Silly! I was referring to the life measurement of the subject of the Stone Roses song!

( Je suis un vagabond is an unfunny, up your own arse middle class knob, Mon 14 Jun 2010, 9:48, Reply)

I like how the government is saying
"Where do you want us to make cuts?" so that when they make them, they can then blame us if it goes tits or we complain, but what I like the most is how they're saying "We're going to cut x, y, z public services, and we're all going to have to bend over and take it" and there is absolutely no mention of bankers bonuses at all, which, considering it was them who got us into the hole, is lucky for them.
( Je suis un vagabond is an unfunny, up your own arse middle class knob, Mon 14 Jun 2010, 9:18, 83 replies)

We need to keep our best people!
An example of bad management at a wide reaching level was when I receieved an email informing me that the annual technical excellence conference due in a month or so hadn't had enough nominations, and needed more. This was followed later the same day by another email stating that the staff at the company in question were it's best asset and they wished to do all they could to retain talent.

These were made laughable following less than 10 days behind a round of involuntary redundancies, in which one of the most technically gifted people I have ever worked with, who had single handedly saved the project I was on more than once, had been given his marching orders. This was despite severe opposition from anyone immediately connected to him, including his line manager at the time.
(repooc, Mon 14 Jun 2010, 9:13, 2 replies)

All my managerial experiences have been good, except one.
Edit: This one has some length to it.

By good, I really mean indifferent. In general, I think you'll agree, the best you can hope for from the high-heid-yins is 'not being a constant pain in the arse'. Anybody who has awesome managers - congratulations. You're a bizarre statistical aberration though, because people are shit and minimal power corrupts absolutely.

Anyway. At the end of last year I got two christmas jobs simultaneously, and with minimal finagling managed to make it so I could do both shifts without conflict. One of these jobs was at the company that grew from the ruins of the Gadget Shop - good chat, excellent managers and supervisors (save one), regular excursions to pubs and gigs with the minions and overlords all thrown together, and I learned during drinks one day that I basically got the job on the strength of being a cocky bastard, walking into the shop and saying 'I want to work here'.

The relaxed and easy going nature of that bunch served only to throw into stark relief the abysmal failure of the management at the "Snivelling" Theatre, Glasgow, to be anything other than self-regarding, self-serving self-abuse artists of the highest order. Management consists of the fat owner and his two supervisors: his son, and the only woman, workplace legend had it, daft or desperate enough to surrender to his foul advances in the last decade. The son was alright, if as spineless as you'd expect from someone who has to do everything his daddy says at work as well as at home. My only real problem with him is that when shit went down, he went and hid rather than take any part.
The other supervisor was a gargoyle-mandibled, pudding-bowl-coiffed, offensively halitotic, quietly venomous harridan, with rather fewer organisational skills than Our Lord saw fit to bless the common newt with, and an IQ that will in fact see an increase when she finally lobotomises herself with her own biro while trying to fill out a shift rota. Legendarily, universally and completely fairly mocked behind her back for having been placed above far more capable staff while yet being unable to reliably perform the simplest tasks without forgetting names, dates, or even whether or not she actually had something to do. I introduced myself to her three times during my interview, and had to give her two copies of my CV. I cannot overstate how stupid this woman was. Her other speciality was noticing one failure to perform to standard, once, and making it the only characteristic she ever associated that person, with even higher reliability than their name.

Her organisational skills, however, pale in comparison to her and her boss's man-management abilities. Basically, the "Snivelling" have worked out that they don't need to give a shit about their workers, since being an usher isn't a skilled job (nodding and smiling are skills mastered by six month old babies) and there are always people ready to do it.
They give an extra special generous helping of not shit about workers hired over the Xmas pantomime period, since they're liable to fire nine-tenths of them at the end anyway. This is true of most industries; however the better places at least have the decency not to be so blatant about it. I learnt I was fired when I turned up for work on the last day of the week to discover I hadn't been given any shifts for the next one. The rota still had my name on it, but everything after that was blank. It turns out, that's their preferred method for firing people.

Seriously.

