Martin Bishop, conscious that his staff could never afford such a break, set aside roughly 50 per cent of the vital catch-up meeting with an attend-in-person brief to detail exactly what such a holiday provides and what it costs.

He said: “Best report it while it’s fresh in the mind, I thought. I wouldn’t want to forget details like the 800-thread count linen sheets, changed daily.

“It’s my duty as a thoughtful and inspirational leader to inform them of the icing-sugar beaches, the glorious azure seas, the fresh-caught lobster, the complimentary mojitos. It lets them unwind vicariously.

“Aspiration is key to success, and by providing images of the paradise location, our enormous home with a shower open to the very sky, my wife’s Pilates classes, I’m encouraging them to work harder and achieve more.

“How could it not, when all they’ve done is scrape together a few Euros for a package to one of those countries where you put your shitty toilet paper in the bin. Or staycations. One poor sod’s even going to Wales.

“I tell everyone that if they get their heads down and work hard, they’ll be able to afford a holiday like this. They won’t. We’re making redundancies next month.”

Martin Bishop has come to dread Steve Malley’s escalating acts of friendliness, which threaten to cross the line from cynical work banter into worthwhile friendship. 

Bishop said: “It’s not that I don’t like Steve, he’s alright. But outside of work we have nothing in common. 

“Slagging off colleagues is fine, but now he’s suggested going for a drink, just me and him. Like a date. I managed not to commit, but I’m terrified that when we get to the pub the conversation will just freeze and we’ll both look back on it with embarrassment for the rest of our lives.

“Or what if Steve turns out to be a weirdo with no friends and a huge collection of ultra-violent comic books and hentai porn? He’ll latch onto me and I won’t be able to get rid of him in case he turns into a stalker.

“Then at work everyone will know me as ‘that weirdo Steve’s mate’ and there’ll be no chance of shagging Francesca or Rachel. Or he might ask me to go camping with him. If he’s into camping. Admittedly I’m making a few assumptions here.”

In the event Bishop and Malley eventually went to the pub near their office and had a mildly amusing chat about work and mainstream films they had seen, before Malley left to go over to his girlfriend’s.

Bishop said: “I dodged a bullet there.”

Equestrian

‘Equestrian’ wasn’t mentioned alongside ‘plumber’ or ‘personnel manager’ by your careers advisor, probably because it’s a career somewhat dependent on daddy buying you a horse. Sadly you can’t bravely overcome poverty by learning to show jump on your dog. 

Philanthropist

A billionaire gives £20 million to a museum and is hailed as a philanthropist. You give a tenner of tinned tuna and pasta to the food bank and nobody even lets you cut in front at Aldi. It’s proportionately the same amount of your income. Not to mention that you bought a poppy two years ago.

Socialite

If a rich woman attends parties five nights a week she’s a glamorous socialite who gets a spread in Hello! magazine. A dinnerlady who’s down the pub that often would be condemned and asked who’s looking after her poor, neglected kids. Maybe it’s time to give up your dream of being Tamara Beckwith.

Tycoon

Nobody has ever described the bloke who owns four kebab shops as a ‘fast-food tycoon’. Nor has anyone referred to the woman with a successful Etsy business as a ‘cross-stitch magnate’. A tycoon is simply someone whose money has become too embarrassing to express as a number.

Patron of the arts / Art collector

A millionaire watch collector gets praised for keeping a craft alive. If you’ve got more than five Funko Pops, you’re told that’s why you’ll never own a house. If a billionaire buys a Damien Hirst shark off Charles Saatchi for $8 million they’re helping British art. If you buy a gig ticket for £80 you’ve got more money than sense, according to your dad. Probably wise of Saatchi to get rid of the shark before it turns into mush, though.

Explorer

A posh person who spends years getting diseases in the Amazon or losing various extremities in the Arctic is a hero pushing themselves to the limit. If you did it people would ask you when you’re going to get a proper job. And their reaction to missing fingers would just be ‘idiot’.

