‘Fight one more round. When your feet are so tired that you have to shuffle back to the center of the ring, fight one more round. When your arms are so tired that you can hardly lift your hands to come on guard, fight one more round. When your nose is bleeding and your eyes are black and you are so tired that you wish that your opponent would crack you one on the jaw and put you to sleep, fight one more round – remembering that the man who always fights one more round is never whipped.’

James L. Corbett

 

The skiver disappeared from our office six months ago under mysterious circumstances. It followed numerous clashes with the boss who has since refused to be drawn on the subject.

These two egos provided some uncomfortable but highly amusing encounters with both bellowing bragging rights like a couple of old tuskers.

His known misdemeanors included being found sleeping in the storeroom of an afternoon, taking numerous days off work with various bogus ailments and an inability to take orders from a female superior.

Surprise, surprise, he rings out of the blue this week and shed some belated light on the ‘Bermuda Triangle’ of office disappearances.

He ‘accidently’ accessed the boss’s email account and found that his immediate manager had been sending regular messages reporting on his behaviour.

He then read through six months of her emails, ran off hard copies and, next time they argued, pulled them out and presented them as evidence of his victimization to the very person whose email account he’d illegally accessed.

Not surprisingly she hits the roof. As a result, he first threatens an industrial tribunal and then demands three months pay to leave without a fuss. They basically say ‘bollocks, you’re sacked’ and give him one month’s pay in lieu of ¬†being put outside with the cat and empty milk bottles.

He, of course, seems to think he is innocent of any wrongdoing as he always did (see ‘office life’ category for his long and illustrious fall from grace). ¬†Classic.

 

Quality sounds effects.

jj

 

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Dylan Thomas, poet

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