it, of course. I'm counting on you.

Have you got the hunger, even though you're hungover?

Our hero receives the ill-informed advice that a career in recruitment would be just the thing.


Richard Nork was tall and, even to Johnson’s untrained eye, expensively, possibly Italian-suited. He swept into the reception area, Armani vents flapping in his wake, heavy gold links winked from his Savile Row cuffs as he shot his hand out to meet Johnson’s in a firm, clean grasp.
“Johnson,” stated Richard Nork, pumping his hand. He didn’t speak in a questioning fashion, he was sure, and Johnson was sure that this was a man who knew all of the answers before he’d even had a glimpse of the questions.
“Mr. Nork,” Johnson replied, pumping back as hard as his dehydrated arm could manage.
“Right. Follow,” announced Richard Nork.
Johnson strode along behind, and as hard as he tried, he found it hard to draw alongside Richard Nork. He trotted amongst flapping suit and in the wake of a pricey after-shave.
They were walking through a sixties office building which had been refurbished like a Scandinavian sauna. The wood panelling on the walls echoed the boards on the floor and the ceiling. Isn’t it good? thought Johnson.
“What are you doing at the moment?” asked Richard Nork.
“Job hunting,” replied Johnson, “I mean, I took some time out after graduating and now I’m sorting out the career,” he said, correcting himself hurriedly.
“Right. Sales floor through there,” Richard Nork waved at a large door inlaid with a pair of small, wire-threaded windows, Johnson glanced in as they sped past. Everyone seemed to be on the phone, but they do have wide-screen TV, he noted.
“OK. In here. Interview room. For candidates, normally.”
Richard Nork opened a door, indicated a chair and took the other. There was a heavy duty, hessian-type carpet in the room, a certificate of some sort on one wall which Johnson couldn’t quite make out, and, on the other, a framed and faded Monet print.
“So, why recruitment?” asked Richard Nork.
Johnson felt confident that he’d done enough of this interview business in recent months to sail through this one without a hitch.
“I’m not sure I’m getting the hunger from you,” said Richard Nork after twenty minutes.
Oh no, thought Johnson, another arsehole.
“I’m hungry alright,” said Johnson, truthfully. He’d felt sick all morning, and worse since getting out of the bath, but now the nausea was abating, and for the last ten minutes he’d had a real problem in concentrating on anything other than a grilled mature cheese sandwich with beefsteak tomato.
“I’ll make it clear Johnson,” said Richard Nork, frowning. “Our people make their money, no, to be perfectly correct, the good ones, that is to say, the really good ones, make their money, good money, let me remind you, good money, by putting the hours in, by tenacity, by attitude. Without attitude, Johnson, you will not attain altitude.”
Fuck me, he is another one. He might be the worst one yet, mused Johnson.
“Hunger. Hunger, Johnson, is the key. Have you got hunger?”
Toasted sandwich, a little burnt on the edges, cheddar, the best aged Canadian, oozing out of the sides, the bread slathered with olive paste and layered with hot sliced tomato. Johnson could almost taste his reward.
“I’ll show you fucking hunger,” he said, hammering his fist on the table and leaping to his feet. “You think you’ve seen it with those people out there? Hunger? They don’t know fucking hunger, just you wait, I’m ready to step up. I’m raring to go, I’ve got the matrices going on. You just fucking watch. Just you fucking well watch me. You’ve seen nothing, you ain’t seen nothing. Nothing,” as Johnson grimaced the final ‘nuthin’ he feared he might be giving it a bit too much Brando, but it was too late to stop now, he was in character. He was grasping the edges of the table, a vein bulged impressively on his temple, and he could feel the blood careering around in his head. Bad for morale, thought Johnson, if I were to have a stroke right now, or perhaps it might be good for morale. See what this man was prepared to go through to make it? Death, that’s what. Might be an angle for someone’s next motivational talk. Something to think about, anyway. Johnson continued his tirade.
When he’d given the table another belting to signal the end, Richard Nork said, “Anger. Attitude. I like that. Bit of hunger, I like that too.”
A bit? thought Johnson, a bit of hunger? I’m drained, I’ve got nothing left to give after that performance. This is going to be harder than I thought.
“Come with me. I’ll show you where you’re going to be working.”
“Oh,” said Johnson, “working?”
“Congratulations,” said Richard Nork, offering his manicured hand again, “you’re in, and I don’t say that very often.”
“Oh,” Johnson gave a strangled choke, “thank you very much. When do I start?”
“Give you a trial right now, I think,” decided Richard Nork.
“Now?” queried Johnson. What about my toasted sandwich?
“Yes. Get you out on the floor, see what you can do.”
“Right,” said Johnson.
“What is it now, five?”
“Five o’clock,” confirmed Johnson. Be home by six.
