The Door That Hits Your Arse

"My boss was an alcoholic drug dealer who at times kept his loaded .45 caliber semiautomatic pistol on his desk, in full view of anyone walking through the area. Two of his friends recently died while snorting cocaine with him. My boss, unfortunately, lived." -- from toxicboss.com.

But before we get to that, we have some other business to which we must attend, because now is the time to yield a sigh and say "So, farewell then, Candyman."

Indeed, Danny Baker has broadcast his final show...for now, at least. The man named Disk Jockey of the Year at the Sony Awards this year has sailed away for the beaches of Florida, where he will work on what he describes as a film script for Channel 5.

Well...them's the facts...and let us leave that behind and start bellowing loudly at the radio for a station to give us a breakfast presenter who is even half as any good as the Baker.

This is not going to happen. We all know why, there is no need to jabber on here. It's not a question of demographics, of moronic laddish shite or twisted committee-based thinking...the simple fact is that, out there in the grim prairie land of talk-based radio, there is nobody else who is slightly Good Enough.

Christ...this is hard work. Ever try writing while following a football match? The words tumble and collapse like dominos and resist any attempt to prop them up into lines of sense.

To hell with it. This has been a strange weekend of highs and lows and I am still unsure what to make of it all. My throat is sore and thick clouds have hung low across the sky all day, yet I feel good right now. And I will feel better soon once I tell my boss where to stick his job...something to which I was alluding in my previous post in head-scratchingly oblique fashion.

I will not quit in spectacular fashion because they already know I will be leaving. But it will be made harder because I have already been offered a couple of thousand extra to stay...but I find that there is no part of me that cares about the money in this case. The job stinks.

Other people have quit their jobs in a more entertaining fashion.

In the Seinfeld episode "The Revenge" George quits his job.

"That's it. This is it. I'm done. Through. It's over. I'm gone. Finished. Over. I will never work for you again. Look at you. You think you're an important man? Is that what you think? You are a laughing stock. You are a joke. These people are laughing at you. You're nothing! You have no brains, no ability, nothing! I quit!"

Now that's good quitting. This is the dream of every man in every job out there.

And I look around now and find that a large amount of people leave their job entirely because of their boss. That is not why I am going to leave...but a new boss came in recently and has sent me into a bad tailspin from which my attitude in this job can never recover.

Ah, but this is useless bellyaching - other people have it much worse. The example I used at the start of this thing is worrying enough, but the Internet bleeds profusely with stories of this nature. Degredation, power, sex-craziness and sleaze all coagulate into a bad substance that stalks the factory floor and leaps down the throat of anyone who dares go into full-time employment.

Let us wallow in a couple of examples.

"About my sister, who was dying of cancer, [he said] 'God, it's taking your sister so long to die!'" -- from npr.org

My first day, I showed up in a suit and heels. The atmosphere was very formal; everybody called each other "Mr." and "Ms." When I met my boss (the president's wife), the first thing out of her mouth after "Hello" was "You talked so proper on the phone, I thought you were white." -- from etiquettehell.com.

And so on.

Well...the light outside is beginning to fade, I have been picking at this post for an eternity and my eyes are burning with some rotten strain...once again I will come to a close before coming to any kind of conclusion, but what the hell, eh?