The Art of Getting Sacked - Day OneSubmitted by Spam at 2005-11-08 08:37:33 EST
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It’s not an original idea I know - I’ve read countless books and seen more than a few movies on the matter but this is a truthful account and not so long ago, details like that used to matter.
Spurious disciplinary meetings and formal written warnings do not a happy Spam make. Factor in the loss of my £1k bonus due next month and my salary being frozen in place for the next 2 years and mere unhappiness starts to look like an emotional state to strive for.
What really gets me though, is that I’ve done enough to secure a righteous sacking ten times over since I’ve been here and instead fate has decreed that I get roasted over something completely out of my hands.
That’s just mean, man. Plain old mean.
So I quit.
But you see, like everybody, I CAN’T just up and quit - I have these annoying inconveniences called ‘Bills’ which I guess require paying every now and again and while I’m at work, I’m not out there looking for another job.
Answer: Garden Leave.
For the uneducated, Garden Leave is a system normally reserved for your high power directors and such - when they hand their notice in, the company normally decides that it would be better for all concerned if they were to serve their notice period in the comfort of their luxury villa in the Algarve rather than go through all of the bother of actually turning up and pretending that what they do is important.
So I figure I’ve gotta get me some of this garden leave shit - I can get paid for being at home looking for a job that doesn’t involve taking old ladies out for dinner in a prelude to Vaseline-aided beasting AND fit in my intense regime of cannabis, brandy and This Morning (with neither Richard NOR Judy). The way I see it, I’ve got about a week to get myself suspended to make it worthwhile. Tough break.
What’s that you say? Come into work wearing only a Partyboy thong ‘n bowtie and punch out the boss? Tempting, but can you say ‘Summary Dismissal’?
You see under company policy, because I’ve handed my notice in I can only be put through disciplinary process for something considered an act of gross misconduct - in which case I would be fired on the spot without severance pay and sent out into the big harsh world of unemployment with no job, no money, and no reference. Not the way to go.
Misdemeanours my friends. It’s all about the misdemeanours.
0800am: Dawn of a new era.
Okay, so I’ve got to start small and work my way up, Bossman received my resignation on Friday afternoon and wants to ‘discuss’ the matter with me at 11:00am today, so I figure it’ll make suitably a good impression if I turn up to work a healthy 45 minutes late - just to set some groundwork. It’s a pleasant feeling to be completely awake with plenty of time to spare to get to work but to instead spend the morning sitting at home watching TV in your undies.
0951: My arrival.
Mission accomplished. Donna, (My Team-leader and Bossman’s chief minion) clocks me strolling in to work unshaven and unconcerned. I smile openly at her look of reproach and this infuriates her further so my grin widens. Nothing starts the day better than a nice little anger/happiness feedback-loop between yourself and your so-called ‘superior’.
1002: My first fag break.
Oh yes, I waited a whole eleven minutes.
1030: My return
I laugh in the face of your 10 minute break policy.
1033: The tea round.
Hey I’m supplying a valuable service here - caffeine is good for morale.
Ever thought how funny it would be if, when you’re carrying a fully laden tray of luke-warm drinks from the shitty tea machine, you were to ‘accidentally’ trip over a carelessly positioned network cable and spill the entire contents over the desk of the annoying twat that does nothing all day but her makeup? Well I can now answer that question for you:
Funny. As. Fuck.
11:00 The meeting
This guy has always intimidated me. I think it might be because he looks like Chris Eubank. Having said that, this is the crux, the moneyshot - if I can be attitude laden enough in this meeting without stretching it to the point of being abusive, I should be handing in my badge and stapler within the hour. It’s a fine line to tread.
“…I just want to be absolutely sure that you’ve thought this through properly Sam. I mean - are you positive that this isn’t a rash decision made in anger?” He's talking to me in neutral tones like we've been buddies for years. God I hate this guy.
“Don’t be ridiculous Martin. OF COURSE it was a decision made in anger – I’m still absolutely furious at you for essentially wrecking my career because too many people in the department are taking time off sick and you needed somebody to make an example of.”
“Well," He says, "I can’t ‘officially’ advise you to argue against the decision, but if you don’t agree with it, an appeal is definitely one option to consider.”
I look at him for a long second before replying.
“What does THAT even mean? Are you telling me to stay and appeal against the decision or not?”
“No I’m not. But then again, I’m not telling you NOT to appeal against it either. It’s like this Sam…“
I cut him off: “You know what? Forget it. I didn’t really care anyway. I think that’s the main problem. I’m sick of it all Martin. I’m sick of listening to you go through these managerial speeches only to realise that whilst your can talk all day, you're saying practically nothing. I’m sick of sitting at my desk in a state of impotent anger because you can’t be bothered to fill the 5 positions that have been vacant for over a year and so I have to do two other people’s jobs. I’m sick of the complete and utter lethargy that washes over me as soon as my swipe-card hits the doorlock and I enter the building. Basically, I don't care - not about a single thing that goes on in this godforsaken place.”
“I see” He leans back and steeples his hands.
“I don’t think you do Martin. In fact, let me break it down for you – I don’t like this company, I don’t like the job I do here, I don’t like the people I do it with and I don’t like YOU”.
And our survey Says:- Fuck you.
Martin isn’t even the slightest taken aback by this tirade and continues: - "Sam, I know you think that I'm some big mean 'ogre' out to 'get you' but let me tell you.."
I don't let him tell me.
"You’re right Martin - That's EXACTLY what I think of you." I have to stop myself from adding - 'and if you use your fingers to do those 'air quotations' one more time, I'm gonna snap the fuckers off’ - I'm already flirting with gross misconduct in this meeting - and that means I'll lose the game.
"That's quite sad Sam." He says quietly.
"It would be difficult for me to adequately describe to you how little that comment means to me." I pause thoughtfully. "Actually, no. I think I just did it."
“And you’re sure that this is what you want to do?"
"Have you been listening to a single word I've said?"
He leans back with an air of finality. "Okay, well this isn't going anywhere. Go back to your desk and get on with your work."
What the fuck??
I just told you I DIDN'T FUCKING CARE about this place and you STILL want me here for another four weeks? are you fucking STUPID??
so it would appear.
1230: A quick exit.
it's four hours since my official start time and my PC still hasn't been turned on. It doesn't seem worth it now somehow. So...
"Donna, I've gotta go to the docs at two o’clock."
"You never mentioned that earlier."
"Didn't have time. anyway, my lunch is due to start now and I'll probably go straight to the surgery afterwards. It'll be a long appointment so I guess I'll see you tomorrow.
I'm praying she'll say something about the audacity of taking lunch after being 50 minutes late but the weak cunt doesn't and so I walk out unchallenged 4 hours early and after having done absolutely nothing in the time I was here.
But I still have to come back tomorrow.
I need to up my game.