Gardening

Nothing beats leaving the rat race for a job where you literally touch grass. Charlatans like Monty Don has convinced idiots that gardening is a form of mindfulness and artistic expression, overlooking how much of it is digging, sawing, clipping and lugging around literal sacks of shit. A fortnight of it and you’ll hate plants.

Bartending

Ever been an a night out where you’re not drinking and everyone else is? F**king awful, yeah? That’s every night as a bartender. Spending every night with lager-breathed arseholes and pretending to like them is a skillset office workers simply do not have because they are those arseholes, every Friday night.

Farming

Not everyone wants to follow their primal agricultural instincts, though financiers with untaxed nest eggs are powerfully attracted. The romanticism of owning a farm is sullied by the perpetual whinging farmers are legally obliged to do, about foot-and-mouth or milk prices or the bloody weather. But you’ll be enough like Clarkson to be admired by bigots.

Carpentry

Why not do a reverse Harrison Ford and go from six figures to sawing door jambs? Your current job may not be Hollywood but after a few months at a lathe it will f**king feel like it. Dovetail joints look sexy on Instagram but are an absolute bastard in practice. You’ll wish you were back at your desk, ignoring fine examples of woodworking all around you.

Nursing

After watching The Pitt while commuting, you surely know most of what’s covered in a decade of medical studies. And there’s enough cool in being a caregiver to carry you through graveyard shifts as miserable as an annual conference. Where else but A&E would you find sex toys lodged in funny orifices? Annual conferences, actually.

Scaffolding

Inhaling second-hand vape fumes for eight hours straight is not worth it for being four storeys up. Nor is the risk of an early death worth all-chat about which Marvel superhero has the best tits. It’s hard, all-weather, exhausting, labour. You’ll stare in at offices and wish you could be in there with them. And it’s Captain Marvel, definitely.

DUE to my six-figure income and shrewd investments I have close to a million in my pension scheme. Should I give up work, or am I content with showing off in this article?

It’s a real dilemma having this incredible choice which you don’t. You may not even have a pension, or it might be a miserable little stipend that will only pay for pathetic treats like a bottle of Tesco gin or sitting by a hot radiator.

I’d really like to hear the envy in your voice when you give me advice. As a high-achiever I’m worried retirement will leave me without a sense of purpose. Will frequent luxurious and interesting foreign holidays be enough, or should I start a wine cellar?

Or is 45 just too young to retire? I won’t be your typical pensioner because I’m physically healthy, as is my partner. Whereas when you retire at 67 you’ll be decrepit and stuck with an arthritic old hag, with Bourbon biscuits your only consolation.

It’s a tough decision. But having established I’m a big swinging dick when it comes to pensions, I might work a bit longer for some extra retirement luxury to rub in your faces. By choice, not like you slaving away to ensure you’ve enough pension to buy soap.

So thank you for your input. Obviously we haven’t spoken, but I feel much better now I’ve visualised my older, retired self dining at The Ivy and flying to the Maldives while you’re mugged by sneering rat boys as you hobble to a depressing evening at the bingo.

My only concern is whether £900,000 is enough to retire on these days. Of course it is, I’m just finding another way to gloat! Did I mention that I’m mortgage-free too? Suck on that.

Boss Tom Booker sent a calendar invite last week for a ninety minute ‘team huddle’, which was later extended by half an hour for reasons unclear either on the invite or, according to survivors, in the actual meeting.

Dazed facilities manager Emma Bradford, gulping down a black coffee, said: “What the f**k was that?

“I know there was an agenda at the start, and someone must have been taking notes, but I cannot tell you who or why or what about. All I know is that within 20 minutes up was down, black was white and I was barely clinging to my sanity.

“I went in there with a pretty decent idea of what my role is, I think. Now I can barely remember my own name. Was I fired? Am I meant to be doing something now? Has lunch already happened or not?”

Booker said: “I know my team, and they can’t stand quick one-on-one chats or briefing emails. They really function best in a large group, where we cover a lot of ground and everyone gets a chance to speak, especially me.

“I hope they feel like it was sufficiently detailed. We’ll reconvene late on Friday afternoon to pick up where we left off. I’m sure all of the points from the last meeting will have been actioned. Even if I’m a little vague on what they were.”

BRITAIN ain’t what it used to be, mate. You can’t get a GP appointment, the bin collections are fortnightly and you can’t get a decent job without being ‘fired’ for ‘fraudulent expenses’. 