“Gives you a good three hours then.”
“Three hours?”
“At least. Right, with me.”
Richard Nork sprinted away again and Johnson scrambled along after him.
“What’s with the TV’s then?” asked Johnson.
There was a widescreen TV at each end of the sales floor. Both tuned to the same satellite rolling news station.
“Well,” said Richard Nork, “we tell clients that it’s to make sure our consultants are totally up to date with world events, current affairs, currency markets, you know? Keep ahead of the game.”
“You tell your, sorry, our clients that?”
“Yes.”
“But in reality?”
“I think they look good. Big TV’s, and they’re just for show, really,” said Richard Nork, “top of the range, all the channels, watch the football in the evenings if you like, we have some lively nights when there’s football. Play and record. Pause the live action. You know the sort of thing. All the channels.”
Johnson had a feeling that people were ducking imperceptibly as Richard Nork passed by them. That’s ridiculous, he decided, it’s not a schoolroom is it?
“Now, I’d better take you to meet Simon,” announced Richard Nork.
“Simon?”
“Our MD. Very important man.”
“Right,” said Johnson.
“I’ll drop you into Simon, and by the time you’ve come back we’ll have sorted out a space for you, OK?”
Simon was fresh faced and had short curly fair hair. The sort of look that meant he would always look rather too much like a baby to be taken completely seriously. Johnson decided he was probably around forty and obviously successful, but perhaps the scrubbed pink cheeks, cherubic features and the spirals of blond locks which seemed to count against him meant he had really come up the hard way. Not to be underestimated, Johnson decided. Office dead opposite the ladies and gents, though, that’s hardly pole position.
Simon Hart gave Johnson the usual talk on the history of the company. Johnson glanced casually around the office as Simon Hart was speaking. Smoked glass windows and table tops, muted lighting, expensive electronic equipment scattered around, a Bang and Olufsen in the corner, playing Kenny G by the sound of it, oh dear. Easy chairs - leather slung low over chrome, and a lot of self-help-psychology-management-style books, with titles like, ‘How To Hurt The People Who Hate Winners By Winning In Style!’, ‘Finished Second? You Loser!’, and ‘Go For Gold’.
“I like to think of us here as a family,” said Simon Hart.
“Oh, yes?” Johnson grinned his Goebbels-family-cyanide-grin.
“And once you’re part of the Locked-In family, you know what?”
“You’re locked in?” suggested Johnson.
“Exactly,” Said Simon Hart, returning Johnson’s grin.
Simon Hart was absent-mindedly pushing a pen around his desk.
“Should get yourself a choo-choo train,” said Johnson, riskily.
“What? Not a bad idea, that. I like a good idea. A choo-choo train eh?”
“Yeees,” said Johnson, cagily this time.
“Now, you’re backtracking now, I can sense it. Word of advice, shouldn’t backtrack on a good one. You think it’s a good one then pick it up and….”
“Run with it?” interrupted Johnson.
“Give it some air, I was going to say,” said Simon Hart, sounding a little hurt, “Pick it up and give it some air. Fly it like a kite out in the big blue sky and, you know what? Then you might see some real blue sky thinking.”
“Alright,” agreed Johnson.
“But I like your idea of picking it up and running with it.”
“You do?”
“Certainly do,” said Simon Hart, “must write it down.”
Simon Hart leapt to his feet and crossed to a white laminate board which was mounted on the wall behind Johnson. A black marker pen squeaked across the board as he wrote ‘pick it up and run with it’. He turned around, baby-cheeks flushed with colour.
“Motivation.”
“Oh, yes,” said Johnson, fervently.
“Like a bit of motivation.”
“Great.”
“Have you had a look in the gents?”
“For what?” Johnson asked.
“We have a board in there, just like this one,” said Simon Hart.
“Right,” said Johnson.
“I like to sketch the odd motivational thought on there from time to time.”
“You do?”
“Helps keep up the old morale.”
“It does?” asked Johnson, trying to button down the sarcasm as he wondered, whose morale are we talking about here, exactly?
“I might put up the odd quiz thing now and then.”
“A quiz?”
Simon Hart wandered around the office until he reached another stretch of smoked glass, this time it was serving as sliding doors atop a mahogany cabinet.
“Drink?” suggested Simon Hart.
“Scotch, thanks,” Johnson replied, quickly.
“Water, still or gassy, cola or grapefruit juice.”
“Nothing in it thanks. Certainly not grapefruit juice.”
“What?”
Finally, Johnson sighted the man-trap, he hoped he wasn’t too late, and hadn‘t already blundered in.
“Sorry, didn’t hear you. Water would be fine.”
“Still?”
“With gas, thanks.”
Simon Hart poured fizzy water from two tiny bottles into two impossibly tall and heavy tumblers, the water barely reached a quarter of the way up the glass. Johnson took his glass and had to tilt his head back a long way before the gassy liquid reached his mouth.