Gentleman farmer

Former members of Blur or ex-hedge fund managers are called ‘gentleman farmers’, despite their crop usually being fairly non-vital, like posh cheese or alpacas. Farmers who feed the nation with unglamorous things like potatoes and beef get no such approving title. Presumably they are ‘ruffian farmers’.

Bon viveur

If a wealthy man drinks expensive claret while enjoying a long and sumptuous lunch, he’s a bon viveur, the life and soul of the party. If you order a kebab and crack open a pack of Stella at 1pm on a Tuesday in the office, there’s apparently something wrong with that.

Studies have proved that people who go to work for a sense of fulfilment instead of earning money are more likely to be found crying in the loos because their boss gave them ‘constructive feedback’.

Professor Henry Brubaker of the Institute for Studies said: “There are only a handful of people on Earth who genuinely enjoy their jobs, and two of them are traffic wardens in Bradford.

“For everyone else, the data tells us that long-term happiness relies on entering the workforce safe in the knowledge that only drudgery and ingratitude lie ahead.

“Joy is best sought outside of sterile offices filled with psychopaths. Popular sources of pleasure include watching a stranger miss a train, or seeing on social media that an old school friend has put on more weight than you.

“If you must insist on feeling something at work, aim for anger or contempt. Far from compounding your stress, they’ll likely lead to a lovely promotion.”

Corporate drone Caroline Ryan said: “I’m thriving at work because I shut down my emotions years ago. Which is just as well, because if I reactivated them I’d feel nothing but despair at my dead-end job.”

During your annual review?

Nothing says ‘I’m ready for more responsibility’ like beginning with ‘Do you like what I’m doing, Daddy?’ Ask if you’ve been a bad boy for not maximising sales revenue and what you can do to make Daddy happier next quarter. Expect either an immediate promotion or an immediate summons to HR.

When requesting annual leave?

Instead of a tired ‘Could I have Friday off?’ try ‘Daddy, may I have permission to frolic?’ Unsettling if he’s older than you, traumatising if he isn’t. Your request will almost certainly be granted if just to remove you from the building.

When seeking a pay rise? 

Research shows employees who confidently request more money are more likely to receive it. Research does not show the same for staff who say ‘Daddy, the cost-of-living crisis has made me an expensive little boy.’ Nor does it recommend ending the meeting with ‘Is Daddy proud of me?’

In the middle of a disciplinary meeting? 

When he says ‘I’m afraid your expenses claim for six margaritas at Center Parcs has raised concerns’, pout and reply ‘Forgive me, Daddy’. He won’t be thinking about the margaritas anymore, especially if you follow up with ‘Is Daddy going to get his spanking slipper?’

If he’s requested it?

It’s perfectly normal for a new manager to say ‘Call me Matthew. Or Matt’. If he adds ‘Or Daddy’, immediately update your LinkedIn profile to indicate that you’re open to other, less creepy opportunities.

If you’re in a hostage situation? 

The bank you work in is being robbed, it’s turned into a police siege, and the lives of your co-workers depend upon you reading out a very specific script, in which you refer to the CEO as ‘Daddy’. Then – and only then – is it okay. Be British about it and avoiding all eye contact afterwards.

If you’re a young woman? 

Never, ever acceptable. Not even in the hostage situation.

When chief operating officer Nathan Muir, aged 49, asked for a moment of his staff’s time he expected cheers, awe and promises of vast sums but instead got carefully blank faces and barely perceptible nods.

He said: “I’d been building up to the moment I announced I was doing the Swansea Bay Ironman Triathlon next year, so convened a special lunchtime meeting.

“But the big reveal got me nothing. I can’t understand why. It wasn’t from any lack of enthusiasm on my part, or the quality of the PowerPoint and spiral-bound brochures.