None of this old fashioned 'telling your employee there's a problem' or 'notifying someone of the termination of their employment crap'. That would take up time that the bossman could more profitably use sitting in the projection booth and wanking over the T&A he insists is included in every show they put on; or that The Amazing Cretin could be spending figuring out which end of her pencil will erase the marks on her computer screen.
They wouldn't even talk to me for a week, but I was incandescently pissed off about this and would not let it go. After being given the run around, I finally nobbled Miss Shit For Brains 2009 and demanded to know what was going on. She was pretty terrified at the prospect of actually justifying herself, but I managed to leave with what I thought was the truth, which made me feel better. I'd been late twice in a row you see, and even though I was still absolutely enraged about their cowardly, snivelling handling of a relatively minor issue, I could at least understand the decision to fire me quietly stop employing me.

Of course, a week or so later I found out the actual truth. My real crime had gone completely unnoticed by me. I'd had my one and only encounter with the lardescent spluff-stain at the top of this particular heap of shit a few days prior to my firing; he'd asked me if I was tired that day, in what sounded like routine, bare-minimum 'interact with the underlings' chat. My source on the inside told me that the word was I'd been fired for "unprofessional behaviour". In other words, while I was standing at the back of the theatre, during the show, in near darkness, behind a bunch of people intent only on the crap being presented to them as 'theatre', keeping their mewling ned-spawn under control and smuggling drinks into the seating area...I'd been seen yawning by Captain Butterfarts from his private little masturbation cupboard. Unprofessional behaviour at its worst, I think you’ll agree. Far more so than treating a problem with an employee (however spurious) by basically ignoring it, putting your fingers in your ears and hoping it goes away. And then lying about it. And also being ugly.

And this isn't even mentioning the "quality" (the word barely applies) of the shite that the theatre regularly parades in front of its audience, or touching on more than the barest detail of the hoops I had to jump through to get somebody to act like an actual fucking manager. My god I'm bitter, aren't I?
(Falstaff's Spiritual Successor, Mon 14 Jun 2010, 3:52, 4 replies)

Not so much management, but the company as a whole ...
I got laid off from a local computer repair shop (more of a sales place, but the boss couldn't be arsed buying anything to sell, but thats another story).
I started work at a computer components supplier, sort of the next rung up in the ladder, and my first (and hopefully last) real taste of "tele-sales".

I was meant to pick up a phone and call random companies, asking them to buy the shite, no-mark branded excuses for a cluster fuck items we sold, for the same price that joe public could buy online for the same price for better brands.
The fact that every one who would actually be delusional enough to buy from us ALREADY had an account with another sales rep, wasn't taken into account when my monthly figures were discussed.
If a sales rep was off ill/holiday/etc. then calls were forwarded to others, but sales still went on their names even tho they were at home bashing one out that particular day.

The few companies I did manage to get through to that didn't purchase from us either already owed us money from not paying their past bill's due to the stuff we sold not working, or they cursed down the phone that if we phoned them again they would send a mossad hit squad to purge "you useless fucktards who ruined my business last year" from existence.

Few nice occurrences while I was there ...

The company sales database went down because the IT manager (he had an MCSE but couldn't spell it) ran it on a RAID array with NO redundancy whatsoever.

A visiting director from another company totaled his porsche on the front gate bollard (it started to rise from the ground as he drove over it, and those things can stop a lorry with 50 tonnes of sand at speed with no drama). Me caught laughing at it through the canteen window as he walked in not so happy.

In the end I applied for another job, and got a letter asking for a reference landing across the company directors desk, to which he was not pleased with. Although he would quite happily have fucked me off without so much of an afterthought if my sales figure's didn't pick up, for me to get myself something to fall back on is totally out of the question.

I got the job, and a few months later i chanced upon one of the girls i used to sit opposite (fantastic set of eye magnets, those juicy little twins kept me going throughout my 3 month ordeal) and she told me that they went tits up in the end.

Oh well :)
(Stro, Mon 14 Jun 2010, 3:29, 1 reply)

Stupid lazy fat lump
I once worked in pub/restaurant in West Yorkshire which was part of a well known chain.
My boss was a 40 year old gay bloke who still lived with his parents.
I was about 20 and bloody good at my job. He was shit, he once single-handedly caused a 2 HOUR WAIT for starters. 2 fucking hours!

One day I was stood in the kitchen waiting to take some food out when my boss, who was apparently attempting banter said to me "you are a stupid lazy fat lump".

I walked out.
( Posh Girl apparently, Mon 14 Jun 2010, 1:38, 2 replies)

Training
We need a new database system. Ours isn't working - it was given to us in 2000, it was free, the updates didn't work, and now it's staggering around our network like a trundling behemoth trying to keep up with our data.

I got some quotes for a new one, purpose built. Showed quotes to boss. All was fine except for "training? What do you need database training for? Can't you just use it straightaway?"

