Our freelance internet editor left today removing a bad tempered pall that hung over the office. This was largely governed by his mood which was as reliable as an English summer.

Why do people stay in jobs that make them unhappy and then take their frustration out on everyone else? Well, I shouldn’t look to closely in the mirror on that score but stop short of making other people’s lives a misery as a result of it.

He was like a bear out of hibernation whose first task on rising from being bedded down in his own shit all winter is to bang his head on the cave ceiling and blame someone else.

It’s difficult to feel angry with someone who is hurting so much but I was sorely tempted to kick him in his hard drive on a couple of occasions.

He was led to the edge of his personal volcano the other day when only a handful of people were around to go for his final lunch. He canceled it in a pique sending round an uber stroppy email speaking of his humiliation at having to cancel it.

He was a nice guy when he wanted to. However, facing him over a bowl of sweet and sour while the thunder god creased his flabby brow was enough for people to make their excuses and exit stage left. Adios, Mr Grumpy. May you find sunnier pastures.


I had one of my more entertaining experiences yesterday which was getting inked while the tattooist was listening to the Japan vs Paraguay World Cup match.

It didn’t help that she was Japanese and paused in her work every time the yellow peril neared the opposition’s goal mouth leaving the tattoo gun dancing above my skin like some absent minded mechanical wasp.

It got worse. The game went down to sudden death penalties so I suggested she take a break to avoid puncturing my kidneys. Good call. They lost.

Someone put on Sinatra’s ‘My Way’ as a swansong which didn’t go down well with the vanquished.

We went through it all the previous Sunday when the German’s rolled over England with the ease of a panzer tank rolling over a deck chair. Bulldog spirit? More like Chihuahuas.


I went into the store cupboard yesterday and who rose out of the gloom like the Prince of Darkness himself but the office’s resident loafer. He said he was ‘resting’ on the floor for a few minutes because he had back ache.

Back ache from what? Watching too many World Cup matches on the trot like some beached sea cucumber.

I’d heard of his work siestas but couldn’t believe it until I found his new subterranean nest complete with a rolled up t-shirt for a pillow.

He followed it up the next morning by ringing in saying he’d hurt his leg jogging the night before and couldn’t come in. Hurt his leg? I’d tie a pork chop to his ankle and throw him in the crocodile pond at London Zoo. I bet it would be working fine then.

Ah well, his antics do raise a smile for this office rat. At least we don’t have to worry about covering his workload as he does sweet FA apart from thinking up ever elaborate ways of dodging work.


Oops. Looks like the skiver’s granny really did kick the bucket last week when I suspected him of using it as an elaborate ploy to watch the World Cup.

This may, of course, be some deep cover deception designed to detract even the hardest of cynics from scenting his latest break for the border.

Still, we have three weeks of the tournament left and plenty of scope for skiver to go down with some bogus ailment or vague all afternoon meeting at an undisclosed location (the front of his TV).


It’s coming home, it’s coming home, football’s coming home. No it’s not judging by England’s fumbling start to another World Cop campaign. A draw against the USA? It all has a depressingly familiar sense of deja vu.

We had all the momentum of a paraplegic coming out of the traps minus his wheels. Algeria are our next opponents whose greatest claim to fame is that Albert Camus used to be their goalie back in the day.

It is inevitable that we will make a mountain out of a molehill and labor to a narrow unconvincing victory. England expects (to be on the next plane home shortly).


The loafer put on an Oscar winning performance to ensure he saw the opening match of the World Cup today.

He blustered into the office in a faux panic to tell us granny was ill and the family had been called to her bedside ‘immediately’ as the old dear was in God’s waiting room.

I’m sure it was a pure coincidence that the football was on that afternoon.

Loafer is going to be taking more time off than Bob Crow this summer while convincing everyone but himself that he is being worked into an early grave.

The mind boggles at the delusion that washes through his cranial lobes.


The office environment provides a rich and varied habit for many species of loafer who dedicate their waking hours to maintaining a facade of busyness while doing sweet FA.

They put considerable effort into an identity of earnest professionalism which doesn’t fool anyone but themselves

I have encountered all manner of shirker, charlatan and idler during my twenty sentence in the public sector but was amused to hear on the jungle drums of one of our managers who’d been caught sleeping in the store room on several times.

I’m told he leaves a gap behind a wall of strategically placed storage crates which he lays behind like some giant hamster preparing for hibernation.

What? The same little oily haired turd who is always huffing and puffing about how busy he is while popping out for his umpteenth cigarette of the day or busy extracting his head from some superior’s ass-hole.

He sounds like perfect promotion material. Uncle Joe would have strung him up by the ceiling flex although I would just settle for a picture of this modern day Nosferatu in his resting place. Pass the stake, please.

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