“I outlined the course: a mile swim, then biking out through Mumbles into the hills of the Gower peninsula, then a final 13.1k loop along the bay. I invited them along to spectate, but they were staring at their shoes and checking their phones. This is 70.2 kilometres! It is a big deal!”

Team leader Oliver O’Connor said: “So that’s a year of training, boring on about his hydration levels and telling the girls to prod his calves, frequent absences we’ll have to cover and he’s asking us to pay him £50 each.

“Sorry, it’s for charity. Though he didn’t mention which one, presumably because that’s beside the f**king point.”

They’re not hungover

Last night’s game has already become the Woodstock of football, with everyone claiming to have been ten pints deep in the pub when the final whistle went. Which doesn’t stand up to scrutiny if your colleague is in, lively and responding to emails in less than four hours. Real fans are working from home, except not actually. Like your boss.

Their nerves aren’t shot

Even remembering the match feels like you’re at risk of undoing it when you watched every agonising minute live. Meanwhile liars discuss Bellingham’s swift one-two of goals and Kane’s penalty with the cool detachment of a Wikipedia article. If your colleague isn’t still trembling and dripping with sweat they’re either a fraud or secretly into Wimbledon.

They’re too well-rested

Where are the bags under their eyes? The yawns? The inability to understand simple sentences? These are the hard-won trophies of people who bravely went to the pub a bit later than they usually would, making them this generation’s war heroes and those who got eight hours of sleep deserters who should face a firing squad.

They’ve never mentioned football before

If they’ve historically been actively disinterested in football, their sudden enthusiasm is suspect. They don’t really care that last night was a humiliation for Mexico on home turf. They don’t remember the Hand of God goal. They just want to feel part of something bigger and to establish a human connection with colleagues. Pathetic, shameful behaviour.

They are doing their job

Meeting the minimal acceptable working standards is a dead giveaway. Real fans can barely open their laptops to put their out-of-office on. Either that or your co-worker does a mindless, unimportant job that a trained chimp could do, in which case they may indeed have seen the game.

Across the country, workers with greying hair are saying ‘It was the rhino who named it,’ and ’There’s no way we’ll win if they’re fuelled by that tropical nectar,’ to the incomprehension of the young.

Procurement officer Grace Wood-Morris said: “I only asked Dave if he thought we’d win tonight. He began singing a strange song in a deep voice then laughing uncontrollably.

“I thought it was just him, but it’s all of them. They’re listing exotic animals and listing fruits and trying to pair them together? Is this, like, a card game? Can we make them stop?”

Similarly bemused marketing executive Jordan Gardner said: “I asked my boss Darren if Wissa would exploit our weakness at right-back and he grunted. But when Lee in regional sales shouted ‘You can still get it online!’ he ran right over to his PC.

“Eventually they got Justin, who ‘knows the whole thing, it’s his party trick’, to perform a rap which began ‘way down deep in the middle of the Congo’ and got worse from there.

“I judged it to be racist in the extreme, got straight on to HR and he’s been suspended pending an investigation and mandatory sensitivity training.”

Wood-Morris said: “Ah. So we can make them stop.”

Employees who are happy to drunkenly socialise for the birthdays and leaving dos of people they barely know have an odd lack of interest in recognising a colleague being good at their job.

Sales executive Tom Booker said: “I think part of the problem is it’s more of a burden than an actual prize. A poisoned chalice, if you will. Except they’re too stingy to give you a chalice.

“You only get ‘preferential’ treatment that would delight the worst sort of corporate drone, like being asked your opinion on shitty work strategies and having the boss sit on the edge of your desk asking which minion is deserving enough to be the next recipient.

“The unlucky winner gets their fake, smiley ‘Meet the team’ webpage photo plastered on the wall in the corridor leading to the toilets. You also get a tacky trophy with a gold briefcase on top for a month. You don’t even get to keep it, not that you’d want to.

“The borderline alcoholics I work with will go for a drink for anything: birthdays, training days, even baby showers. Christ, last month we got pissed to celebrate Darren buying an air fryer. But employee of the month never results in going to the pub. It’s weird.” 

