Has the office skiver finally reached his nadir?

Tempers flared in the boss’s office and he stomped off red-faced and full of self-righteous indignation.

We’ve since been told he’s working from home – don’t make me laugh – and the boss remains tight lipped about the whole affair.

There’s no love lost between the pair who regularly clash like a pair of  bellowing walruses fighting for towel space.

We’ve since worked out that he has taken a day off every week for the past nine months. Unbelievable. May the maggots of sloth dine on his indolent flesh.


The office loafer has taken a leaf out of a colleague’s book and rung in today to say he is ‘working at home.’ Yes, of course he is.

Is it really too much to expect him to work just one full week this year? Sorry. I just realised how stupid it was to even ask that question.


Friday afternoon in the office. The sun is high over the yard-arm. A deathly silence hangs over a sea of empty desks. In the name of God, what has befallen them all? Just me and the gibbering loon by the water cooler…


If there is one thing that stokes my fires of righteous indignation it is someone playing the ‘I’m working at home today’ card.

The skiver, sorry, work colleague called in this morning in an earnest voice simpering about how much work they had to do and that the office was too much of a distraction.

Sorry, run that by me again, you bullshitter?

You are working from home  or just getting up late, loafing around on the sofa and going shopping because you can’t be bothered to come in?

May the boils of Job be visited upon their leperous hide.


Office skiver just can’t help himself even when it’s obvious he isn’t sick.

 Surprise, surprise, he rings up today (Friday) and says he’s ill.

He sounds fine on the phone even a little impatient as if calling in is a tiresome chore to be got out of the way before his extended weekend begins.


Office loafer had last week off but the strain of coming back to work for two days has taken its toll and he was off today for ‘personal reasons.’

It’s a sacrosanct excuse. The joker in the pack of skiving because it could cover any number of sensitive reasons that a boss is ill advised to challenge.

Of course, he has no genuine reason beyond being an idle 30 something layout who’s been genetically mapped with a sloth.

Oh well, he’ll be back in tomorrow wiping his brow and telling us how busy he is. Tell it to the hand.


A friend brought some gooseberries over today. A strange fruit to be sure. The closest thing we have to hobbit food. A hillbilly cousin of the loathed sprout and lowest member of the fruit clan.

I’d liken the taste to putting your tongue on the end of a battery. You haven’t tried that? Come on, you haven’t lived. It’s one of those youthful experiments I’d put up there with putting your finger in a light socket and eating raw bacon.


The skiver sent a mournful email today saying that he had failed in his bold as brass attempt to get a job promotion. I’m surprised he even had time to apply given his prolonged absences from the office. I’ve no doubt this latest rebuff will see him pull sickies out of the bag, left, right and centre while we’re left to carry the can.


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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