He's never used a computer in his life, and at this point I felt like telling him to sit in front of my PC, and say "Go. Go on then. You don't need any training, do you?"

Maybe I should have done that, because he still hasn't approved any of the quotes or even asked for any more information on any of them....
( cakelady, Sun 13 Jun 2010, 22:02, 4 replies)

website
There's this website that does a forum that changes every week. However, they sometimes take a previous topic from say, the 18th Jun 2009, change the name and post it as a new topic.
( sandettie light vessel automatic New Twitter - @bollocksreally, Sun 13 Jun 2010, 20:01, 3 replies)

NHS
In my part of the NHS we have to use a system called NCRS. Its (supposedly) a management/appointment recording system. Its slow and clunky but fairly reliable (and I can spend a merry hour or 2 inputting data and ALtTab-ing when the boss is around!) But what pisses me off is how management handle the data. EVERY contact (phone call, meeting with relative etc) has to be inputted and each area has a quota of contacts per month. SO if I have a 5 second phone call its 1 contact. If I spend 2 hours on the phone with a suicidal ex-punter, its one contact.
WTF?
(kitescreech still here, Sun 13 Jun 2010, 18:20, 1 reply)

Heelah theh
Ei om thu Suth Efrican head uf eccommudetion far all teams eenvolved een thus chempeenchip. Ei mek thu rooms es comfortibble es possibble.

Ei om thu bed menejeh.
(roysin, Sun 13 Jun 2010, 16:55, 6 replies)

Bad Management.
Fabio Capello picking Rob Green as goalie.

Rob Green is as suited to an England goalkeepers shirt as Adolf Hitler is suited to giving a speech at a Bar Mitzvah.
(kickstandrich last had sex with your mum/sister/wife/daughter on, Sun 13 Jun 2010, 16:51, 8 replies)

I used to work for the polo design team.
I suggested to make a new range shaped like blue tits and budgerigars.

They were bird menagerie mints.
( the pink chicken sniffer sniffs pink chickens., Sun 13 Jun 2010, 16:28, Reply)

I advised Kylie to make a statement
condemning homosexuality. That was terrible minoguement.
(apeloverage committed the vile act of onanism on, Sun 13 Jun 2010, 16:08, 2 replies)

A masterclass in pissing money away
About ten years ago the very large, but with a short name, telecommunications company I worked for bought out a smaller business that specialised in the looking up of telephone numbers. As I was peripherally involved in the activity, I learned of some of the excesses perpetrated by said smaller company that made it amenable to a takeover.

The company colours were purple and yellow, so an awful lot of money was spent on colour matching various items. For example, the call centre was carpeted in purple, with a couple of yellow spots to act as the eyes of the mascot character. Not unusual, you might say, but the shade of purple required was non-standard, so the company had to go through a whole tendering and project management process just to get the carpet the right colour.

And, of course, they decided that the desks in the call centre had to be a complimentary grey colour - which was another special order.

Perhaps the most ridiculous example of such spending, however, was the decision to make all the sales reps drive purple Renault Lagunas. Again, the purple was a non-standard colour, and only Renault were prepared to paint a fleet that shade.

Of course, the now parent, company is not immune to such stupidity. In order to move away from appearing like a public utility, they decided that their vans would no longer be yellow. Fair enough, but they chose a non-standard grey, which cost an extra £200 on every one of the thousands of affected vehicles when ordered new, and which reduced their residual value as no one really liked the colour - and it was specifically associated with the company in question.

At the time, we were fed some line about the grey being more visible, and so, safer in poor light. Which of course is utter bollocks, as you'll know if you've ever nearly hit a silver, grey or pale blue car in fog because you can't see them until you're on top of them.

In an attempt to justify the safety claim, the then trademark - the stylised silhouette of a piper or herald (known internally as the prancing poof) - was made out of highly reflective plastic and stuck all over the vehicles, making them even less desirable second hand because of the marks left once the stickers were removed.

The current fleet of vans are white. So much for the safer grey colour.
( Snappyuk gets BIGGER with free sample., Sun 13 Jun 2010, 14:32, 1 reply)

Captain Thrush...
One of my colleague managers had the notion that he was senior to all other managers in the department and would talk down to everyone.
For this reason, he was nicknamed Captain Thrush... "Captain" because he thought he was in charge and "Thrush" because he was an irritating cunt.