“So, you do the quiz questions then?” Johnson enquired.
“Just on the board. Bit of fun, you know.”
“Bit of fun,” said Johnson.
“Yes. Winner gets a bottle of fizz,”
“Perrier?” asked Johnson, innocently.
“Oh no. No, no, no. Moet.”
“Of course,” said Johnson.
“I think I mentioned the family aspect of what we do here?” began Simon Hart.
Oh bollocks, said Johnson into his Sahara of a glass.
“Now, do you have any issues?”
“Issues?” asked Johnson.
Johnson regarded Simon Hart’s chubby cheeks and blond curls and wished he’d brought him a lollipop.
“Home, relationships, personal life, you know.”
Well, I feared I couldn’t get it up the other night but I got away with it, although I understand she’s unlikely to want to see me again, I’m drinking far too much, I can’t hold a job down, I’m worried that I might have an attitude problem, I’ve got about four quid in the bank and the rent’s due, my best friend - I suppose he’s my best friend as no-one else seems to like me - seems to be intent on supplying me with class A drugs but the saving grace is that having tried them, I don’t think I enjoyed the experience very much. Yet. I haven’t spoken to a member of my own family in weeks, and this career stuff is just getting me down. You understand, man? It’s getting me down. Maybe I’m heading for a breakdown.
“I’m all sorted, Simon,” said Johnson.
“You are?”
“Life is good,” Johnson reiterated.
“Really?” Simon Hart persisted.
“I’m the happiest, most well-adjusted, level-headed, potential recruitment consultant you’ll ever meet.”
“I’m sensing a contradiction here, Johnson,” said Simon Hart, “Just haven’t worked out what it is yet. You’ll have to leave it with me.”
“Right on Simon. Now, can I go and do my trial?” said Johnson, barely re-hydrated but somehow energised.
“OK. I like that. Moving forward, eh?” Simon Hart picked something from his drawer.
“What’s that?” asked Johnson.
“This is Teddy,” said Simon Hart.
“Your teddy bear?”
“Oh yes. He was a present from my grandmother. His name is actually Teddy,” said Simon Hart.
“Teddy?” asked Johnson.
“Couldn’t think of anything else,” said Simon Hart, rubbing Teddy against one of his chubby pink cheeks.
“I see,” said Johnson, rising from his chair.
“Johnson. One thing before you go. Teddy and I won’t be very pleased if you don’t make your targets in your first month.”
Simon Hart’s baby’s eyes went from silk to steel, and Johnson was stilled in his tracks.
“One month. Alright?”
“OK,” agreed Johnson. This can’t be for real, he thought.
“I actually thought he’d packed in the Teddy routine,” said Kate. Johnson was sitting next to her at a desk on the sales floor.
“Routine?” asked Johnson.
“Oh, you know. Something to throw people off kilter. I thought it had gone a bit stale, but he obviously doesn’t.”
“So, he didn’t get Teddy from his grandmother?”
“No,” said Kate, laughing.
“And he doesn’t talk to Teddy?”
“Oh, come on,” said Kate, laughing harder.
“And if Teddy’s not happy that doesn’t mean that the rest of us are in trouble?”
“Don’t be silly Johnson.”
“That’s a relief,” sighed Johnson.
“Remember though, it’s not a good idea to upset Simon.”
“Why’s that,” asked Johnson.
“Look, how can I explain, I’d say that Richard Nork is a bastard, but he’s also a bit of a wanker.”
“Which takes the edge off,” said Johnson.
“Exactly. Takes the edge off. He’s supposed to be the hard man, so if you go along with it, it helps him to maintain the image, even if we all know he’s beating himself blind every night over pictures of farm animals or boy scouts or whatever.”
“Is he?” asked Johnson, incredulously.
“It’ll do for me,” said Kate, firmly.
“And Simon?” asked Johnson.
“Simon is a right bastard,” said Kate.
Kate showed Johnson the ropes. Calling old clients, calling new clients. Interviewing hopers and no-hopers, usually after hours. Trying to slot curiously-shaped pegs into regulation holes. Persuading the candidate that this is the role they’ve been waiting for, cajoling employers into giving a someone a chance. Johnson tripped downstairs to the gents. Simon Hart’s door was opposite and open. Simon Hart was alerted by Johnson’s footfall on the stairs, he glanced up as Johnson passed, and made a show of checking his watch. Johnson nodded in passing at Simon Hart, the smoked glass, leather and chrome, and shut and locked the door. Johnson unzipped and as he streamed forth he checked the board which hung to his right.
Get out there and sell, people. Because we all know what awaits people who don’t sell, don’t we? Long lazy afternoons on the dole.
