Quote of the Year 2016


Ahoy,

Well who would’ve though it’s the end February already?

Time certainly is rocking on and I am far faaar behind on my writing schedule in general

I apologise for this delay, I started out wanted to write a single post on the Friendship and it spiralled into a series. For completeness I wanted them all complete before moving onwards so that held me up. Now that’s finally finished (and you catch the first one here) I can get on with my regular duties.

Which means sharing with you my quote of the Year 2016.

If you haven’t seen any of these before, I will point you in this direction, otherwise hold on to your seat, sit back and enjoy. This one is going to be fucking legendary

.

Shifting Sands

So last year at work there was a mass culling of employees to align with the plummeting oil price.

What was once two separate teams, was consolidated into one. Furthermore to stop us from causing any real trouble, we were all squeezed into a 10 man open plan office, in the corner of the third floor.

My new seating arrangement had me placed next to a beloved engineer and the owner of 2016’s quote of the year.

For the purpose of anonymity, we shall address this gentleman as Monsieur Clive.

.

Monsieur Clive

Monsieur Clive is what Shakespeare would describe as…..ummmm,

oh yeah, a FUCKING CHARACTER

Don’t get me wrong, he is very good at his job but he’s a Scotsman born and bred and with that comes a colourful way with words (He also has a penchant for young foreign females but that needs an entirely different post to cover).

Some may say his language is no more shocking than anyone else’s but on an average day, it’s certainly colourful enough to make me think

.

‘Did he just say that out loud?’

.

No I’m underselling it, it’s more like

.

Did he just conjure up Satan and release him from his vocal Chords?

.

And I won’t even comment on when he’s on his evil streak. Think a pissed up, pissed off love child between Frankie Boyle and Pol Pot, with some Ras c Nesbitt swag and you still wouldn’t be in the right ball park.

Fuck, you wouldn’t even be in the right sport.

Monsieur Clive is truly something else.

.

Shit just got Real

At first I thought he was just a wee angry soul, shrouded in bitterness and draped in contempt for the world, just like every other Scotsman in history.

However the depths of his wickedness became crystal clear when my attention was drawn to an updated Wikipedia entry for our company’s page.

Its recently edited content suggested our direct boss (who sits directly opposite me) recently came out as transgender and would now like to be referred to as Polly. This was compounded with a photoshopped picture of his face, on a man being rooted up the arse in a backstreet alley.

This was so fucking raw that even I had to be the voice of reason.

Eventually, he was convinced to take this down before anyone noticed but the evidence can still be found to this very day in our company’s Wikilog history.

Fucking scary.

.

Humpty Dumpty

Monsieur Clive (true to form) followed up this escapade with the consistent, vicious tirade on the rather rotund female population of modern Scotland. This meant no lady, capable of being classed as a celestial body, was safe from his wrath.

If you listen clearly, after he’s squeezed passed one in a corridor, he can often be heard mumbling (rather loud I might add) some of the following

.

  • She looks like a fully clothed snowman
  • She looks like the Michelin man’s fat fuck buddy
  • She must have an arse like a wizard’s sleeve to shit that lot out
  • She has more Chins than a Chinese phonebook
  • She’s only good for a  shag, probably goes to bed with s a face like a painter’s radio

.

To his defence, usually this diatribe was passed around the office fairly equally but something changed last year that would bring 90% of that focus my way.

.

A Worthy Adversary

In January 2016, I applied to start taking a 9 day fortnight to get every other Friday off. This was to accommodate seeing my Partner more, who lives about three hours away.

When Monsieur Clive got wind of this information, thinking I was sneaking off for dirty weekends, he was fucking elated.

Having realised how thick skinned I was, He now had a Divine focus for his debaucherously wicked tongue.

This isn’t just listed to a verbal barrage either, You’ll also find some of his comments posted on this  very blog, if you click  on this page here, you can sample some of his delightful social commentary listed under the notorious username ‘Phantom’.

While the ‘Phantom’ thought he was being covert, his deadpan delivery was a tell-tale sign of his shady ass self. No doubt, we’ll be seeing more of him after this post.

Funnily enough, Monsieur Clive and I get on well, sharing a fondness for dark humour but make no mistake. Come Monday and Friday he works like clockwork, aiming to top the previous week’s debacle.

If I happen to be travelling out on a Thursday, it’s like Fucking Christmas come early, I believe I once saw a single tear, shimmering down his face in elation upon realising a particular Thursday was a flexi one. Just so he didn’t have to wait an extra day to unleash his fury.

So yeah, it’s been an interesting 12 months to say the least.

But I would like to bring you to one of his very first offerings that set the tone for the rest of the year.

.

What.The.Flying.Fuck?

So in comes Monsieur Clive one Thursday afternoon, having swooned management with one of his cost saving ideas. There was a definite spring in his step, almost reminds me of Begbie from Trainspotting.

I’ve just come back from Morrisons with a hefty lunch and some shopping supplies for the weekend. Having spotted Monsieur Clive, I tried to sneak passed him while he was chatting to another colleague. Unfortunately he caught me in his peripheral vision.

Suddenly my spider sense started tingling…

Ooh what goodies have you got in there, I bet you’ve stacked up on whipped cream and chocolate sauce for your naughty long weekend? Are you going to be playing Jaimie Oliver as the naked Chef, Are ya going to get your rolling pin out, Are you going to be doing some organic basting?

Since this was still the early days, I was naïve enough to think I could still defuse the situation. Oh how very wrong was I.

I decided to play coy and suggest.

Actually, l I don’t think Food and Sex Mix at all.

Without even a moment’s breathe, he replied with this legendary tirade

.

Well I tell you what my dear boy,

You haven’t lived

Till you’ve had a Worther’s Originals

Stuck in your foreskin

.

Ummmm yeah, I’ll give you a moment to actually let that one sink in.

.

Why in the world?

There aren’t many times in my life where I’m stunned silent. This one incident made up for the entire deficit.

For no less than 10 minutes I sat back and gazed into infinity, perhaps with the same look you have on your face right now and contemplate the following

.

  • I haven’t what?
  • Till I’ve what?
  • My own lack of foreskin and being solely unable to relate to such an experience
  • The turn of phrase, you haven’t lived, as if I now have a permanent hole in my existence I cannot fill
  • The reasoning as to why anyone would do such a thing in the first place
  • The mental image of a lumpy solid sweet stuck on the now immensely clear mental image of Monsieur Clive’s Scottish pecker.
  • How the old Worther’s original ad with the grand pa and the son is now ruined eternally in my mind
  • How Society had no hope for world peace with people like Monsieur Clive still alive

.

The list goes on and on

Worst of all, for the entire 600 second duration, Monsieur Clive stared right at me laughing his fucking balls off, cackling maniacally in pride over of his latest offerings.

When someone walked passed and asked what was happening, neither one of us offered the truth, the moment had passed and no one else deserved to be haunted with these mental images.

But when I did eventually speak, I told him that’s probably going to be the best thing I’ve heard all year.

I was certainly right.

Advertisements