Office manager Martin Bishop said: “Now you mention it, it is strange that our office never celebrates employee of the month. But I think we can put that down to them usually being a loathsome, arselicking little crawler.

“That’s not a criticism, by the way.”

Ineffective, bumbling Jack Browne was pleased to see his first go at pulling pints, processing card transactions and figuring out who should rightfully be served next would take place during England’s first group game at a pub showing it live.

He said: “I haven’t had any training, and it’ll just be me because everyone else has already called in sick, oddly. Still, should be fun!

“Everyone will have to bear with me because I don’t know my way around the bar or recognise the difference between an IPA and a lager. But I’m sure the cheerful atmosphere of a high-level football competition will improve everyone’s patience.

“I asked my boss if he thought it would be busy tonight and he laughed, so I’ll take that as a no. Should I struggle to hear orders I’ll just turn off the telly for a minute. That should quell any rowdiness.”

He added: “If it starts to get out of hand I’ll switch over to BBC Two. Only Connect’s on. Though I worry that will make the regulars a bit competitive.”

Will McKay arrived at 9am singing Flower of Scotland, which everybody expected following his country’s historic win against Haiti, but has spent the last two hours breaking into chants, asking if everyone saw it and making loud, unintelligible calls to fellow Scots.

Colleague Ellie Shaw said: “There’s no pretence of work. His screen is showing the highlights. I don’t think that’s just Irn Bru he’s swigging.

“I congratulated him on the win and he said ‘Haven’t stopped since, hen,’ which means he’s been awake for 48 hours and drinking for 36 of them. And we’re in Leicester. I can’t imagine the scenes in our Glasgow office.”

Department head Joseph Turner said: “Will came into our morning meeting ten minutes late, and appeared to believe it had been called exclusively to celebrate his victory. He insisted on leading a chorus of ‘We’re the Tartan Army’. Insisted with threats.

“When he lurched out, seeming to forget we were here, we agreed our unofficial company policy is to not aggravate him in any way, deal with disciplinary matters at a later date, and alter the clock on his computer to 5pm so he thinks it’s time to go home.”

McKay said: “What a win! What a f**king win! I wish I remembered it.”

Martin Bishop, aged 44, has accosted everyone he meets with the one-liner he mistakenly believes to be the pinnacle of ironic British humour, but is more likely to be an entirely accurate forecast.

He continued: “Apparently summer’s on a Wednesday next year! Eh? Eh? You like that one? Why the sour face mate, only a joke.

“Three months of chilly drizzle’s only going to make you appreciate your holiday more. And my gag, which is as British as greasy fish and chips in soggy newspaper and will surely only get funnier as the grey weeks roll on.

“After all, you can’t get more British than complaining about the weather, can you? That stiff upper lip, battling through valiantly in the face of adversity. It’s a classic. Everyone here’s just a miserable bastard who hates to laugh.”

Colleague Emma Bradford said: “He’s right about us being miserable bastards, but it’s not laughing we hate. It’s Martin.

“Is there any kind of old pagan tradition about sacrificing a regional sales manager to the gods in order to banish the clouds and guarantee a good summer? Because if not I’m willing to start one.”

Passing out shitfaced

Besides being too revealing, the fact that you’ll be drunkenly falling to the floor in a puddle of your own puke is a given. You might as well tell your coworkers you’ve got a fun weekend of breathing lined up. No need to explicitly admit you’re a lush, so just give a vague impression and say you’re meeting friends for a drink. They’ll fill in the rest with their imaginations.

Gooning for 48 hours

Kink shaming be damned, embarking on a two-day wankathon is disturbing in and of itself. Telling your colleagues about it will only make things worse as you’ll have to explain what gooning is to team members who aren’t as online or perverse. They always wondered if you were a tragic, sex-starved loser, but there’s no need to confirm their suspicions in graphic detail.