Johnson pondered this wisdom while his bladder emptied.
He picked up the black felt pen which hung from the wall on a string.
Sounds fucking lovely, he wrote, Bring on those lazy afternoons.

Coaching, mentoring and going forward with Big Brother

Back in the offices of Wink & Kinker the day after the debacle of the team-building games, and Johnson has just received a summons from a senior manager.



Johnson spied Goode and Bedford on their way in, and intercepted them.
“I’ve just been summoned.”
“Where, Mitchell Turner’s?” asked Goode.
“No. Colin Camper’s.”
“Ooops,” said Bedford.
“For the high jump then,” said Goode.
“Have you packed all your stuff up? Ready for the move?” asked Bedford.
“Get him a bin liner,” said Goode.
“Very funny. I’ll let you know what to expect,” said Johnson.
“If they let you back in here,” said Bedford.
“Might be escorted out by security,” said Goode.
“As I said, I’ll let you know what to expect.”
“Fair enough,” said Bedford and Goode.
Johnson took the lift to the fourth floor. Normally he would have walked, but he didn’t want to arrive sweaty and out of breath. Following Camper’s directions, he found himself outside a door with a plastic nameplate, ‘Colin Camper’, it said, and below, ‘Operations Director’. Whatever that means, thought Johnson. He knocked, heard a muffled assent, and entered.
Colin Camper sat behind a substantial desk that had been polished so hard that it looked slippery, Mitchell Turner sat in the corner, today all is slippery, observed Johnson.
“Sit down,” said Camper, formalities over.
“Good morning,” said Johnson.
“Morning,” mumbled Camper, grudgingly.
“Morning Mitchell,” said Johnson.
Mitchell Turner didn’t say anything.
“Well, you know why you’re here,” Camper started.
“Well, I assume it’s about yesterday,” Johnson confirmed.
“Unacceptable behaviour on your part. Totally unacceptable.”
It was Johnson’s turn not to say anything.
“Mitchell, here,” Camper flung out an arm in Turner’s direction, “Mitchell is your boss. Your B.O.S.S., and, as such, you should treat him with some respect.”
Johnson maintained radio silence.
“I expect people in your position, may I say, your lowly position, to present themselves at company events and behave like adults.”
Johnson was Trappist-like.
“I’d go as far as to say this was insubordination. You were inconsiderate. You betrayed no semblance of thought for your team-mates. You did not join in. You, and you alone, were responsible for ruining the whole day for everyone. You, young man were the catalyst, the ringleader, the troublemaker. I know that there are certain people here, who shall remain nameless, who are calling for your dismissal.” Camper rather ruined the subterfuge by waving an arm at Turner again. Camper’s complexion, which was normally almost translucent was reddening quite alarmingly from collar to hairline. Even the ears, noted Johnson, even the freckles on his ears, he looks like he’s got measles.
“Mitchell?” enquired Camper, as he took a gulp of water.
“I’ve got nothing to add,” said Turner. He looks back to his old self, no sign of a shadow of his former, thought Johnson, although that would be hard to locate.
“Now, although, as I say, there have been calls for you to be dismissed, I’m not going along with that, I cannot begin to understand your behaviour, perhaps drink was a factor, perhaps you are easily led, but surely we’re allowed one mistake in life, eh? I think that, if properly channelled, your talents can be of use to the Wink and Kinker family, give us the boy and we’ll give you the man, isn’t it? I understand that you have worked well in your position and you were deemed to have a future here, and I have some experience in the coaching of young men, of soldiers, so I think we can get the best out of you yet. What I would like you to do is apologise to Mitchell, your boss, remember, and then we can move on. Now, going forward, I would like Mitchell to take much more of a role in your development, take you under his wing, say. You will report to him at seven-thirty each morning to review your projects, you will remain in touch on regular basis throughout the morning with Mitchell, to all intents and purposes, sitting on your shoulder, if you like. You will lunch together without the benefit of alcohol, the afternoon will be given over mainly to coaching from Mitchell, and at the end of the working day, whenever that might be, eight, nine, perhaps later, on occasion, you will review the day’s progress. Now then, Johnson, when you walked through that door a few minutes ago, you probably did not expect to have much of a future with Wink and Kinker, but I think that with Mitchell as your mentor, you might just have a chance. So, you’ve been very quiet. Admirably restrained, even, and I don’t think I’m being too optimistic when I see that as the first lesson learned, first of many, let’s hope. So, young man. Speak up, you’re still in a job, I see a future for you at Wink and Kinker, and Mitchell is going to be your guru, what do you think of that?”
“You must be fucking joking,” said Johnson.

Could it be The Sir Alan Sugar School of Management? Probably Not.

Another brief extract from Philip Bryer's None of your Business.

