I've been suffering with the lurgey now for about three weeks. I thought I was over the worst at the weekend, but the bastard was lying low and ambushed me again this week. I feel lower than earthworm shit. I'm still fit enough for work (worse luck) so I've been traipsing to the living hell I call my job dying with man-flu. Not making it any better is a colleague of mine who has to be the biggest annoying bastard this side of Nick Owen. (Viewers not in the Midlands may remember him from his double act with Anne Diamond. Unfortunately for us unlucky Brummies he reads our local news on the Beeb, and tries to make it "fun" with his crappy puns. I wish Pamela Stephenson would show up again and shove that banana up his arse. I digress.)
This annoying colleague is a fat bastard. I'm not against overweight people (I'm one myself! It cost me the Bond gig!) but he is fat, and he is a bastard. He substitutes shouting for personality, he substitutes repetition for wit, and he substitutes repetition for wit. He likes bullying the temps, and grabbing other colleagues in bear hugs or half-nelsons. I won't stand for any of that shit. He's an arsehole. A fat sweaty, lazy gobshite whose father should have pulled out early. Because he can see I'm poorly, he's made a beeline for me this week, but I won't stand for it, and tell him to fuck off. He threatened to stab me, but that was because I accidentally-on-purpose sprayed silicone release spray in his fat face when he was bothering me on Monday. When he was aimlessly making annoying noises and shouting that same afternoon, I told him to "stick a pie in it" to which he threatened to knock me out. Ooooohh, I'm scared! He's like a fucking pelican ie. all beak. With a flapping bag attached. After our little contretemps I spent the afternoon whistling the Rocky theme at him. I'd like to see him try and knock me out, because a)He'd get the sack and b)he'd get my toecap right under his third chin. The fat cunt.
I feel better for getting that off my chest. Thanks for listening.