Crying over the state of your life

Just because you work in an open-plan office doesn’t mean you need to be open about your emotional wellbeing. So what if you’re going to spend Sunday evening curled up in the fetal position sobbing over the terrible choices that have led to your shit life? Everyone else does it; they just have the decency to talk about some tedious film they’re going to watch instead.

Embarking on an affair

Keep this to yourself to protect the health and safety of your colleagues. The most exciting discussions they have are about the printer’s ink levels and KPI forecasts, so telling them that you’re planning to sneak off to a Travelodge to shag your mate’s missus senseless will cause them to pass out from excitement. Instead fob them off with some bollocks about going for a roast.

Spending quality time with your loving family

Not everyone in your office is lucky enough to have found love and reproduced, you inconsiderate bastard. Donna from accounts will put on a brave face if you talk about these plans, but she’ll scurry off to the loo for a massive cry when you’re not looking. Just say you’re going to watch the football, nobody really gives a shit what you’re doing anyway.

Across the country, anyone working from home is typing with their laptop mere inches from their exposed, perspiring genitalia and will not mention it if you do not ask.

Jordan Gardner said: “In a heatwave you should open windows at night and keep curtains closed by day. And with all the curtains closed only a fool’s wearing underpants.

“If you’re in an office? You’ve got air-con as reward for your sweaty frottering commute. I don’t have that luxury. I’m forced to use more primal methods.

“No, I will not be turning my camera on for the meeting. I think we both know why, and I urge you not to press the issue. It wouldn’t just be the background that needed blurring.

“I’m clocking in, I’m doing my job, there will be no complaints about the quality of my work. What does it matter to you I’m doing it as naked and unashamed as Adam and Eve before the serpent? ROIs are ROIs.”

Office manager Joanna Kramer said: “So you mean in the call with Sally this morning, she was nude? I’m not sure how I feel about that. She’s got massive tits.”

Tom Booker, aged 51, has so far used the line on everything from an internet outage to a clash on the holiday rota and shows no signs of tiring of it.

He said: “In previous, benighted eras when I didn’t have the instinctive grasp of technology I have today, I proffered feeble excuses like ‘it must be a bug’ or ‘I think it’s a virus’ or ‘we’ve been hacked’. No more.

“Now I realise that everything I don’t understand, or don’t like, is AI. Spreadsheet’s wrong? AI. Email went to the wrong person? AI. Login record shows I’m consistently 20 minutes late back from lunch? AI.

“And it’s not just in the office. The other day I heard a Beatles song I’d never heard before. The young ones tried to make out I was ignorant, but I reckon it was AI. As are those videos where Trump’s babbling nonsense. Created with AI to make him look an idiot.

“You can’t trust anything these days, because of AI. Arsenal winning? AI. Nigel Farage taking £5 millon? AI. Me getting a written warning for trying to create deepfake nudes of Natalie in HR using the work ChatGPT? AI. It really is a scourge.”

He added: “They say my job’s under threat because of AI. Ridiculous. I’d like to see AI do what I do.”

Self-hating jobseeker Tom Booker can barely look at himself in the mirror after typing out sentences like ‘I am a proactive self-starter with a commitment to excellence and growth’ in a professional covering letter.

Booker said: “I would never sincerely say something like ‘my goals are in alignment with your corporate values’. No self-respecting person would.

“But thanks to the sick capitalist society we live in and my inability to win the lottery, I’m forced to churn out ridiculous word salad that even ChatGPT would be ashamed of. I’m only applying for a minimum-wage position, for Christ’s sake.

“Each cap-in-hand, jargon-stuffed sentence is an assault on my worth as a human being. I hope to God my wife and kids never read it. They’d move out, change their names, and never contact me again. And that would be the right thing to do.

“I shouldn’t even have to write a sodding covering letter anyway, all of the relevant information is in my f**king CV. Maybe if I just write that they’ll admire my balls-to-the-wall honesty?”

