Diary of a Grumpy Old Git (8 page)

I forgot about that award. Maybe I should bring it in tomorrow when I’m pleading with Josh. If it doesn’t impress him, I could always club him to death with it.

You know what? I don’t mind being a grumpy old git. When you look at the modern world, with its coffee franchises, reality shows, banks, social networks, cyclists and funky bosses, the
only rational responses are grumpiness, depression and madness. And I’m pretty sure I’ve chosen the best option.

I don’t need pills, padded cells or art therapy workshops to get me through it all. I just settle back for a good old-fashioned rant at the idiocy of the modern world and I’m fine
again.

A woman from my electricity provider called up while I was writing that last entry and asked how happy I was with their service on a scale of one to ten. I told her I was
chronically dissatisfied with everything, so it would have to be a one. But I told her that as I found dissatisfaction comforting, it would also have to be a ten. She said she’d put me down
as a ten and hung up. I’ve never had a cold caller hang up on me before. That’s a new one.

That was weird. I came in on the early train again and watched from my desk as Imran went in for his meeting. He emerged a couple of minutes later carrying a letter, and went
straight home. I think he looked sad, though it’s hard to tell with him. I only found out he split up with his girlfriend when his shirts started looking more crumpled.

Cathy emerged from her meeting after just a couple of seconds, carrying a letter and wiping her eyes with her sleeve. So I knew she was a goner, unless she was crying because she’d found
out she had to stay and sit next to Jez, which would be understandable.

Then it was time for my walk down the green mile. I knocked on the door and sat opposite my prepubescent executioner. Here I was, after years of hard work, about to be tossed on to the
scrapheap. Well, a few months of hard work and years of skiving. But it was good skiving. I put a lot of effort into that skiving.

Josh was going on about how the company was going through a difficult time following the loss of the Donaldson Sweepers account, and how he had to restructure the team blah blah blah.

Why do they always give this preamble when they’re getting rid of you? I’d prefer it if they started with insults. As I’m sure you’re aware, you’re a lazy bastard
and we all hate you. We’ve put together a very generous redundancy package and we’d be very grateful if you shoved it up your arse and fucked off.

Josh had finished talking. Something was wrong. He was smiling.

‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘Am I staying?’

‘Of course,’ he said. ‘We’ve got some great opportunities coming up and we’ll need someone senior around. And Steve says you’ve got a great
attitude.’

A great attitude? Immediately, I could see what was going on. This was Steve’s idea of a practical joke. Tell this little upstart I’m a good worker and let him find out the hard way
that I’m as useful as a chocolate teapot.

The shock of yesterday’s non-sacking has worn off, and it’s now sunk in that I’ve got to spend all day sitting next to a ginger Rasta who says
‘dude’ and ‘buddy’ at the end of every sentence.

There was nothing else for it. I had to go to the electrical superstore in the retail park and buy some douchebag-cancelling headphones.

As soon as I stepped into the shop, a man wearing a short-sleeved shirt pounced. I told him I was just browsing, and hurried off into the store. I’ve made the mistake of engaging with
those people before. Listen to their hypnotic lies and you’ll emerge blinking into the daylight with a trolley full of gizmos you didn’t want. All of which will be guaranteed until the
year 2050 because they’ll have tricked you into buying warranties that were more expensive than the products.

Making my way around the maze of shelves to the headphones section at the back while avoiding the commission-hungry staff was like playing a real-life game of Pac-Man.

Finally, I reached the huge display of headphones. Why did shops have to get so big? There was a time when you’d simply wander down the high street and you’d have three choices of
whatever you wanted. There’d be the cheap but rubbish one, the good but pricey one and the average one. You’d pick the average one and be home in time for
Final Score
. How are we
supposed to choose between the million options we get these days?

The cheapest pair was £6.99 and the most expensive was £299.99. I grabbed the £49.99 ones and looked around for one of the men in short-sleeved shirts. Now that I actually
wanted one of those little bastards, they were nowhere to be seen. Obviously.

I’m still trying to work out what happened on Friday, and I’ve come up with a theory. It’s a little far-fetched, so you might have to bear with me. What if
I’m actually pretty good at my job? I know I don’t do much, but what if the small amount I do is good enough to justify my salary? Maybe I’m not a practical joke after all. Maybe
Josh really will benefit from my experience. Maybe I just need to turn up a little earlier and go to a few more meetings and I’ll be fine. Get me with my positive attitude. Told you I
wasn’t a grumpy old git.

I did nothing at all today. It was great. I meant to order the garden decking and watch the first disc of my
Sopranos
box set, but I just sat on my sofa drinking instant
coffee and looking out the window.

It was pretty boring, but I like boredom. We’re the only generation who have truly experienced it. Our parents grew up without basic labour-saving devices and they never stopped faffing
through their daily list of chores. The generation beneath us are bombarded by constant entertainment options from their phones, laptops, tablets and consoles, and they’ve committed
themselves to describing everything they ever do on their profile pages. But we’re the ones who had to go to bed early because TV had stopped for the night. We’re the ones who got
turfed out of the pub because it was closing for the afternoon. We’re the ones who spent entire mornings on the circular bus route just to pass the time.

Well, that last one might just have been me. But the point is, it’s our responsibility to keep the great tradition of boredom alive and I spent today doing my bit.

Cathy and Imran didn’t come in today, so I’m guessing they accepted their redundancy pay and emptied their desks over the weekend. So that’s it for them. No
leaving drinks, no goodbye card. Just a Stalinist removal from history. I wouldn’t be surprised if smiling images of Jo and Jez had already been Photoshopped over their faces in the Christmas
party pictures.

Jo and Jez moved their stuff into Cathy and Imran’s desks and at lunchtime Erika handed out the new phone list. Jen, Jez, Jo and Josh were all clustered together, while I was floating up
at the top of the page, a remnant of a forgotten age.

In the afternoon Josh sent us a link to a website where we have to log exactly how we’ve spent each working day. I can briefly remember Steve trying to introduce timesheets ten years ago.
As I recall, I led a successful uprising against them with my timesheet paper plane contest. I suspect it will be harder to turn these fresh-faced idiots against the idea. Jen’s already been
jabbering on about what a great idea the website is.

In better news, the headphones worked. Jez started telling me about an unspoilt beach in Thailand that he visited and presumably spoilt, and I popped them on. His lips were still moving, but it
was the shouty voice of Joey Ramone that was blasting into my ears.