I can't remember quite how (perhaps it was the Captain bit) but at every management meeting there was a competition to see how many nautical expressions could be made to fit the discussions. Even the Programme Director joined in.
(bof, Sun 13 Jun 2010, 13:32, 3 replies)

My boss, "J" is a bit of a 'character'.
[/euphemism]

What I really mean is that he's a bit of an arse...and I use the word advisedly because one of his favourite pastimes is farting loudly for the supposed amusement of whatever assembled minions and peons are there to witness it. I swear he can do it at will, as they sometimes carry on for whole minutes. This lack of social grace is carried across the board - his taste on music is both shitdrinkingly poor and inescapable (guess who controls the office stereo?) and his speech patterns are shot to hell - he pauses, stutters and sometimes takes a whole cup of coffee to finish a single sentence, or so it can seem. Fortunately he's a decent manager on the whole, and all these problems are pretty much aesthetic.

Last week he came into the office brandishing a new CD - always an occasion for fear and trepidation - loudly (and slowly) proclaiming its virtues to the office. It was some sort of mediaeval poetry or something set to music - Shakespeare or Chaucer or etc, I forget and am neither cultured enough to know the difference or interested enough to look it up. He slapped it in the player, then stammered to the unfortunate watchers:

"Last night I ate...

...lots of sprouts. Everyone...check...

...this out!"

Pressing play, he proceeded to sing along to the unholy wailing noise...and after a few seconds we could hear another noise rising to join the double cacophony. The dirty bastard was carefully controlling his arse and farting along with the music. His singing ("singing") was surprisingly smoother than his speaking, but this couldn't last. I guess the CD was second hand, because it started skipping, and halfway through a line it cut out entirely. J , the poor bastard, was so surprised by this that he clammed up completely at both ends, and for a blissful few seconds, peace ruled in our land. It wasn't to last however, as he just thumped the CD player and began anew, his rectal choir singing louder than ever until it nearly drowned out everything else. It was the worst experience with bottom enjambment I've ever had.
(Falstaff's Spiritual Successor, Sun 13 Jun 2010, 13:00, Reply)

retro fitting
My supervisor does fuck all to keep up with the scene. As you do in visual media, us grunts, we keep educated in recent software, digging for tutorials, going through exercise books. Not being allowed to play Admin at all, not even switching off random AutoStarts or fixing dead plugins. No system security, or product hotfixes either.

Which ended in a few days' loss of productivity, thanks to a long since struck down and encased wyrm. Spreading on sensitive data of industry heavies sitting on our servers. As for her, she sits in front of the MacBook, pawing, my guess, at the menu itself at first, watching it grow and recede, like some prehistoric animal at the remnant of one of the first fireplaces.

And the "recent" - well, until half a year ago, update of our nifty little Adobe toys sits in the locker, awaiting its utter and total outdatedness. Maybe in a few years time, it shall see the rattle of hard disks and furrowed brow of said Educator. Until then she has the excuse to downgrade everything we do by putting the version level at her line of sight.

We have an office "agreement" to go with something a company long since eaten by Adobe has put out. Not even the Latest, FreeHand 10 it is. So she can handle the files. So we then can have something checked that last year, when it was still okay to use "the new toys". And this, of course, we don't do too well. Which gives her the buzz of authority, pointing out faults we have learning this stuff, so outdated, it almost hurts to get used to, while working on live projects, live time pressure, quality standards, and such.

Which gives her the excuse to tell us off for incompetent. Of course. From there, taking responsibility to "take care of things". Sure thing, do take this rambling 60s cadillac off my F-ZERO race track, please. Our other boss, of course, has all her arguments saved in his "professional" memory. Help me, i am caught in a state of suspense, my chances of being market relevant getting slimmer by the week.
(funktrash soul = combustion engine, Sun 13 Jun 2010, 12:49, 1 reply)

One from the other side
After years & years of being on the wrong end of the 'bad management' stick, I found myself promoted and given management of a department.

"Great!" I thought, "Now I can put all that shit experience to good use and be a really good manager!"

First up: The woman who is taking lots of sick leave & clearly has some personal problems. I'll have a chat with her, off the record, and see if we can help. Since I'm not totally naive, I'll ask someone from personnel along too. But still emphasise it's totally informal, not in the least disciplinary, no official record etc.

Cue massive tantrum, formal complaint to my boss, threats to involve ACAS, victimisation claim etc. etc. With the result that we had to take it formal, present her attendance records, and give her a formal written warning. She resolved it all by quitting anyway.