It’s the third world. You can’t say anything now, especially about those small boats on the front pages every day which nobody’s allowed to discuss. So I’ve got no choice but to abandon the country I love and go somewhere that believes in free speech. Dubai.

They bloody love immigrants there, white ones, and are proper welcoming. And they expect everyone to integrate and speak the local language, English. But English with an American accent, which is better.

It’s not that I can’t make it in Poole. It’s just that it’s become impossible for anyone with two GCSEs, six months work experience in Greggs and a light criminal record to get anywhere because this country’s against aspirational, ambitious people.

In Dubai they won’t care about my unspent conviction. They’ll see an enterprising businessman who doesn’t let a few silly laws stand in the way of success, like Man City haven’t.

People say I should stay and try to make my home country better. But I’ve got a better idea: pissing off. I’m showing traditional British resilience by moving somewhere with air conditioning, tax advantages and indentured servitude. Somewhere with values.

In Dubai everyone has a Rolex and a Louis Vuitton handbag and you don’t need to worry about criminals snatching them, until I get there. And yes it’s a junior role but I’ll work my way up.

Yeah, goodbye Britain and hello paradise. Nobody’s even coming to the airport to see me off. This country.

Dental hygienist

Unless you’re a sicko turned on by the clinical atmosphere of the dentist’s, hotties are wasted in this industry. It’s impossible to feel stirrings in your pants as they subject you to pain in the name of cleanliness, and the spectre of the bill will kill your libido even if they’re a ten. And if you’re still aroused despite all this, how are you supposed to safely recreate this thrilling kink at home?

Driving instructors

Learning to drive requires intense focus, so the last thing you need while hurtling towards a roundabout in first gear is distracting erotic thoughts about the person sat mere inches to your left. In the interests of road safety, the DLVA should require that all driving instructors have acne or are prepared to wear a paper bag over their heads.

Rag-and-bone man

It’s not a very progressive thing to admit, but you expect certain jobs to be filled by a particular type of person. When it comes to tat collectors, toothless old geezers who look a bit like Popeye fit the bill. Hotties like Henry Cavill or Sydney Sweeney rummaging around for scrap would spark more of a backlash than a female James Bond. It just goes against the natural order of things.

Cold callers

You don’t feel bad about slamming the phone down on someone if they’ve got an annoying nasal voice, but hanging up on a cold caller with a sultry purr is nigh on impossible. Their dulcet tones will have you handing over your bank details for any old pyramid scheme and they know it. By law they should only be allowed to use their vocal talents for the more honest profession of phone sex operator.

Masseuse

Getting your knotted muscles manhandled by some ogre is actually better than a stunner running their oiled palms all over your body. With uggos you don’t have to keep your body in check by thinking unsexy thoughts while you’re trying to relax. Hot masseurs can’t reasonably expect your groin to behave when they’re touching you, and it’s outrageous that they’ll charge you more or phone the police if you ask them to finish what they started.

Iain’s lunch had a mild odour

He sits within your line of sight and if that wasn’t bad enough, he dared bring in something more exotic than a cheese sandwich for his dirty little midday meal. And he made you watch. Begin with passive-aggressive sniffing and coughing, and glow with inner fury whenever he strays toward the microwave for eight years thereafter.

Marie used the printer for too long

Despite the fact that everything is now on G-suite, Microsoft 365, or East 17 these days, a fellow employee was at the printer the one and only time you needed to use it. Hogging it. Did she gracefully step aside when confronted with your urgent hover? She did not. So you must deliberately go slowly when she’s waiting behind you from now until 2032.

Louise laughed too hard at a manager’s joke

Pathetic little suck-up. Guffawing, in a meeting, when everyone knows they’re not for fun or productivity but to engender despair, self-loathing and the urge to put one’s hand into a blender. You would never demean yourself by trying to enjoy being at work and it’s well worth resenting that cow for doing so.

Connor drank the last of the milk

It may seem like a small, impolite accident, but this devastating betrayal is in fact worse than Kim Philby, Judas and David Harbour all combined. Two pints is more than a quid now. Act swiftly, rally others to your cause and judge what pitiful over-sweetened pseudo-beverage your nemesis wasted the precious liquid on.

Jill sat at your desk

Technically it isn’t your desk because hot desking. But while its ownership might not be recognised in a court of law, spiritually and emotionally it is your safe harbour and your home. And she thinks she can steal it? F**k about with her chair when she isn’t looking.

That girl who didn’t know who you were

That disrespectful intern is the epitome of why their generation don’t deserve jobs or to ever retire, with their f**king iced coffees. How dare they not recognise how supremely important you are? You’ll make sure that Ava, or whatever her name is, won’t go far. Oh, she’s left.