To Johnson's horror, his company has organised a day of game-playing designed to boost morale and improve teamwork. He and a couple of other disaffected souls are not about to take it seriously.



Let the Games Commence
The morning before the West London Olympics passed slowly. Every available thoroughfare in the office was obstructed with sports bags and stinking trainers. Sam Goode strolled over.
“We’re ducking out in a minute Johnson.”
“Ducking out?”
“Ssshh. Pub. You coming?” asked Sam Goode.
“Bit obvious isn’t it?”
“Nah. Leave your jacket over the back of your chair. Pick up a file and walk out all busy looking, hang a left down the corridor, out the fire escape doors. See you over there.”
“Have we got time?”
“Plenty. Got some refreshments for this afternoon as well.”
Goode offered him one of those plastic sports drinks bottles, in an understated hot pink and purple. Johnson unscrewed the cap and took a sip.
“Wha..?” Johnson coughed violently.
“Tequila and Fanta. Mostly Tequila.”
“OK,” Johnson continued to cough, imagining the dislodging of scalded tissue from his throat.
“Get us through the afternoon that will.”
“I’m sure it will.”
If you’re going to get fired, thought Johnson, why not get the getting pissed bit out of the way first?
“See you over there in five.”
Johnson retrieved his wallet from his jacket pocket, fetched a few sheets of scrap paper from his bottom drawer, wrapped them in a bundle and strode purposefully out of the office.
Johnson, Goode and Bedford spent the next ninety minutes in the pub drinking vodka. Although they had decided to wing it, after all they knew little of the arrangements for the afternoon and saw little point in formulating a detailed plan, they discussed a few options. All three of them, despite the alcohol, were rather nervous.
Their first idea was to arrive at the event a good ten minutes late, to that end, they had another round of drinks and some more of Goode’s endless supply of cigarettes.
“When these are gone, that’s it for sure.”
The second idea was not to bother changing their clothes. After a short hop on the underground, they arrived at the City West College sports grounds. They strolled towards four loosely grouped teams and took on some frosty looks and prickly comments. A further group of four, one of which was Mitchell Turner, stood to one side. This group were dressed in chinos and polo shirts with the company logo on the left breast, a winged ‘W and K’ shot through with a bolt of lightning. Very tasteful, thought Johnson. Green on violet, too. This group held clipboards and had whistles and stopwatches strung around their necks.
“Doesn’t look like this lot are going to be getting their hands dirty,” whispered Bedford.
James Weller bounded over.
“You three are late.”
“Hello James,” they said.
“Fifteen point penalty to Team C,” announced Mitchell Turner.
“Come on Mitchell, that’s not fair,” complained James Weller.
“Everyone knows the rules. Penalty for being late.”
“Seems fair enough to me, James,” observed Johnson.
“Me too,” agreed Bedford.
“Can’t argue with that, mate,” Goode concurred, and was then caught up in a bout of bronchial coughing. He had clearly hawked something up into his mouth which he spat extravagantly at James Weller’s feet.
“Look out,” shouted Weller, jumping backwards.
“Ahh, I was aiming to miss, James. Here’s an idea, any games requiring accurate gobbing, and I’m your man.”
“Christ, you’re not in your kit either,” exclaimed Weller.
“Fifteen point penalty to Team C,” announced Mitchell Turner.
“No! Mitchell…,” Weller protested.
“The rules are quite clear,” said Turner.
“He’s right you know, James,” said Johnson.
“OK. Better get changed out here, there isn’t time to go inside. Quickly, then,” ordered Weller.
“Thing is, James….” started Goode.
“We seem to have...” Bedford continued.
“Left our kit at home, sir,” concluded Johnson. He was aware that he’d laced the ‘sir’ with rather too much sarcasm. Johnson slumped his shoulders forwarded, slouched, and chewed on some imaginary gum.
Johnson took a sidelong glance at Mitchell Turner and saw him flip over page one on his clipboard and continue to dash off some notes.
“You know what this means don’t you, you idiots?” James Weller pinged up and down like a wasp trapped in a corked bottle.
“What’s that then, James?” asked Goode, coughing again. Weller took a pace backwards.
“Don’t worry James, you know I’m a good shot,” Goode grinned.
“He’s going to give us another fifteen point penalty,” Weller pointed at Turner, who had finished writing.
“No I’m not, James,” Mitchell Turner assured him.
“You’re not?”
“Nope.”
“Well, good, because I mean, we’re almost out of it anyway, before we’ve even started…” James Weller voice cracked a little.
“Not giving up are we James?” asked Mitchell Turner.
“No, of course not.” Weller was quite red in the face now, Johnson noted.
“Not a quitter are we?”
“Absolutely not,” said Weller, hotly.
“There’s no place at Wink and Kinker for quitters, you know that don’t you?”
