Monday, 1 December 2008

Desperate times call for desperate measures

Sometimes we all have to do things we don’t like: it’s called sacrifice. I’ve told all male employees to stop sending so many emails. Frankly if they’re sending out more than 20 emails a day they should put a skirt on and I’ll pay them 15 grand a year and change their job title to secretary.

I told the whole staff last month that I was knocking the Christmas party on the head to save a few quid. I blamed falling orders and a tightening credit market. I think it worked. That’s the good thing about a recession, you can really frighten people. The claims for flexible working and pay rises have mysteriously stopped. We don’t have sales guys whining to me about their bonuses. Frankly, they think they’re lucky to have a job at all.

To be honest, the works Christmas party is one do I can well do without. For a start, over the years they’ve got a bit out of hand. We’ve had resignations, pregnancies and claims for harassment. It was costing me a fortune in lawyers bills. And it’s never the fit ones that beef about a bit of groping is it?

The REAL reason is I’ve cancelled it is that I’ve lost my security bloke and I’m feeling a bit, you know, vulnerable. He’s gone into hiding after someone outed him on the internet as a member of the BNP. I had NO idea. He never said much to be honest, he just smacked anyone who came too close to me in Panacea. Thinking on, the last time he vanished he said he’d been "on business in Burnley" and came back smelling of petrol.

So, a bit of austerity never hurt anyone. Frankly, we had the Chrimbo do pencilled in for the night before I was due to take an early morning helicopter trip down to the gaff in Abersoch for “a winter barbie on the beach” at Tony “Fordy” Ford’s place.

It’s all wrapped up with him splitting up with Andy “Cambo” Campbell. As far as I’m concerned that’s two more invites to hellraising Christmas parties this year.

Sadly, the racier end of the party market seems to have gone tame. I blame that Jacqui Smith, our so-called “home secretary”, which is probably where she should spend more time, ironing shirts and answering the phone. If you didn’t see it, she reckons taking clients to lap dancing bars is “bizarre”. I’ll tell you what’s “bizarre” – she’s the one who bowls up at the Commons with her nellies bursting all over the place after all. Maybe it could be a new revenue stream for New Labour – she’s not my type, but she’s got one or two colleagues who I’d slip £20 into their G-string, no problem. In like Flint, if you catch my drift.

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