The Art of Getting Sacked - Day TwoSubmitted by Spam at 2005-11-09 06:37:00 EST
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Day One: http://www.ubersite.com/m/78574
So Day One didn't go so well. C'est la vie, you know? I'll just up the stakes a little.
But you see, the thing is - the real fucked up thing - is that I caught a glimpse of something as I strolled out of the office yesterday that stung a little, more than a little even. That thing I saw?
Only natural I guess - I was fucking the bosses about good and proper and I hadn't even got started yet. It's inevitable they'd get a little pissed at me over it.
The funny thing though, the thing that really got to me, was that it wasn't my two managers who's eye I caught as I exited but instead, it was Brenda and Tim, my two 'team-mates' and the only two people in this shit-hole that I had any kind of respect for.
And when I say 'any kind', I really mean 'a fucking lot'.
The repressed anger behind their eyes hurt all the more because they were smiling at me at the time, trying to reassure me that they, at least in some small measure, gained something from my victory.
The real fact of the matter was that they'd had to split my workload between them yesterday because I was too busy fucking about and in all likelihood, they'd have to do so again today. I fucking hated that.
I didn't think guilt would be part of the bargain when I decided to walk this path.
0800: The alarm.
I dunno why I set it so early, it's not like I needed too - I don't plan on going into work until at least after eleven today and had I just woken up whenever I wanted to, it would have made me more convincing when giving my purposefully lame excuse of "I overslept": The best lies being based on truths and all.
Old habits die hard I guess.
I knew deep down though, that it had nothing to do with habit, so I called Brenda at home to apologise and let her know that she would have to cover my work again for the morning. She's earned that much at least.
0933: Fiona Bruce.
I think to myself, as I sit and watch BBC News 24 of a morning when I should really be at work, that if I ever pull my finger out of my arse and write down a time-stamped synoptic account of this whole debacle, then this lady is classy enough to warrant her own mini-section.
1115: My not-so-dramatic entrance.
I'm WAAY over 2 hours late. I'm expecting the dead to rise, seas to boil, fire and brimstone raining down from the sky – gimme ALL that revelations bullshit.
No Big-Boss-lady, no Even-Bigger-Boss-Man, just 2 anxious faces and one smug one seated around the 4-man 'pod' of quadrilaterally arranged desks I share with Tim, Brenda and Ramona the tea-spillage girl from yesterday.
1117: All kinds of warnings.
"Where's Donna?" The first words I say to them, no good morning, no hello - A sign that I've become too single-minded in my quest for garden leave?
"You're in shit mate." It's Brenda, my team-mate who's 55 but looks about 30 and has a rack to die for that I actually feel more than a little uncomfortable being aware of, seeing as I kinda wish she was my mum and all. Her no-nonsense assessment of the day so far is one of the reasons I love her so much.
I grin, she knows the score – I WANT to be in shit. That's the aim of the game: Piss people off until they're willing to pay to get rid of me.
"No love, not like that – You're in Real Shit. Donna knows that you planned to come in late, she wants to see you in her office now."
1120: Another Meeting.
Wanna know why this is bad?
Were you paying attention yesterday when I told you about the fine line between Misdemeanours and Gross Misconduct?
Well if not, here's a fairly general example of the difference: Oversleeping and turning up 2 hours late? Misdemeanour (albeit a pretty big fucker). Waking up with plenty of time to spare but staying at home to watch TV instead as part of an overly-elaborate plot to secure garden leave and hence earn enough time to find another job whilst simultaneously being able to get drunk and high in the comfort of my own front room?
Gross misconduct, baby.
"It's not going to work."
Seems like somebody else is dispensing with the formalities today, Donna is showing an uncharacteristic lack of bullshit with her somewhat mysterious greeting.
I play dumb but inside is turmoil. I can guess from her tone that I've been grassed up.
"I said it's not going to work Sam - Don't think for a single second that we're going to give you garden leave if you keep this up - it doesn't work like that."
Pretending that I had no idea what she was talking about would be an insult to her intelligence.
"I'm sorry Donna, but I really have no idea what you're talking about."
"Okay then, why don't you tell me why you were late today intead?"
MAN this chick's an amateur. Even if I hadn't been tipped off already, I'd know by her supercilious tone that she was laying a trap for me – she knows somehow that I planned today's little foray into tardiness and she wants me to give her a lame excuse like 'stuck in traffic' so she can drop her witness on me like a two-tonne slab of concrete and drive me into the ground on charges of gross misconduct and thus, out of her nice little ordered life.
"Sorry, I had an interview."
It's been such a long time since I had to break out an emergency lie that I'm almost taken aback by the smoothness of my delivery.
But as I've said before, I guess old habits die hard.
"I had an interview at 0830 today that was scheduled to finish for 0900. I knew I'd be a little late but to be honest, I was hoping to blag you about that."
Take note novices - wanna get away with something big? Admit to something small and take the rap with a suitable look of repentance – most of the time, all your accuser really wants is to feel like they've caught you out, they're rarely that bothered about what you were actually doing at the time.
"Anyway," I continue, "As it turns out, the interview ran over, and I didn't feel it appropriate to ask to stop halfway through to use my phone to call in. I did however, call Brenda this morning in case she had to cover my work-load – I was just hoping that she wouldn't have to."
And I think that pretty much ties up all the lose ends there.
"Well regardless," Donna sighs, defeated. "We KNOW that you're looking for Garden Leave and I gotta tell ya, we're never going to give it to you Sam – not a chance. I guess you really only have two choices: Tow the line and stay here for your four weeks notice, or leave now before we sack you for gross misconduct."
She looks me right in the eye - no more games, she says to me silently.
"It's up to you if you stay here or not."
And she exits, leaving me alone in her office.
"She Grassed you up man", Tim whispers to me as he leans across his desk and towards mine. Anger seeps into his voice as he spits out his information.
"She wasn't even asked about it, she just overheard Brenda on the phone with you this morning, and when Donna came in, she just gave you up - just like that. The only reason I can think she'd do something like that is just to be a cunt."
Oh dear Ramona. Oh dear, oh dear. Your little Philby impression may have just clued the bosses into my plan and cost me all but a shred of a chance of getting Garden Leave but damn girl, you've just given me a whole NEW reason to work my out notice:
Plotting your demise.
I may have to leave in three and a half weeks but I'm sure as shit going to take you out with me.
It's ON, bitch.
It's on like Donkey Kong.
Who the hell is Fiona Bruce.JPG