“I know, I know,” Weller’s tone was one of rising panic.
“Particularly at the top. No-one got to the top at this company by being a big baby and you strike me as a big baby, Weller.”
“I’m not,” Weller spoke through his clenched jaw.
“A big baby girl.”
Weller blinked a few times and swallowed hard a few more, but didn’t say anything.
“A big baby girl who’s pissed herself,” veins stood out on Mitchell Turner’s sweaty temples.
James Weller found something interesting to look at in the vicinity of his left foot.
“What’s up then Weller? Bad case of nappy rash is it?”
Johnson looked around at the one or two who were laughing, but most looked embarrassed.
“That’s enough of that, Mitchell,” said Johnson.
Turner spun around.
“What did you say?”
“Leave him alone,” Johnson was surprised at how calm he felt. Must be the vodka, he remembered.
“How dare you speak to me like that?”
“And who are you exactly, the headmaster or just one of the prefects?”
“What? What’s your problem Johnson?”
“My problem? That’s a good one. Beware, beware the self-aware.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Just leave him,” Johnson said quietly. He felt like he wasn’t quite present, that he was an spectator at this fracas, looking on at himself and Turner and the rest.
Johnson had at least accomplished something, Mitchell Turner had completely forgotten about James Weller.
“You turn up late, having been in the pub on company time.”
“The pub?” enquired Johnson innocently.
“I’m not stupid, Johnson. Whatever you might think.”
“Lunch break,” said Johnson.
“Late, dressed incorrectly, and you haven’t even bothered to bring the right gear.”
“True,” agreed Johnson.
“Look, Johnson. What is your problem? Why won’t you join in?”
“Join in?” asked Johnson.
“With the games, with the event, with your team.”
“I’m sure they are all decent blokes,” Johnson looked around, “Well, most of them, but don’t try and put me into a team. Or your idea of a team.”
“Why won’t you join in with us?”
Johnson had tired of the brick wall and his head was starting to hurt.
“Because I’m a grown man, Mitchell. Look around you, we’re all grown men. What is this the fucking boy scouts? Worried that I won’t be your friend and play with you?”
He took a tiny step towards Turner. Turner took a larger step back.
Mitchell Turner turned away and conferred with his fellow judges. Johnson, Bedford and Goode stood in a tight circle, speaking quietly and unable to mask the odd smile.
Mitchell Turner strode back, seemingly unaffected by the confrontation.
“Right, my fellow judges and I…” The sound of barely muffled laughter greeted this pompous announcement. Mitchell Turner stopped speaking, he had the look of a man who’d hit the buffers at speed. He tried again.
“We have decided that it wouldn’t be fair on the rest of you to involve three people,” he turned to Bedford and Goode, “Three people?”, Bedford and Goode nodded enthusiastically, “Three people who seem hell-bent on ruining the fun,” the derisive snorts bubbled to the surface once more but Mitchell Turner soldiered on, like a roller-skating elephant.
“..Er, ruining the fun. So we are disqualifying Johnson, Goode and Bedford, and striking out the points penalties for Team C.” The teams responded to this news with cries of , ‘Oh Sir’ and ‘Rotten swizz, sir’, and Johnson bit down hard on his bottom lip.
“The judges will now pick new teams.”
A shout came from Team A.
“But we’ve had T-Shirts made.”
Team B joined in.
“And we’ve got baseball caps.
Mitchell Turner was thankful that so little notice had been given and he wasn’t facing the prospect of splitting up Batman and Robin, or telling Spiderman that it just wasn‘t going to be his day.
“Swap,” he suggested.
“But we’ve bonded now,” said someone from Team A.
It’s like they’ve scented blood, thought Johnson, hyenas.
“What?” yelled Turner.
“Bonded, as a team. We‘re all for one. Easy, easy. Go the A team. Go Team A.”
“But you’ve only been a team for five minutes.”
“Isn’t that what you wanted though?”
“Yes, well, you see..” It was Mitchell Turner’s turn to blink and swallow.
“Team building. That’s what you wanted.”
“Look, it’s only a game, alright?”
“I couldn’t abandon my team mates, Mitchell, I don’t know about the rest of the guys, but I just couldn’t do that to these blokes. We’ve been through a lot together.”
“Been through a lot together?” Turner’s tone was incredulous, “Since yesterday?”
“Shows the team ethos has been successful, at least for us,” said Team A.
“And us,” chipped in Frank Westlake from Team B.
James Weller didn’t say anything.
“We’re like the band of brothers,” said a Team D-er. “Yo!” shouted his colleagues.
“Bloody hell, this is a nightmare,” said Turner, almost to himself, however, Johnson, Bedford and Goode were close enough to hear him.
“Might as well call it off,” suggested Bedford.
