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.