So, when the next management problem arose, what am I going to do? I kept it all formal, on the record this time: Verbal warning, 3 months to improve, consequences if you don't, no we are not going to "discuss it".

Of course, that made be a "bastard manager". But what, in all honesty, would you do?
(North Utsira South Utsira, Sun 13 Jun 2010, 11:25, 20 replies)

I'm Fairly Certain My Boss is Coming on to Me
I got in with my boss. I'll be forward about it, I came onto her (hah) and she let me have a crack at her minge. Now, I know for a fact that I'm not the first to have done this (I've walked in on one coworker getting a "review"), but I had somewhat expected to be the first of the day. I was working my mouthy magic on her (overused) Eye of Sauron when I felt something slip in my mouth. It tasted like licorice.
Spat it out, spluttered
"The hell? Is this a goddamn breathmint?"
Her: "Oh, tits."
"It's licorice. I really hate licorice."

That was my Bad Minge Mint.
(Trial.TM, Sun 13 Jun 2010, 10:38, 3 replies)

Being Organised
A friend of mine once worked for a large financial company. They were obviously required to keep all records which they dutifully did in an off-site archive. With several thousands boxes of deeds and other legal paperwork they also maintained a paper "index" in the office of what was where. That was until a manager thought the "index" was taking up so much space in the office. So... and this is the "genius" part... he sent that to archive as well and didn't bother recording which box it went into.

Apparently they have been retrieving 5 boxes every week for the last 5 years so they can find the index :)
(skintagain, Sun 13 Jun 2010, 9:55, 2 replies)

ITV HD
How about the idiot who started playing with the controls just as England scored...frigging idiot!

news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/uk/10302816.stm
(frightfullybored, Sun 13 Jun 2010, 9:21, 5 replies)

My girlfriend
told me about her fantasy, which was that I was her boss and gave her a performance review, while a union representative watched. It was bad ménage-ment.
(apeloverage committed the vile act of onanism on, Sun 13 Jun 2010, 8:54, 2 replies)

I nominate Fabio Capello
for bringing on Shaun Wright-Phillips instead of Joe Cole.
( stopmeandslapme Cometh the hour, cometh your mum, Sun 13 Jun 2010, 7:46, 1 reply)

National Conference
National chain of high profile jewellery stores selling a particularly popular type of charm bracelet.

Busiest times of the year usually include the lead up to Christmas, Valentine's Day & Mother's Day.

They decide to have a national conference, dragging in the store manager & assistant managers from every store in the country, to meet with company management for a week long talkfest.

When do they schedule it? The week leading up to Valentine's Day, of course!!
(Barry Dangerous, Sun 13 Jun 2010, 2:22, 2 replies)

Endless office moves and pissing away cash
Every time someone gets bored of where they sit they decide to move, or the whole department moves. This isn't due to any business reasons, purely because they fancy a change. I've even had very senior managers move across the room to be nearer their team (an excuse), then ask to move back a week later as "it's too dark over there".

I've done about 30+ moves so far this year, and our company only has 100 people. Working in IT this means I get the pleasure of wading through all the shit and scum they stack up under their desks and humping their PCs around the building.

We've just had a big company meeting to tell everyone that we need to save a load of money as a main client has reduced how much work / money our company gets. Everyone in the company had to attend. People got laid off...

A department decides to move to another floor, and buy new funky shaped desks, even though the current ones are in 100% perfect condition. Managers sign this off.

Then a different department decides to move, even though there's not enough space for their department or storage for all their documents... So they're spending money on getting cupboards built.

And now they've decided to spend money on re-decorating large parts of the office... The parts that were done late last year!!

I wish I had something witty to say about it all, but unfortunately that's just a very small part of their daftness. Joy.
(Future Handsome Young Millionare, Sat 12 Jun 2010, 23:19, 4 replies)

play this on loop while reading that VVV
www.youtube.com/watch?v=EjMNNpIksaI
( weaver., Sat 12 Jun 2010, 21:05, 1 reply)

Tale's of a modern day twat - The ultimate DVD collectors item. But with no extras
In an effort to clear up confusion, write one of the longest QOTW responses and lay claim to the ultimate pearoast, I have cobbled together the 4 parts of my “Tales of a modern day twat” story. This is not a re-write and therefore it does not contain a Honda Accord. Sorry for this. Length is a gift, please accept this kindly.