“Go and have drink,” Goode pitched in. He lit a cigarette and offered the pack around. They all took one, including Mitchell Turner, his hands shook as he held the lighter and tried to apply the flame to the tip. He wandered back to his fellow judges and they held a conversation which was urgent for a short while but soon receded into glum acceptance.
Johnson saw Mitchell Turner sidle away from the group and begin a slope-shouldered walk to the exit. One of the other judges addressed the teams. Johnson hadn’t seen him before, he was ginger-haired, white as a washing machine, shifty-eyed and so rodent-like that Johnson wouldn’t have been surprised to see ginger whiskers sprouting from his nose.
“Gentlemen, the judges have deemed that a number of circumstances,” he glanced at Johnson, Bedford and Goode, “have made it impossible to continue with what would have been a very valuable exercise. I would have hoped that our people, of all people, would have been keenly aware of the threat from the far east, the tiger economies..”
“Who’s this?” whispered Johnson.
“Colin Camper,” answered Bedford, “Company hit man.”
“Company twat,” said Goode, “Ex-army.”
“Rupert,” said Bedford.
“Rupert?” Johnson queried.
“Army officer. Known as a Rupert.” confided Goode.
“..and how we are going to face this threat..” Colin Camper continued.
“By beating them at rounders?” suggested Bedford.
“Should have them quaking in Shanghai,” agreed Johnson.
“I’m sorry to say gentlemen that we seem to have lost the plot…”
“Who’s he talking about?” asked Johnson.
“Management, I’d say,” suggested Goode.
“..consequently I would suggest that we spend the rest of the day reflecting on the behaviour and attitude that we’ve shown today...”
“Well, I’m quite happy,” said Johnson.
“Me too,” agreed Bedford and Goode.
“…so you are not expected to return to the office…”
The rest of Colin Camper’s announcement was lost among the ragged cheering and the stampede to the gates. Strangely, for the first time today, the Wink and Kinker workforce were behaving like schoolchildren. Camper glared at Johnson, Bedford and Goode, but didn’t speak.
The three of them dispersed shortly afterwards. Johnson announced he was going home for a bath, and headed west, while Bedford and Goode went off to the east.

Words of Warning - an extract from the book, None of your Business

“So how was the first day, then?”
Johnson was sitting at the bar of The White Lion with an unusually subdued Tim. No champagne this evening.
“It was OK, Tim,” replied Johnson.
“OK?”
“Not outstanding.”
“So, what are you doing exactly?” Tim asked.
“As yet, not much. Well, not much work of any description. I’m doing some research.”
“Oh, yes?”
“Going through newspaper ads.”
“Looking for clients you can cold call?”
“I think so.”
“Thrilling.”
“It’s a start Tim. I’m on the Internet as well.”
“Looking for..?”
“Clients…”
“…that you can cold call?”
“Pretty much. But my induction starts tomorrow. Sounds pretty interesting.”
“It does, huh?”
“My boss says that they lack the inventory and skills matrices.”
“Does he now?”
“They want people who can think outside the box.”
Tim’s eyes rolled back in their sockets.
“What does that mean, Tim?” asked Johnson.
“Bollocks, is what it means. Horrible, hairy, goose-pimpled and lumpy danglers is exactly what it means. Same as inventory and skills mattresses.”
“Matrices,” corrected Johnson.
“Same thing.”
“Well, it just isn’t is it?”
“What?” Tim swilled back the dregs of his beer and ordered two more.
“The same thing. Matrices and mattresses.”
“It amounts to the same thing, matey. You’ll see.”
“Alright, what about thinking outside the box, then?” persisted Johnson.
“It means…well, you tell me what you think it means.”
“Well, being an ideas man. Bringing something of value to the organisation. Invention.”
“Invention’s about right Johnson.”
The barman, a toothy youth in a grimy, yellow ‘I Love Bungee’ T-shirt slapped two pints on the bar carelessly and Johnson withdrew his suited elbow from the puddle of beer which was spreading rapidly in his direction.
“Thank you so much,” said Johnson.
“No worries,” said the barman.
“No wucking furries,” said Tim.
The barman swaggered away to his leaning post at the far end of the bar, eyes aimed again at the TV high on the wall. Johnson mopped up the spillage with a beer towel, then lobbed the soggy mass in the general direction of Mr Bungee. But half-heartedly, without conviction. He couldn’t carry off the complete act of chucking it at Mr Bungee, so he made the gesture, but it landed only a couple of feet away, and nobody noticed. Probably just as well.
Tim hissed a quiet gynaecological term, at about forty-five degrees to Mr Bungee‘s station. He’s as bad as me, thought Johnson.
“You seem a bit pissed off, Tim,” Johnson observed.
“Yeah. I suppose I am.”
“What’s up?”
“I’ve got my appraisal tomorrow.”
“Appraisal?”