‘It’s morally wrong’

Does taking a day off sick even count as a moral or immoral act? Not unless you’re skiving off to commit a murder, in which case you’ve got more to worry about than what your boss thinks. Also, disposing of a body would be horrendous with this cold.

‘I must sound ill on the phone’

When phoning in sick, it’s almost impossible not to put on a feeble voice and give a little cough to prove your case. It’s unnecessary and frankly a bit silly. What’s next? A video call while you’re sitting on the toilet making vile noises to prove you’ve got a tummy upset?

‘Will I get the sack?’

The classic paranoid sickie thought. Get a grip and imagine your boss explaining it to their boss: ‘A staff member I have no real complaints about, who takes a normal amount of time off sick, claimed to have a flu-like illness common in the UK, so I fired them.’ ‘Excellent work, Emma, that’s how to run an effective business.’

‘I am betraying my co-workers’

Yes, Gavin and the others are heroically battling through a normal workload while you fail to do your duty like a coward. Oh, hang on, you’re an office worker, not a squaddie abandoning your mates to die in a Taliban attack. You wouldn’t need to lose weight if you were.

‘Will someone come and check on me?’

Might your boss dispatch a colleague to your home? Not unless they are deranged and seriously overstaffed, and even then it’s probably illegal harassment. Your ill, paranoid brain can’t accept this, so you do the sensible thing of sitting away from a window and trying to look miserable instead of laughing at the comforting YouTube shite you’re watching.

‘I wish I had a more serious illness’

Are you ill enough to justify taking time off? It’s a question you’ll be obsessed with for hours, until you wish you were suffering from something clear-cut like a broken leg. Hopefully your next sickie will be the result of being hit by a car, you reason. Your horrific injuries will mean you can relax then.

‘They’ll discover they don’t need me’ 

Could your job actually be done by your colleagues, and you’re paid tens of thousands of pounds a year unnecessarily? Clearly ‘yes’, because modern companies are notorious for employing way more staff than they need. That’s why they keep you entertained at work with dancing girls and an office jester.

Anyone who has a season ticket, a Sky Sports subscription or a Fantasy League team is allowed to attend their workplace while spending the entire day monitoring liveblogs, scouring social media and spreading rumours about Yamal signing for Coventry.

Jordan Gardner said: “I’ve sent my boss to HR to check my contract. Pretty sure it’s in there as standard.

“As an Evertonian, how am I expected to concentrate on quarterly accounts when the Grealish loan’s hanging in the air? When Nidaye’s been nicked by City, leaving a hole in our right wing? When the Balogun deal isn’t yet done?

“If I even tried to do any work today I’d be too distracted and do it wrong. You don’t want to be presenting the reports and find I’ve put ‘Iroegbunam to Hull? F**k’s sake’ as our ROI for Q3.

“Why didn’t I book the day off? What, you think my home broadband could handle me simultaneously surfing on four devices while watching a livestream? Dream on.”

Line manager Carolyn Ryan said: “So it’s a day where businesses dump underperforming employees in favour of better, cheaper ones? I’m listening.”

MONEY is vulgar. We know you’re applying for this position because you believe you can maximise value for our shareholders. That’s why we prefer not to bring it up. 

No, it’s your passion for the role of digital events executive that we’re interested in. That’s why we’ve specified on the ad that the leave is ‘attractive’ and the salary ‘competitive’, because we both know it’s irrelevant.

Those terms certainly aren’t wholly subjective or a way of avoiding the topic. ‘Competitive with what?’ ‘Excellent in comparison to..?’ These are the sort of intrusive questions that suggest you may not be a good fit for our corporate culture.

We asked you to provide your salary expectations on the application just to rule out those with excessive self-worth. We also stated ‘salary dependent on experience’, a useful tool because candidates without sufficient experience will have no idea how badly we plan to con them.

We understand that some candidates insist on knowing the salary before spending three hours filling in an application, preparing a presentation, attending four interviews and completing a personality test. These people are flagged by HR as ‘unemployable’.

Our ideal candidate is passionate, flexible, resilient, available immediately and financially secure enough to work for an undisclosed amount. In return, we offer a dynamic environment and captivating opportunities. Because that’s what you care about, not your mortgage.

So please remember this isn’t about money. It’s about finding the right person for the role. And if the right candidate happens to ask how much the role pays, we’ll know immediately that they’re the wrong person.

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.”