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Thursday, May 03, 2007

The Heat Is On 

The temperatures are rising and all across the land young men's thoughts turn to deodorant, all except for Creepy Keith from Accounts, who honks like a fish in a wheelie bin on a two week cycle.

He stands behind you and tells jokes about child murderers and sexually abused choirboys, and all the while you just know - just know - that’s he’s looking over your shoulder to see what you’re typing.

I’m writing an email to Girlfriend, but change the text to say “Fuck off Keith, you creepy twat. Have you no fucking idea that it’s rude to read other people’s emails? And by the way, your jokes stink as much as you do. Go away and wash.”

After work, at barbershop practise in the rifle range with Bill Surname CEO’s retired army chums -
"The old songs, the old songs,
The good old songs for me!
I love to hear those minor chords
And good close harmony"

- the tension is mounting. The annual convention is later this month, and they’re working us hard on our competition pieces.
The atmosphere is more parade ground than sing-a-long, and a whiff of menace hovers over proceedings. I’m amazed some of the old guys, me included, are still standing by the end of the night.

My knees are killing me and I’m not even going to be there.

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