“My boss and me will be going through my PDP.”
“This is all new to me Tim. PDP?”
“Personal development plan.”
“Oh, yes?” Johnson prompted.
“Otherwise known as the personal departure plan.”
“I’m not really following you, Tim.”
“In that case, Johnson, sit back and relax. Let me tell you all about appraisals.”
“OK.”
“And mentoring.”
“Mentalling?”
“You’re a fast learner, boy, I’ll give you that. Out of the mouths of babes, eh? A real fast learner,” Tim rocked back and forth on his stool, with his eyes shut and faint smile about his lips.
They talked for a bit.
“So, when I have one of these appraisals I get to tell my boss what I think of his performance?” Johnson asked, with an air of confusion.
“After he’s had his say, yes,” Tim supped and yawned a gentle yawn.
Johnson thought Tim was taking the world-weary act a little too far for one so young.
“But, that’s good isn’t it? I mean getting to have your say in things. In how things are run?”
“It doesn’t work like that Johnson.”
“But if he’s asking me my opinion?”
“Don’t volunteer it. Whatever you do when you find yourself in an appraisal situation..”
Johnson tried to interject, but Tim shot him down expertly.
“Shit, listen to me, in an appraisal situation, just do yourself some good and steer clear of honesty.”
“In what way?”
“Oh, you know, saying things like, I think you’re lazy or there’s no point talking to you in the afternoons because you’re too pissed, or are you banging so-and-so?”
“But he’s asking..”
“Johnson, what if someone asks a question but doesn’t care about the answer?”
Johnson sensed the brush of the world-weariness gene, or germ.
“So what’s the point of it all?” he asked.
“Search me,” said Tim, “Shall we go and eat something?”
“No, hang on. What’s the answer?”
“The answer? To what?” Tim was befuddled now.
“Well, how do you handle an appraisal?”
“Turn up well-groomed and smart, and on the dot, don’t complain about them wasting time which you can ill afford to lose because of the impossible workload they’re responsible for having given you, nod your head, make a show of listening and paying attention, smile, make a few notes - doesn’t matter what- agree with most things, disagree with a few - again, doesn’t really matter which, take some water or coffee, whatever, so you’ve got something to do when it gets too dreary, don’t doodle, tell them you’re keen for this, that or the other to happen, but don’t dig any graves for yourself, don’t say that you want his job, or, correction, if you know he’s in the crap anyway, just for the crack, say that you see yourself doing his job anytime soon, say yes to any training that takes place in a city and indoors with lunch and drinks included, make sure you get in an immediate point blank refusal to anything which takes place outdoors and in the countryside involving canoeing or climbing anything or running around in the pissing rain having to find your own dinner which some bastard’s hidden under a fucking hedge and then cooking it yourself, or backing off mountains suspended from a bit of string tied to a masonry nail or anything like being elected captain of a team of arseholes, who have to get across a river for no sensible reason whatsoever other than that some twat of an instructor is waiting on the other side, with the aid of only a plank, two bicycle wheels, a bucket of sand and a paper chain.”
Tim drew breath and beer. Johnson’s air matched that of a child who’d just been mugged for his dinner money.
“So, when he asks me what I think about him?”
“Tell him he’s doing a great job.”
“Just that?”
“Wake up, Johnson. Haven’t you been listening to me? What else are going to tell him?”
“Then it’s pointless. It really is just a pointless exercise,” Johnson sighed.
“You have been listening, haven’t you? Good. Let‘s go and get something to eat.”
They sat at small table for two in a gloomy Italian restaurant. Tim had insisted on a litre carafe of the house red, which sat on the red check tablecloth closer to Tim than to Johnson. Tim held his wine glass up to whatever light he could find, grunted, and splashed it full to the brim, he drained half of it before refilling his glass and finally passing the carafe to Johnson. He shot Johnson what Johnson regarded as a superior look. Well, thought Johnson, he does know more about this stuff than I do. As they waited for the food, they talked. Tim talked.
“You see, we haven’t got the inventory and skills matrices in place.”
“Eh?”
“What I was hoping was that, well if I could leverage your influence we might be able to raise the bar.”
Johnson knew he was looking blank, but couldn’t seem to snap out of it.
“I’m really stuck at a roadblock here,” Tim went on.
“Oh I see,” said Johnson. He didn’t.
“Good, Johnson. I can see you’re starting to think outside the box. Out of the box thinking that’s what we need here.”
“I get it,” said Johnson. This time he did.
“You’ve got to be proactive, Johnson.”
“It is all bollocks isn’t it?”
“Good lad. Now just one thing.”
“Go on,” encouraged Johnson.
“If anyone ever asks you to take a psychometric test…”
“I’ve done one.”
“Idiot. Never mind, here’s the food. We’ll have lesson two some other time.”