By the cringe, it’s been a nightmare day today. I got to the factory this morning to find Tinkabell, my PA, flapping around the office in a panic with this bearded gonk from Elfin Safety breathing down her neck for the accident report book. I got Alf to show him round the factory, and just when I’m ready for my morning coffee he fetches up back in my office and starts waving his clipboard under my nose.
Now normally I’m a fairly calm, rational sort of bloke, but this guy’s attitude really started to get up my nose. This wasn’t right, that wasn’t right, training wasn’t up to standards… He reckoned the smelting room and circuit board pressing areas made Kawasaki City look like Fantasy Island! I tell you, I had a fantasy then and there, and it involved his clip board making a swift and unscheduled entry into parts of his anatomy that would never see the need for sun block whatever tropical island, fantasy or otherwise, he happened to fetch up on.
He finally left at lunch time, leaving a list of ‘suggestions’ as long as my arm that will leave me in ruin if I follow up on them all. The most annoying was an order for guards on all the lathes and stuff. He said without them a member of staff could easily lose an arm or a leg. I pointed out that my entire workforce consists of elves, goblins and pixies, all of whom can regenerate lost limbs instantaneously with no side effects whatsoever, but he wouldn’t listen. Said that regeneration didn’t account for the ‘emotional trauma’.
Emotional trauma? Where do they get this drivel from? I told him half my staff don’t bother bringing packed lunches anymore ‘cos they just barbecue an arm or leg in the furnace and share it round. He wasn’t having any of it; said I’ve got until the first of March to get guards on everything or he’ll close us down. I tell you, if I ever bump into him in a dark alley……
After lunch I went over to the cracker factory to see how production’s going. They’ve got this new Marketing Manager; smarmy little git called Dara O’Breeeeeeeeeeeeeen. I hate leprechauns at the best of times (I know, I know, and I am ashamed of myself, honest, but facts is facts and there’s just something about them that rubs me up the wrong way), but this fella takes the biscuit. He’s got a really smug, puffed up face – like someone over-inflated Ian Hislop with helium or something – and an accent so ‘tick’ even the other leprechauns ‘tink’ it’s phoney.
Anyway, while I was there I told them my ‘Lobster diet’ joke – thought they’d slip me a few bob for it. Would they heck as like. Too derivative they said, Too old school. God I hate leprechauns! A-level English language and a distance learning degree in media studies and they all think they’re Woody-bloody-Allen. Beautiful people, the Irish, and a lovely accent too, so how come their leprechauns are such a bunch of odious little gobshites? Even money I’ll be seeing my joke crop up as a tag-line on some piddle-poor panel show before the month’s out. Pah!