This is some loosely based facts and stories about a guy who claimed to be my boss.......... He is called Paul Fright and is, was, and always will be a complete turd.

Paul would take great pleasure in seeing someone else make a mistake (drop something, trip over, soil yourself etc) by standing near the person, arms folded, shaking his head with a huge shit-eating grin on his face before unleashing some frighteningly cutting and witty remark along the lines of "I don't think you wanted to do that!" Before bowling off and tell all and sundry what a prat you were for fucking up.

He droned on and on about "Uni" and how wacky it is to be a student, have no money, get blitzed on booze every night of the week and have an abundance of sexually active ladies running around him, while at the same time looking like a complete penis with ill-fitting trousers, thick glasses and a laugh that sounds more like a sedated hyena than a human being; working every day God sends, then going out for a night on the town in work uniform, having 4 pints of piss-weak beer and then go of his nut puking over his only work-clothes and then getting blasted by every single girl he comes into contact with, eventually getting raped by two burly overweight men in an alleyway before stumbling home to get a bollocking off his Mum for getting in late.

Sunday afternoons in the Fright household consist of hefty religious gangbang sessions where the family all sit around admiring how great they are while pondering how far his dad can get his fist up his old dears Gary glitter. This is swiftly followed by some hairy-handed adolescent activity in his darkened bedroom with nothing more than a torch and his dad's second hand copy of scouts monthly. After many seconds of vigorous hand shuffling he spills his "Cuntridden" spunk over his hand and then lets the family dog lick it off.

After appearing in court on charges of sexual deviance and pissing off the judge so much that he thinks twice about the use of capital punishment, he swans into work with a swagger that suggest pre teen buggery has taken place in the last few minutes, on his day off. Wearing the most god awful attire (usually consisting of the shittest market stall trainers, the tightest drain pipe stonewash jeans that look like something bon jovi would wear while laxing round the gaff and a t-shirt that would probably say something along the lines of "look busy, Jesus is coming") to tell one and all that they are doing everything wrong no matter what their boss has told them and then proclaim that things you are doing are never going to be as good as the things he has achieved in other places.

He leaves work after an hour of pissing everyone off to the point of bloody murder and strolls gentry down to the nearest church group to offer his mundane drivel to nearest poor sap who is willing to lend a misplaced ear. After a fragrant attempt at luring a young boy into the toilets he leaves with his tail between his legs and off to fight another court order.

On finishing his 89-hour shift at work, Paul then swings past the local orphanage to laugh at the children. He starts to take his spying a little too seriously when he is caught hanging from the 3rd floor window with his trousers round his ankles, cackling manically, with his glasses all wonky.
In the police-cell Paul meets a charming man called Dave, who is 7ft tall, built like oil tanker and has the word "Dave" tattooed backwards on his head. After several minutes of silence, Dave stands up and bangs his head on an overhanging pipe. The resultant roaring laughter from Paul infuriates Dave to the point where he threatens to turn his entire body inside-out and bugger him in the face if he doesn't shut his stupid horse-mouth. Paul, in a moment of weakness retorts that Dave "looks like he's been through a hedge backwards, and is gay." But Before Dave is able to tear Paul's DNA out a policeman enters to take Paul away for processing.

Once bailed from the cells Paul takes a long walk home, mincing along like a right pranny and notices a dying sheep in a field, mewing intermittently with its eyes rolling back in its head and all maggots and flies penetrating the already decaying flesh.
After contracting genital warts and the plague off the dead sheep Paul decides his best plan of action, rather than going to a doctor for antibiotics, is to burn off the warts with some lighter fluid and a match. Inevitably, he sets fire to his entire crotch and runs panic-stricken into the local Nuns-Against-Arson meeting at the school hall. He is chased by a gang of pissed-off nuns who corner him and begin to bat at his bollocks with lead-piping to put the fire out and to release his tiny dick from the hands of the devil. Unfortunately Paul flies into a fit of rage upon hearing one of the nuns whisper something to the effect of "Look at the size of that tosser's willy. You couldn't plug a pin-hole leak with that." And savagely beats 3 nuns to death.

His actions alert the police and he tries to hide from them by dressing as a baby but this only creates further problems as he finally found by the SWAT team, in a nursery, wearing only a toddler's nappy, crying and defecating wildly. His embarrassing attire is made all the worse when he is kept wearing it all night before being thrown into a cell. With Dave.

