Targets, Targets, Targets !!!
This was the mantra of an old boss I used to have in a sales department for a large human resources firm. Over the particularly busy summer period my boss, a bloke named Derek, a dour dyed-in-the-wool Yorkshireman who thought anyone from the otherside of the M62 should be tarred and feathered as a matter of course, set up an office competition. Top sales bod got a car. Very impressive. Very impressive, indeed. Derek handed out the competition details on a sheet of A4 and fucked off to his office to masturbate over the image of Geoffrey Boycot. Now, not being a driver and also as I was swanning off for a great big chunk of the summer on my jollies and wouldn’t be able to make a stab at the competition, I ended up spending most of that June sitting round staring at the busty office temp, Sarah, as she jiggled her way through load after load of photocopying. And anyway, I’d read the incredibly-fucking-small smallprint at the bottom of the flyer.

At the time I worked with a bunch of arrogant bastards and wasn’t really in any hurry to point out the blatantly obvious flaw in Derek’s great prize give-away. Instead I sat back, hands behind my head, and watched as this bunch of walking abortions proceeded to backstab the fuck out of each other in a bid to be top sales bod.

I went on holiday, came back, and a few weeks later a meeting was called. The fella who came out on top and delivered the best sales figures was literally cumming at the prospect of receiving a shiny, brand new Ford Fiesta (Derek wasn’t a complete prick, he was hardly going to give away a Porsh). Still, a Fiesta’s a nice enough car if you get it for fuck all.

Derek sat in his big office chair behind his big desk and ploughed through a speech about how great we all were, and how happy he was with our overall blah blah blah blah blah... And then Derek called this cunt who’d won - a wanker from a public school with so much oil in his hair if he ever went swimming in the sea he’d cause an enviromental disaster that would attract the attention of the world’s media – to the front of the room.

“You did well, lad,” said Derek. The oily sod beamed. Derek reached down, opened a drawer. “There you go,” said Derek, and placed something in the lads outstretched eager and incredibly sweaty palm.

I think the lad was expecting a set of keys. But he got alot more than that. In his palm was a Ford Fiesta. A Matchbox Ford Fiesta. A nice one, mind. It was bright red. But it was a small toy car all the same.

Derek then launched into a thirty minute tirade about checking the small print on documents, and about how fucking shit and lousy we all were. It was fucking great. I quite enjoyed it. Afterwards the lad who’d won had to sneak off to the toilets to throw up a bit; I think you could say he was well and truly gutted.

In a funny sort of way I actually miss having Derek as my boss. He was an ok sort, once you got past the fact he was ever-so-slightly mental and a complete and utter bastard.
( SpankyHanky, Fri 19 Jun 2009, 10:10, 4 replies)

Legend
Great motivational technique
never going to work twice though
what a ruthless bastard
( notsosecretagentman, Fri 19 Jun 2009, 10:58, closed)

I've been gone for a couple of weeks...

So I have some catching up to do...

Top work as always sir, I will click, and then be on my way to read back through the last couple of weeks QotW answers...
( Pooflake braces for an onslaught..., Fri 19 Jun 2009, 13:20, closed)

Reminds
me of that woman that won a "Toy Yoda"

...I think she though she was getting a "Toyota"!
(dchurch bah, Fri 19 Jun 2009, 13:24, closed)

Allow me...



Y_S
(_(_(_(_(_(_(_(_(_ =o.o=, Fri 19 Jun 2009, 17:53, closed)