Employer Martin Bishop said: “The worst part is we won’t even read it. The job ad was merely a formality and we’ve already hired internally.”

Digital services manager Tom Booker of Croydon made the upsetting discovery after catching himself smiling at a Teams message from Sophie Rodriguez, who he had previously considered ‘someone from work’.

Booker said: “I thought I was past this. I own an air fryer. I own an air fryer cookbook. I compare energy tariffs for fun. I shouldn’t be lying awake replaying every second of a conversation about oat milk like it’s the final scene of a Richard Curtis film.

“But her hair is so beautifully flaxen, her laugh so reluctantly won, her emojis so exquisitely chosen. How can I not? My friends have kids and pension plans while I’m wondering if this ‘lol’ on Slack means anything.

“My heart beats louder when she passes. She replied quickly to my request for the Q3 accounts, which is a good sign. But it might be because she didn’t want to get in trouble with her line manager.

“Others know. I asked Dan how my shirt looked and he snickered. I saw him talking to her and I broke into a cold sweat. I’m too old for this. I shouldn’t have to navigate complex feelings when I make an involuntary noise when I stand up.”

Sophie, aged 31, said: “I yearn for him, but it can never be. For we are on different lunch rotas.”

All your colleagues openly hate you

Co-workers don’t have to be your friends, but you shouldn’t have to come into the office knowing they all despise you either. It’s also not normal for your colleagues to be openly vying for your job, or for a bunch of people to barrage you with insults when you try to answer their questions each week. Maybe move into something more cushy, like coding?

The papers are begging for you to leave

It’s unusual for the British press to focus on random employees, but if they’re united in their call for you to step down then maybe you should give it some thought. Yes, it’s a little confusing because a couple of years ago some of them were backing you, but that’s just how things go. Don’t take their new scathing attacks on your character personally.

It’s totally unclear what you’re meant to be achieving

You may find most people are unsure about what you’ve actually accomplished in the last two years. Have you in your job somehow been the mastermind behind soaring petrol prices and the surging popularity of fringe parties? If so then well done, you can retire safe in the knowledge that you accomplished something, even if it’s shit. 

The public is calling for you to go

The average worker generally doesn’t have to deal with every man, woman and child hoping you’ll piss off soon. A shelf stacker would pack it in out of frustration if people were lining up to tell them how crap they were and to give their job to Andy Burnham, and you shouldn’t feel any different. Don’t be upset though, just think of it as the universe’s coy way of telling you you’ve done your whole life wrong.

You’re kind of shit at it

Two years is an impressive amount of time to blag a job you’re clearly not cut out for. You can take pride in that, and even add ‘exemplary bullshitting’ to the CV you’re hopefully polishing. Sadly though, being good at a job is often a prerequisite to keeping it. Walk away from the flaming wreckage you’ve created and pray that nobody can trace it back to you.

On learning that the owner of the property would be present throughout the job, builder Martin Bishop realised it would be a long six weeks being snooped on by a soft-handed prick asking dickhead questions.

He said: “Christ. So we won’t even be able to cut bricks without him popping up asking when we’ll be finished as he has a really crucial Teams coming up.

“It’s not that we’re lazy, though it’s a physical job so the lads needs breaks. It’s that you can’t really get into the foul-mouthed Kiss FM hammering rhythm when there’s some brand consultant nine feet away pissing about on a MacBook.

“They’re always out offering tea and asking ‘how’s it going?’ as if they’ll understand the answer. We can’t swear with the same gusto. You can’t even vape without being judged.

“I miss the days when everyone worked in offices and I could walk around their homes, go through their drawers, and eat their food without them knowing. Now when I do it it’s a whole big deal.”

Homeworker Jack Browne said: “I can’t wank, I can’t work, I can’t watch YouTube. I just sit here staring at spreadsheets feeling emasculated while huge men in paint-stained Ralph Lauren lift massive blocks of stone. I wish I still went to an office.”