WORD UP. Below is a very short story I have written whilst I should have been doing my job.
Disclaimer: For any of my colleagues reading this, I don't think that YOU are a cunt. It's everyone else. :-)
Last Day
February is the ugliest month. No one looks well at this time of year, certainly not in Catford anyway. It is a Vitamin-D free zone on the 7.52, and I look right at home amongst the crush of pasty-faced tossers who populate this particular Southeastern service. I immediately realise that there is no chance of me burying my face into the Metro this morning, my energies instead focused on having to crane my neck away from the troublingly loud breathes of the obese punter to my left. The carriage is so stuffed with spastics I am incapable of extricating myself from this fat arse’s personal space. I succumb to my surroundings, ceasing to squirm as I feel his gingivitis upon my neck, the odour so potent it registers on my sense of touch before reaching my nostrils. I stifle a gag, and well up with rage.
It’s a cunt of a Monday. After enjoying a forcibly protracted Christmas break, I am returning to work. My first obligation of the working day is to pay a visit to the gimps in HR. Although my recent festive interactions with elderly relatives had to some extent versed me in art of tolerating the mentally impaired, it is immediately clear that that the inhabitants of planet HR are a far more primitive breed. The distinction between a once vital human being whose faculties have been impaired by age, and the born cretin, is an important one. Even though she possessed the short-term memory of a ball bag, Great Aunt Edith was a fucking pistol compared to Ken from HR.
Ken’s opening gambit is characteristically profound
"Hey Jack, how was your Christmas?"
I’m aware that this is the first of many times that I will be asked this question today, and I give him my standard response for those who make such an enquiry while clearly not giving a fuck about the answer
"Very pleasant"
I follow Ken as he guides me to a glass-walled room at the far end of the office. En route Ken's pitiful attempts at small talk are ignored as I become grimly fixated on his hair, which has been crudely daubed with wet-look gel. Obviously Ken's personal grooming habits had not evolved since he had first discovered Brylcreem way back in '93. I am becoming disproportionately troubled by this grown man sporting a haircut usually found on year-8 boys. Ken's unsavoury demeanour strikes a familiar chord of anxiety within me. Creeps like this often evoke this feeling, and I am now accustomed to the warning signs. Needing to establish a first line of defence, I begin trawling my mental repository of positive images. What had previously had been inert and manageable tumour of anxiety; settled and benign within my gut, is now beginning to encroach upon my breathing. Thanks Ken.
The consciousness of my laboured breaths and horribly greasy palms leaves me squirming my way across the office floor in discomfort. No longer the poised, mentally capable professional, I am betraying the physiological changes more characteristic of the flustered pervert. Am I suffering from the preliminary stages of a panic attack, or have I just caught nonce disease from Ken?
My attempts at transcending this anxiety are clearly doomed. Any positive thoughts are promptly usurped by the image of this 5'8, paunchy 30-something, squeezed into an improbably warped school uniform. Protruding from his BHS shirt (ages 13-14) is his pasty Greggs-filled gut, and his excess of arse is now visible through the seat of his annihilated grey trousers. Playtime is well and truly over in my head.
To make things worse the creep is eating a packet of Cheese and Onion McCoy's. It is enough to put you off crisps for good. And I fucking love crisps.
Once seated, I struggle to follow what Ken is saying. For one thing I know that this berk's HR bullocks will be of no interest, and more importantly I need to focus on pulling myself together whilst in the midst of this psychological episode. I have got a serious sweat on and my shirt is saturated.
"... while we are glad that you have returned so promptly, you should be aware that Brian has remained on administrative leave and shows no signs of returning..."
No wonder I can't take in what this cunt is saying. As well as being a less than pleasant aesthetic proposition, Ken is also a seriously boring fuck. I begin to bite and grind my lower lip, and an internal monologue of hate kicks in:
FUCK OFF KEN YOU CUUUUNNNNNNTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTT
This silent scream has a surprisingly soothing effect. Though in the long-term, I imagine that such a virulent coping mechanism will end up physically manifesting itself as colon cancer or something.
As well as the plethora of tedious forms I am filling in, something in Ken's tone is fucking me off. He isn't being downright rude, he wouldn't dare. But there is something there. I’m not sure if he is just trying to get a serious point across, or is disturbed by the amount of sweat I am transferring to his manky, menstruative-red HR sofa. I sign the papers he passes me and get the fuck out of there. I am becoming fixated on his hair again and if I stay another minute I will smash the cunt’s head open. These glass walls have probably saved lives.
I’m in no rush to get on with my working day, and am also aware that lurking around HR will only serve to get me embroiled in unwelcome conversation with colleagues. I duck into a toilet cubicle and sit myself down. Then and there I decide to have a crap. I wasn’t in that place when I entered the cubicle, but when in Rome. The poo serves as a much needed emotional breather, and after applying the hand dryer to my hands and sweat-soaked shirt, I feel like a semi-functional human being.
I enter the office to find my desk-mate Andy perched in front of his Dell; the spreadsheet on his screen glinting in his eyes like kindling. I smile, and find myself whispering
"My rock"
I panic. Why am I vocalising this private joke? He hears me express these somewhat creepy sentiments. Andy turns his head
"What was that?"
Embarrassed that such grossly inappropriate remarks were expressed aloud, I overcompensate and am disproportionately spiteful with my retort
"None of your fucking business cuntcakes"
Seemingly oblivious to my unprecedented outburst my boss gets cracking with the pleasantries and chimes in with a
"How was your Christmas? Did you enjoy your leave?"
Is she taking the piss? I’m in a bad place and reluctant to break character so I ignore her question, switch on my Dell and let her hang for about 10 seconds. As I type in my username and password I then chirpily tell her to "Fuck off".
An awkward silence pervades the open plan office.The vibes of fear and confusion that my teammates are emitting soon became tiresome. I am missing the calming effect of the innocuous chitchat that generally accompanies my working day. While I definitely do not care about what everyone had eaten for dinner last night, the fact that I don't know is bothersome.
"Who wants a hot drink, fresh from the oven?"
I try using humour and the offer of hot drinks in an attempt to lighten the mood, yet no one seems appreciative of my gesture. The mild humiliation that accompanies any ill-received joke suppresses my appetite for reconciliation, and the indignant rage begins to subjugate my more generous sentiments. One more go.
"Seriously, I'm making a cuppa, does anyone want anything?"
