The Goons you work with

Monday morning is on the horizon. The weekend is fading. You are heading back to that office. For your sins. And to see these goons. Don’t you just love them…?!

The lifer

‘I’ll just be here six months then I’ll find something else’ he or she said.

In 1982.

Hanging around for the pension. Will harp on about the old days when things were so much better. Their attitude is as archaic as the means of communication they prefer; letters and faxes.

Well, guess what, the world’s changing, now get onboard or jump overboard, your sour face makes me depressed.

They have applied for multiple jobs elsewhere but have always been sucked back into this hovel by some supposed perk – flexi time, xmas closures, extra holidays for long service, the 10 year thank you from management (‘oh, yes, thanks, £150 of M&S vouchers is definitely appropriate reward for 10 years of my life.


Thank you, sir’).

Institutionalised; there’s a high chance they will only leave the office on a stretcher.

The temp

Kind courtesy of
Kind courtesy of

Feckless, work shy, disinterested, give this punk a 5 minute job and watch him take a day to do it, despite the confidence with which the task was accepted.

‘Take your iPod out asshole, turn off the internet, stop texting your girlfriend and do some Fucking work. W. O. R. K. You know what that spells? No, you don’t do you. You are too busy talking in text speak. I hate you. I hate you because you are a temp. And you can leave this godforsaken office when you want to. I look down on you because you have to clock in an out. But, you’re the real winner as your future won’t be in this office that saps the soul from its inhabitants (well, me, at least).’ I bark.

At this point he just looks at me confused.

Then he likes someone’s status.

Usually skirts by and is not reprimanded or kicked out because mummy or daddy just happen to be high up in your firm. Handling the fall out from his fuck ups is always enjoyable. Yep, I will have to re-file that whole cabinet, turned out he didn’t know the alphabet after all.

Well temp, if you are reading this try rearranging these letters into something meaningful:

W. N. A. K. E. R.

The alcoholic

Without fail, always first on the booze at work events, day or night, keen on offering drinks to you so as to square his or her dysfunctionality. Often found in senior roles, protected by other senior figures by a process known as ‘you scratch my back and I’ll scratch yours’. They drive over the limits and are well known for disappearing for large chunks of the day without explanation. Your efforts keep them in a job.

This kills you inside.

On the plus side, they will buy you alcohol.

On the down side though, you may have to develop a system to deal with the horrific images that scar you; images of them dancing into the night as the dance floor slowly empties. Red wine stained and inappropriately unbuttoned shirt, they are lost in a fog of alcohol that temporarily masks the despair that haunts their every waking hour.

You look at them with pity.

And resentment.

‘I want to know what love is’ plays on.

The useless manager

Seriously, this person, who implements their whimsical ideas without consultation while lacking any decision making skills or understanding of your time pressures, has been in the job two years and they still know nothing. With him or her you feel like you are feeding a 10 year old by the aeroplane method.

Frustrating is an understatement.

This frustration is exacerbated by their (regularly trotted out) excuses for their ineptitude, excuses honed over their working career.

Any project they lead on can best be described as a cluster fuck.

A cluster fuck, you will spend hours, days, weeks of your life trying to un-fuck.

Usually whilst this hapless one is off globetrotting.

Those weekend breaks to Europe, yeah, the ones your pay check can’t afford, you are paying for them with your endeavour.

And you know it. I feel for you.

This one pisses you off the most as you do their work for them. They have learned the word ‘delegation’ and boy do they delegate. But they don’t take responsibility.

No that shit falls on your plate too.

When the shit hits the fan, they ain’t in the room, probably working from home.

Your lowly status as serf means you can only fantasise about working from home, for which read; responding to an email every two hours whilst tucked up in bed, drinking coffee you don’t even know exists.

They sleep with the boss, metaphorically or literally, but you’re the one that gets fucked.

The ‘funny’ guy

Inside he is crying, crying for the person he could have been if he wasn’t so damn lazy.

The only effort he puts in at work is in trying to amuse you. Likely to be a huge fan of puns.

More likely to issue a barrage of these on one topic when he isn’t confusing you with mangled metaphors and absurd analogies.

His productivity is low. He masks this by his attempts, occasionally successful to make you laugh.

Don’t be fooled by him. He is work shy. He (come on, we all know I am talking about myself here) finds the humour in your despair and will, due to his inability to keep his gob shut, occasionally blurt out a comment he thinks is witty and will lift your mood when you are at your lowest ebb.

The look you give him confirms he has failed in his attempt to lift your mood.

Failed again.

Probably on the autistic spectrum.

Blindly unaware of that fact, like he is blindly aware of, in no particular order, your sensitivities, tact, cultural and social norms, acceptable levels of behaviour.

He has a joke, he has crafted it with love and care, invested time (occasionally) and energy in it and it’s coming your way. You have no choice.

Just don’t laugh.

It is the fuel to his comedy fire.

Don’t even react.

Don’t look at him.

Don’t express disbelief or annoyance.

Then. And only then is there the slimmest of chances he may stop his verbal Tourette’s.

Is it the weekend yet?


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