Upon realising his unbelievable good fortune Dave, who by now has the has the sexual frustration and anger of a bachelor rhino on Viagra who has lost the use of his limbs, grins from ear to ear as the odly dressed and shit smelling Paul Fright is dragged into Dave's cavernous layer. The resulting hours of endless violence, torture, nasal buggery and humiliation towards young fright do not dent that thick skinned outer layer that surrounds his socially unaware soul. He lays in bed that night thinking that this kind of abuse does not hold a candle compared to what he gets at home. As a fait tear drips down his cheek, the slight flicker of an erection from his penis, what can only be medically described as "pathetic", gently arouses him as he plots his future.

During his trial he decides to represent himself in court as no self-respecting lawyer would touch him with a fifty-foot shit stick. After many hours of endless monotony and court attendees subtly and repeatedly coughing the word "cunt", the jury turns in a verdict of not guilty. When the judge said "what the Fuck" the Forman of jury replied "releasing a man like this back into the community can only serve in the aid of social evolution of our nation. Upon meeting him everyone will be aware of what a complete and utter cunt he actually is and will turn there life around on the spot". With these words resonating around his ears he stands up, folds his arms and laughs like chimpanzee with his balls caught in a metal vice.

With justice served Paul wonders merrily down to the nearest Starbucks for a coffee still wearing the same shit and piss stained clothes. In a sarcastic and moronic tone while playing with his glasses with one hand and fluttering his eyes in a way that suggests a stroke is imminent, he orders a double grande,moccachino,frappechino,espresso with Soya milk and fair trade sugar. Blissfully Unaware of the persistent giggling and hushed name calling that is going on behind the counter he sits down to read is copy of "modern railway collector".

To relieve himself of the stress of relentless court appearances and arrests, Paul decides his best option is to take a short holiday in Beirut. He orders his tickets for an Easy-Jet extra-economy seat (due to his chronic tight-fistedness) and proceeds to board the plane. On finding his extremely small seat (with hay instead of cushions, and a pocket fan with shit smeared on it instead of air-conditioning) he found himself sitting squeezing in between two tramps. Both tramps appear confused due to excessive quantities of alcohol and meth-amphetamines in their system and proceed to drill Paul with random conversation. Unfortunately for the tramps they touch upon the subject of child-molestation on which Paul is an expert. After 3 and half hours of lurid details involving Paul and St Josephs-Boys-Under-12 choir group, the tramps decide to move seats, leaving Paul to stare out of the plane window over the war-torn capital of Lebanon. As the plane touches down Paul decides to go for a jaunt around the city but is instantly pulled up by immigration for numerous sexual offences committed in Britain. However after explaining it was all an accident, the officials let him go into town.

Paul, being a monumental wanker, heads straight for the porno theatre for some continental thrills. 10 minutes into the sex show, Paul manages to entice one of the ladies into a secluded booth, and attempt a bit of 'romance'. Upon finishing his liaison the lady reveals herself to be an old man, and the numerous photographs he had just taken of them together could only be bought for a high price. Paul, being a legendary skin-flint, refuses to pay up and a fight breaks out, with the transvestite old-man beating Paul with a foot-long shit-encrusted dildo whilst Paul attempts to pull his trousers up. The cheap-as-shit trousers Paul has on falls to bits, and he is left running through the Lebanon streets in only a pair of Postman Pat boxers and white socks, with two different sets of cum and shit pasted all over his body.
The ensuing riot that kicks off as a result of the grievous act of heresy of Paul's running through the street leads to an international incident, with Paul at the front line. After pleading ignorance and crying to the judge he is let off with a fine.

Paul then beats a hasty exit back to England, whereupon he is flogged by the public for being such a knob. In the melee at Luton airport Paul's glasses are broken leaving him as blind as teenage boy who has just discovered the internet. His disorientation and latent stupidity leads him to a meeting for right-wing extremists at the local church. His inappropriate laughter during one of the fascist leader's emphatic speeches draws attention to the 100-strong band of skin-head thugs. When someone asked "What the fuck was that garish sniggering?" Paul shouted, hilariously to his own mind, "Your Mum." As Paul was unable to see where he was or the company he was sitting with, he was equally unaware of the impending violence that was coming his way in the form of hammers to the knees, Dr Marten's boots to the testicles, and bolt-cutters to his tongue.

