I don’t Need No Good Advice

Brenda had her first one to one with me today. She tried to give the impression that it was informal by providing coffee (from the machine, it tastes like hot-dog sausage brine) and banana flavoured flumps. It was formal enough for me to ensure that my guard was up.

She sits really, really close and adopts a tone that Margaret Thatcher would find supercilious.

“Now. Your team’s performance has been patchy, how do you account for this?”

I shrugged.

“Take the Tantazia campaign for example. There were more complaints than bookings.”

“The leads were weak.” I suggested tentatively.

“The LEADS were weak. I could have taken those leads and toasted the whole of Bolton until they were a crisp.”

A waft of tuna, onions and garlic escaped from her gob and hit me like a sock full of rivets.

“I’m gonna help you be a winner. I’m gonna be your Alex Ferguson and you’ll be my David Beckham.”

More like – I’ll be your Keith Harris and you’ll be my Orville.

I wish I could fly.