The Shit Break

There is no greater pleasure than being paid to empty your bowels. Sitting there resplendent on your throne, you can stimulate your intestines safe in the knowledge that your employer is paying you for the privilege. The toilet cubicle, whilst sporting the faint aroma of your fellow employees’ excrement, is your sanctuary - make the necessary deposits and you can return whenever you require respite from your day to day labors.

Unlike the tea break or the trip to the stationary cupboard, the toilet break has no time limit. Your fellow workers have no desire to hear about the length of your movements or the tricky bits of sweetcorn that just won't budge, so take your time and enjoy your trip to the ceramic bowl of freedom. In the event that a co-worker does raise an eyebrow to your latest thirty minute stint, simply utter the following words, "I think I ate something funny last night." Whilst they cringe in disgust at the thought of loose stools hitting crisp white porcelain, smile comfortably, safe in the knowledge that you have just earned a day ticket to unlimited skiving.

With the advent of mobile internet browsing, the toilet break can become more than you ever dreamt possible. As you "fill the pond with brown trout," you are free to catch up on Facebook or simply beat your highest score on Angry Birds. The toilet break is your opportunity to claw back time from your employer and spend it on life's little pleasures (unloading your digestive system being one). Choose life, choose red meat and choose stodgy lunches.

A Grumpy Guide to the "Grumpy Guide to Work"

There is nothing more grating than listening to a famous and privileged media personality telling you about the horrors of work. As they recount stories of the ghastly summer job they endured in the time between leaving stage school and receiving a multi-million pound television deal, it is hard to avoid the feeling that this is just a little like a paintball instructor telling a Vietnam war veteran about the "things they have seen."

BBC2's The Grumpy Guide to Work promised a "look at the world of work, from ingenious skiving techniques to the dangers of email." In reality it provided a tired commentary on an imaginary workplace last seen in a 1970s sitcom.

To ensure that no viewer went away without just a hint of nausea, the show employed Britain's least funny comic, Shappi Khorsandi, to muddle her way through a collection of pointless and inane anecdotes about a job in a sandwich shop. Had I pursued a career as an abattoir executioner, I would have taken this opportunity to turn the bolt gun on myself and end the torment once and for all.

To see the show and witness Shappi's torture first hand, please visit:

http://www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/b006x0mr.

The Out of Office Message

The more astute amongst you may have noticed that the Daily Grindstone has been a little quieter than usual today. Before you enter a state of gut wrenching fear that after only 105 working hours, the Daily Grindstone has exhausted all of the work gripes that face the modern day employee, please rest assured that the break is only temporary and we will be back next week to provide your usual supply of cathartic commentary on the absurdity of the workplace.

Taking a well earned break from his career as a Dickensian headmaster and workplace cynic, Thomas Gradgrind will be spending the next seven days on holiday. With no access to a laptop, typewriter, or quill, his contemptuous commentary will return on Monday the 28th March.

Whilst you wait with baited breath for his return, please browse the article archive and feel free to submit your own sardonic musings. For those of you who have been deterred from entering comments for fear of being uncovered by your employer, you will be pleased to find out that the settings have been adjusted and readers can now post anonymously without any need for signing in or setting up an account.

Give me relief from Comic Relief

Unless you are lucky enough to work from home or are unfortunate enough to be blinded to the colour red, you should know that today is Comic Relief. Whilst few of us could find fault with helping the needy, the manner in which office charity days aim to wrench money from our pocket can be a little grating to the sensibilities. I am not arguing that altruism should be confined to the privacy of an anonymous bank transfer, but I am questioning whether it is entirely necessary for me to endure another hour of forced reversion to sado masochistic childhood as yet another balding middle aged man waxes his legs in the name of philanthropy.

Whilst the end result should be applauded (and yes I do donate) Comic Relief's tag-line "Do something funny for money," is inherently flawed. Adults of a working age who are in a position to do something funny for money are called "Comedians" and have worked long and hard to establish what is funny and what is simply a half hearted act of non-committal by a monotonous bore. If we were to change the tag line to, "Do some brain surgery for money," would office clerks still feel qualified to assume this role?

It maybe that my concept of humour differs from that of my colleagues, but try as I may, I have been unable to find the punch line in spraying my hair red. If only we could use a small proportion of the money raised to educate our employees in the time honoured craft of comedy, I am sure that we could avoid the muscle damage that arises from contorting our face into an uncomfortable cringe as the wacky receptionist declares that they will, once again, bathe in a bath of cold baked beans.

Despite the well intentioned aims of the office charity day, I prefer my philanthropy served private. Although I may be averse to watching the mock-humiliation of my workmates, I do not wish to belittle the efforts of anybody who has given up their time raising money for Comic Relief. Like much of the Daily Grindstone my words should be taken with a heaped tablespoon of salt. Should the taste be unpleasant, I am happy for readers to spit them out without any concern of offending.

If you wish to donate to Comic Relief and mercifully cannot think of anything 'funny to do for money,' please visit:

https://www.comicrelief.com/donate

The best advice that you will ever receive

Somewhere in the haze of last night was the revelation that, contrary to everything that past experience has taught you, a bout of heavy drinking will “almost definitely” improve your ability to work in the morning. Having woken up with the unusual, but all too familiar sensation of navigating an ocean liner in a storm, you begin to doubt the previous night’s scientific breakthrough. Before you haul yourself from your swing chair to vomit out your excesses into the waste paper basket, let me tell you why drinking on a week night is the finest idea that you have probably ever had.

