Monday, 24 December 2007

Lord of the Files

Arsey stood before the desk, and saw the late afternoon winter sun strike off its polished exterior like a revelation, as if he were a religious figure of importance.

"Come on, Phil," he said nervously, twitching his water-resistant watch, "you know who did the work on the Health and Safety Policy, you know I went to the H&S: Towards a Happier, Safer Future courses."

Phil was unmoved and remained behind the desk, his face impassive as he looked at his monitor. It seemed to be tanning him.

"Phil," implored Arsey.

"Shut up, Arsey and fuck off out of my office."

"But I've made the appointment, I've been through HR, I've had it in the diary for weeks-"

"Fuck off."

"I wrote the policy, Phil, and now you're just going to present it to the board like it was yours." Arsey's sweat was becoming intolerable. He rose from his chair leaving a thong-shaped streak of arse-sweat on the leather seat. He tried to wipe it with one of Phil's tissues, but Phil just laughed, still encased by the document he was adapting.

"I said, fuck off. I've got the lever arch file," and he tapped the buff coloured folder on the desk. "Besides, the board elected me CEO and I write the policies and I take responsibility and I take the fucking credit. Now get out and write me that policy on diversity that was due last week."

"Come on, Phil, you know I haven't had time. I've been at the diversity seminars and I spent three days last week at the Appropriate Language course. By the way you can't tell a subordinate to fuck off. It's-"

"Fuck off." Phil stood up, and took the lever arch file off the desk.

"It's not right, it's harassment and it references hundreds of years of oppression by the dominant hierarchy and-"

"Fuck off, Arsey, and get the policy written before I fire you for being a twat."

Arsey's perspiration dripped down his face and he felt the late, global-warming flies inch towards his bounty of stale and salt-heavy sweat.

"Actually, twat is an offensive term of-" he felt the kick of Phil's Doc Marten's in his luxuriantly padded arse, "unless you were using it to reclaim it for-" bang went another kick, on another cheek, like an atom bomb. "And if you weren't, I could sue you for-"

And the door closed, and another policy was done; and all Phil could think as he slunk back into his leather chair was: Jesus these guys are wankers.

6 comments:

Bretwalda Edwin-Higham said...

You never fail to suprise, TD. Have a good time over the next few days.

Bretwalda Edwin-Higham said...

See I've been dropped from your blogroll.

The Tin Drummer said...

eh? what are you talking about? You're there, bold as brass, as usual in the BP roll!

Crushed by Ingsoc said...

Merry Xmas, TD.

I'll never forget you. You got me going, mate.

It's been an eventful year, since you and I first met.

I have this vision, of 2008 being a year where drums roll...

Welshcakes Limoncello said...

Came over - a little late, I know - to say Buon Natale, Tin Drummer. Auguri from Sicily.

Devil's Kitchen said...

Nice post: I giggled a bit...

Oh, I've only just listened to your interview; very nice and thanks very much for the mention...!

DK