But not as much as the properly important suit barging closed doors open and scowling significantly. He barrelled into these vertical stairs barking loudly on his mobile phone, whilst thrusting his expense account gut forward in a parody of an Alpha-Male.
â€œTell Riley to stop fucking about, close the sodding deal and get back to me with the numbers pronto; Iâ€™m breakfasting with Fothrington-Smythe but the Blackberry is on” he shouts casting a sideways glance in my direction to see if Iâ€™m properly in awe of his corporate power.
Unfortunately for his ego, Iâ€™m giving him â€œlike I give a fuckity fuckï¿½” – having just trounced a uber-roadie on a three mile elbows out sprint, and further offering a facial clue that should he out Satanâ€™s communicator, heâ€™ll be in the centre of a practical experiment involving the wireless feasibility of a prostrate inserted mobile device.
Iâ€™m not sure he got all that as he repeatedly stabs the â€œG” button which is clearly already illuminated since Iâ€™m pressed it just the once. Which is honestly is all it needs. But this billing monster refuses to accept that a binary electronic matrix lacks the electronic brain to comprehend his importance.
FAT FINGERD STAB â€œCome on, COME ONâ€™ VIGOUROUS PRESS “What is WRONG with this bloody thing” Punch, breathy sigh. Since Iâ€™m assuming itâ€™s not me whoâ€™s the unwilling recipient of this angst, I keep stum and quietly enjoy this lift stoppage with a tired slump against the mirror. A mirror in which heâ€™s preening himself, executively straightening his tie and gut sucking a heroic pose.
I can keep quiet no longer but after nearly a year of corporate erosion, no longer do I believe that honesty is the best policy. The last person to say that has clearly never tried it. So instead of hanging him from his Jermyn street silk tie whilst screaming â€œlook you fat dickhead, no one even lightly bolted to reality fucking cares. NO ONE“, I offer up a somewhat watered down â€œLifts eh? Rubbish, you should ask for a new one that recognises whoâ€™s important“
He gives me â€œthat look” â€“ you know the one, reserved for unnamed underlings who fetch his coffee and practise the 5th floor art of terrified flattery. As you probably know by now, Iâ€™m not well regarded for my ability to give a shit when provoked, so responded with a gentle crotch rub and a rather magnificent flatulent outburst.
I honestly thought he was going to take my name. It was properly funny and more so when the lift finally offered up the ground floor. I briskly stepped forward, bracing myself against the lift doors, and gave him both barrels of the armpits of doom as a morning aphrodisiac.
Sometimes I just canâ€™t help myself regardless of possible instant redundancy. Stepping out at a pace of a man with time on his hands, I turned with a winning smile and presented this snippet of advice â€œStairs over there to the right, they also work for important people like you” before exiting rapidly stage right into the sweaty changing rooms. I know heâ€™s not going to soil himself following me in there.
So thought for today â€œnever miss the opportunity to puncture the shallow ego of a windy bag of self importance” Think of it as a selfless act of public service. I felt GREAT for the rest of the morning.
This is what I love about working class backgrounds â€“ allows you to be perfectly balanced with a chip on both shoulders.