Strangely, Paul survived this onslaught and woke up in hospital the next morning in a full-body cast. He tried to ask one of the nurses if she could cut a hole in the cast so he could use the toilet, which she duly did. She accidentally slipped her scissors right up his bell-end when cutting the hole, after Paul made a woeful attempt at chatting her up. When the nurse bandaged his puny dick up she revealed someone had come to meet him. His eyes pricked up when he was told he had a visitor. After a few minutes a familiar lady entered the room and threw a couple of photos onto his bed. Unable to move and having difficulty breathing, Paul began to fear for his life when he realized it was the old man from his trip. Luckily for Paul he hadn't visited to kill him, but felt concern as the old man gradually lifted a smile from his lips as he unzipped his trousers. "Convenient hole you've made for yourself there." The old man said as he pulled the bed curtains around Paul's bed.

After leaving hospital with minor anus burns and penis abrasions, Paul decides to have a change of appearance due to the fact that everyone wants to either kill him or have him hung, draw and quartered in public. Upon realising he has no cash he goes off to the cash point to withdraw some wonga. After spending twenty minutes at one machine organising his savings, mortgage and loans he had irritated one old pensioner to the point where she threatened to stick her walking stick where the sun doesn't shine and kick seven shades of shite out of him.

Leaving the cash point with only a tenner, Paul could her the words "fuck off you tight-fisted malingering cunt" being loudly and violently screamed at him by a gang of valium and HRT addicted pensioners. Being an ignorant and misinformed arrogant knob, Paul thinks they are shouting at a bunch of school kids who where laughing there heads off across the street. What Paul did not realise is that the teenagers were gut laughing at the incredibly noticeable shit stain of the back of his "cheap as shit", white, drainpipe trousers.

However, after spending some time out of the country waiting for the "heat to die down", Paul is blissfully unaware of what style is going down with the kids. He decides that a certain level of research is in order and makes his merry way along to the local bowling alley to pucker up on his fashion knowledge. Being tighter than a ducks arse, Paul uses his crumpled up bus ticket to get a cheaper lane. He purposely asks for the lane next to a group of girls who are celebrating there friends fifteenth birthday, but what caught Paul's eye was the distinct lack of adult supervision.

When it comes to these sorts of things Paul is quicker than a rat up a hippies flairs with cheese tied to his knob. But just before he went to his lane Paul buys a drink, with his arms crossed and I his usual cockfesting sarcastic voice he asks for a "yard of your finest ale please innkeeper", in an equally ironic sarcastic tone the spotty faced teenager behind the counter replies "not before I've seen your finest rectangular ID please, TWAT". Being the though fledged dick that he is, Paul digs out old uni card and invariantly dropped a shit load of pictures out of his wallet that look like a rather ugly man shoving a oversized, shit stained black dildo up the rectum of a man in a dress. After some hefty conversation that went along the lines of:

"your a twat"
"what was that prey just said?"
"your a twat, now get fucked and die"
"excuse me my good man"
"I'm not your good man, What part of fuck off don't you understand?"
"pardon comrade"
"just fuck off and take your cunting drink"

Paul was walked away thinking that the service is nothing to what his Iceland days were like, Paul made his way to his lane holding his piss warm carling that has been blatantly spat in by the barman. While looking for his right size ball he was standing next to some blokes and Paul happened to make his usual off the cuff nosey, cuntish comment. "selecting your weapon are you gentleman" to which was swiftly replied "piss off you nonce".

Paul knew he had a real skill at bowling due a miss spent youth hanging round bowling alleys with church groups and work outings EVERY FUCKING Friday night and in later life as a male prostitute looking for business from rich sweedish business men. He knew this was his chance to impress the young ladies on the adjacent lane with his three finger skill. upon bowling a strike on his first go he was expected a certain level off accolade from the girls but he was greeted with laughter and looks of disgust from the girls. Because Paul is a monumental tramp of the highest order, he was wearing the same clothes he was wearing in hospital and was completely unaware that all the stagnant cum stains that the dirty tranny had left on his black trousers were standing out under the neon lights like a "Black man in a Klan rally".

Realising that he cool factor was at minus one million Paul promptly finished his game and left for the arcade............

I have never seen him since he got fired for sexual harassment, i hope i never do.
(CaptainCuntyBollocks the man who can with a frying pan full of lamb, Sat 12 Jun 2010, 20:48, 5 replies)

I had a rude
Taxi driver around Cumbria a while back. Someone should let that guy go before he does something crazy...
(CactusZack Shaved his coin purse on, Sat 12 Jun 2010, 18:40, Reply)