The numbing effects of alcohol not only make a tedious jobs more bearable, but the concentration required to avoid your stomach emptying its content onto the desk like a half digested picnic hamper, will help to make your day go by much quicker. By the time that your hangover has lifted, you will look at your watch to discover that only two more hours of work remain. Granted, you haven’t managed to get any work completed, but then you didn’t yesterday and at least today you have had chance to read the Top 10 unsolved mysteries on Listverse.com.

Smelling like a pub carpet, whilst unattractive, serves as the perfect colleague repellent. As their nostrils quiver at the smell of whisky/sambuca/surgical spirit seeping out through your pores, their request for you to take them through the new printing process will suddenly seem less important. The occasional hiccup or muted belch will help to remind persistent colleagues that they should only approach you if the matter is of utmost importance - unless an asteroid is about to hit the earth, they should probably just leave you to the staring contest you have been holding with the photocopier for the last fifteen minutes.

If you are a new entrant into the world of work, please do feel discouraged by the above advice. Although careers advisors have told you to make a good first impression, turning up pissed to work on your first day is actually the better course of action. As you sit at your desk with bloodshot eyes and the “1000 yard stare” of a war veteran, your new colleagues will come to believe that this is your natural, resting state. From this point on you can continue to turn up hung-over without raising suspicion or, should you choose to enter the office sober, your employers will be so impressed by your vigour, healthy complexion, and new found productivity that they will undoubtedly put you forward for promotion.

....alternatively you may just receive a P45 and an invite to Alcoholics Anonymous. Follow this advice at your own cost!

There's no escaping the office whip-round

Working in a busy office, it is hard to ignore, and to afford, the numerous birthday/Bah mitzvah/We're sorry you're dying/Congratulations on the new baby cards that will be thrust on to your desk at any given opportunity. Whilst it is trying enough to think of an original and heartfelt message for these cardboard messengers of mock empathy, no birthday will be complete without the obligatory "whip round." Like a mafia thug inviting quivering shop keepers to join a protection racket, the office whip round is guaranteed to empty your wallet and make you feel like a penny pinching scrooge for submitting anything less than your entire life savings.

There is no escaping the task of entering a, "Have a great day and don't drink too much," message into the card of a complete stranger. Despite protesting that you have never met the man, the disapproving glances of your fellow workmates will quickly inspire you to enter another cringe worthy message and ceremonial emptying of your wallet. Once the whip round (usually contained within an internal postage envelope) has been filled to the brim with crisply folded ten pound notes, the office head will elect the most embarrassingly out-of-touch member of staff to 'go out and choose something nice.' With the acceleration of a rabid greyhound, the chosen purchaser will race towards their favourite shop. Entering the emporium of imported tat, they will chose the gift that most reminds them of that 'lovely home from the faux leather moccasin advert' that they saw in the back of the Daily Mail. Proudly returning the abomination to the office, they wait with barely-contained excitement for the future recipient to return from their lunch break.

As the gift is unveiled, the office is drained of air as all employees collectively inhale. There in all of its glory is a polished wooden sculpture depicting an angry lion disembowelling a stork. As the recipient smiles nervously, their brain awash with thoughts on how to tactfully decline the gift, each and every birthday card signatory enters a catatonic state of mortification. By putting their mark to the birthday card, they have signed a confession speculating that the gift was their idea. How will they ever be able to look the recipient in the eyes without thinking that somewhere, behind the contact lenses, is a person who suspects them of being responsible for this hideous token. "Don't thank me, thank Jane, she chose it!" you cry as your co-workers let out a prolonged sigh of relief.

As Jane looks on proudly, you return to your desk knowing that not only did you snatch back your reputation from the brink of disaster, but you also, morally and rightfully, condemned Jane to a well deserved future of social exclusion.

The forgotten dreams of Martin's sandwich

Sat there in the deepest darkest corner of the office fridge is a sandwich. Once the pride of Martin's lunchbox, the cheese is carefully crafted into interlocking trapezoids and the Branston sandwich pickle has been applied with the accuracy of a King's College brain surgeon. Like a bread-based reflection of Martin's career, the sandwich had entered the office with a cocksure promise of great potential. After several weeks, like Martin, the sandwich was nothing more than a greening lump sweating under the artificial light that occasionally flickered as another, younger, more succulent sandwich was thrust through the open fridge door.

The story of Martin's sandwich is one with which any office worker can relate. Sat in the cupboards and fridges of workplaces across the globe are festering specimens of forgotten lunches. Like the dismissed dreams of their once proud owners, nobody will ever claim these rancid meals and so they sit dissipating into their frozen surroundings. As aging air-conditioners waft their bitter perfume across the office, why is it that nobody steps forward to consign these miserable picnics to the swing bin of office life?

Disposing of a mouldy sandwich is an admission of guilt. By handling the cellophane wrapped mulch, you are allowing you co-workers to peer through a window to your private life. The kind of person who allows a once proud sandwich to deteriorate to a rotten parcel, is the kind of person who will neglect basic personal hygiene, fail to return phone calls, and live alone with only "World of Warcraft" for company. Despite the gut wrenchingly awful stench emanating from the fridge, nobody wishes to become a social pariah and so, guilty or innocent, each employee will ignore the source of the discomfort and make pointed suggestions regarding the perpetrators possible identity.

Should the foul odour of your forgotten feast become unbearable, there is only one course of action to take. Prior to removing the offending article, send a mass email to everybody in the company speculating that the Finance department are responsible for the crime, theatrically condemn the habit of leaving food in the fridge for long periods, and then, when all traces of guilt have been firmly shifted, pick up the sandwich, carry it to the bin, and like an amusement park grabber machine, simply loosen your grip.

It all just goes to show that despite the ridiculous emails and laminated warnings adorning the fridge door, it really isn't that big a deal!