A long while ago I shared an office with a minor celeb motorcycle racer. He was a breast pest. Thankfully mine were too small to call for attention. I did ‘find’ the HR documentation detailing numerous complaints made by my predecessor, who booked herself in for a breast reduction shortly after leaving. Foul man. But he was easy, compared to my manager and his sycophant ‘Woodsy’.
How ‘Woodsy’ ever secured any job, let alone ‘Marketing Manager’ I will never know. Woodsy employed the racer as his side-kick, a distraction to actually having to do any work. Utterly incompetent and downright offensive at the best of times, at the worst, his behaviour was magnificently bizarre. We had a race team and during the summer we would attend race meetings. Woodsy put his back out, unable to come into the office, but on race weekends he’d ‘put on a brave face’ and it went like this. We (3 of us) would collect the people carrier, pack all the race banners and t-shirts in and drive to his house. Then there’d be a hour or so where, under the barked instructions of his wife, we’d put all the seats flat, arrange all sorts of pillows and foam as she made him a ‘bed’ . He would also bring along old work files in a plastic racking system. There he would lie, all the way to Snetterton or wherever, making calls, shouting, cussing and reeling off orders for us to carry out on arrival. When we did finally arrive, he’d miraculously manage to hobble to the pit-lane, drawing more attention than the racers, then do the rounds of hospitality tents then finally he’d ‘retire’ to his Renault Sharran sick-bed, where individuals would be summoned to speak with him. During these conversations (often with sponsors) he’d interrupt them to say things like, I’m sorry I can’t look at you, I can’t turn my head”, or “would you just put your business card in my filing system”. Sick-bed vistors asked me “is Woodsy having some sort of breakdown?”.
He was my second worst boss.