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.
Friday, 31 August 2007
Tuesday, 28 August 2007
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.
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.
Saturday, 18 August 2007
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.
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.
Sunday, 12 August 2007
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.
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.
Friday, 3 August 2007
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.”
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.”
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