Post by Old Dragon (Al) on Mar 24, 2009 23:51:01 GMT 1
The Office Olympics
The trouble with the internet is that, what might begin in a chat forum as a simple discussion about improving one’s seat on a horse and advancing from the status of a mere novice dressage competitor, can suddenly undergo metamorphosis.
Yes, it is possible to straddle a spider-legged office chair, place one’s feet on its legs, and influence it using only one’s weight and position to move forwards, backwards, sideways and in circles, and much as a horse might when it experiences similar posterior forces driving it from the saddle. That retired riding instructor, fat (call a spade a spade) Al had, in the privacy of her home, demonstrated this fact to the pint-sized novice, Nicole, was not the problem. The problem was that the said demonstration had been captured on camera and uploaded onto the World Wide Web and there been discovered (with alarming speed) by Dai ‘the dustbin’ Davies, a bored CCTV operative working a night shift at Aberpystill Securities, based somewhere in the wilds of wet, wet Wales.
‘Duw! Duw!’ cried Dai, enjoying a Eureka moment and thinking this could be the perfect entertainment for the office party the following evening.
Dai lost little time drawing up a schedule of events and, with the exclusive run of the offices until the day shift appeared, soon began testing the racing merits of all the chairs on the premises.
Five – including the managing director’s – were soon selected and labelled with exclusive names. Thunder - black, faux leather, and inclined to blow impressive raspberries when bounced upon. Lightning - with it’s stained and cracked beige seat - was clearly well chip-oiled and was discovered in the lab technician’s lunchtime lair. Blizzard – a wizened, nail varnish splattered relic from some long forgotten typing pool - came from the closet in reception. Tornado – the MD’s slate blue leather office limo - sang beautifully as it sped over the corridor tiles; and finally his own, exceptionally agile little blue cloth finished model, he named Bruiser, due to its worn out, rock-hard suspension and lack of padding.
It didn’t take Dai long to assemble them all in his monitoring room, or to put each through its paces with a view to their potential performances in bending, spud and spoon and obstacle races. Yes, the ‘Office Olympics’ were about to be born - and in Aberpystill, of all places.
Several miles away, the Aberpystill Securities personnel director, Mick ‘Prit stick’ Mahoney, couldn’t sleep. Yawning, he headed for his kitchen and the ever-ready coffee pot. There comes a point when, if insomnia cannot be beaten, one might as well banish the idea of sleep altogether and get back to work, he reasoned.
With a pint-sized coffee mug in hand, Mick made his way to his home office, booted up his system, then logged onto the work’s live cam. If nothing else, he could see what that human dustbin, Dai was helping himself to out of the work canteen’s fridge. Mick had never known anyone who could eat as much as Dai and yet remain so lath-lean - but for someone to be so skinny when following Dai’s sedentary occupation? It made no sense to Mick, who’d been piling on the middle-aged pounds of late, despite regular trips to the gym, and much to his consternation. No, Dai had to have a secret, and Mick was the man to discover it.
Keeping half an eye on the wall of CCTV screens, Dai drove Tornado backwards, forwards, sideways and through a series of spins and turns, his arms swinging and his hips gyrating with ever-increasing energy, and all whilst blissfully unaware of the blinking camera eye watching his every move. That his performance was being recorded on one of his own monitors didn’t bother Dai at all. It was a simple task to wipe the tape; besides, it was useful to see for himself which of his elite chairs would prove most advantageous and in which pending race. It wasn’t that Dai wished to compete himself in the events. Oh, no, he had a much better idea – one with the potential to reward him handsomely for his idea – he’d become the party bookmaker.
Watching the watcher, Mick allowed his coffee to grow cold as the warm glow of enlightenment spread through him. ‘So that’s his secret,’ Mick breathed, a little heavily from his own exertions attempting to emulate Dai’s wild gyrations and whilst seated in his own office chair. That was quite a workout, he conceded, and imagined the impact such could have on the increasingly obese British workforce. There could be an income from this, he told himself. Enough to retire on, perhaps?
Shutting down his system, Mick slipped quietly back to his bed, his mind racing with possibilities to explore from specially designed office exercise chairs and publishing contracts for instructional books and DVDs, to training courses and lecture tours.
There was little evidence of Dai’s over night activities visible when the Aberpystill Securities' staff arrived for work at eight o’clock. Nobody appeared aware that their chairs had been working overtime during their absence, although the MD felt his chair’s morning sigh lacked its usual hiss of satisfaction upon receiving his revered rear into its luxurious creases. Perhaps it was time to buy a replacement? He’d heard they were available with heat and massage functions nowadays. He reached for the phone…
In his office, Mick began his own search for an office furniture manufacturer to pitch his idea to – at a price, of course. He also reminded himself to track down the CCTV tape of Dai’s nightly exercise programme. That could prove invaluable – and wuld be safer in his possession than left lying around to risk chance discovery by the MD and Dai’s possible dismissal.
Mick felt he owed Dai that, at least.
A few miles down the road in his small cottage kitchen, Dai tucked into a bowl of his wife’s breakfast porridge, waved his children off to school and went to bed to dream about the evening’s party and the fun and games he had lined up for all. Everyone always relied on him to come up with the best entertainment ideas… He must remember to wipe that CCTV tape of his practice session… Mustn’t allow the staff a chance to gain an advantage before he opened his book at the party…
The trouble with the internet is that, what might begin in a chat forum as a simple discussion about improving one’s seat on a horse and advancing from the status of a mere novice dressage competitor, can suddenly undergo metamorphosis.
Yes, it is possible to straddle a spider-legged office chair, place one’s feet on its legs, and influence it using only one’s weight and position to move forwards, backwards, sideways and in circles, and much as a horse might when it experiences similar posterior forces driving it from the saddle. That retired riding instructor, fat (call a spade a spade) Al had, in the privacy of her home, demonstrated this fact to the pint-sized novice, Nicole, was not the problem. The problem was that the said demonstration had been captured on camera and uploaded onto the World Wide Web and there been discovered (with alarming speed) by Dai ‘the dustbin’ Davies, a bored CCTV operative working a night shift at Aberpystill Securities, based somewhere in the wilds of wet, wet Wales.
‘Duw! Duw!’ cried Dai, enjoying a Eureka moment and thinking this could be the perfect entertainment for the office party the following evening.
Dai lost little time drawing up a schedule of events and, with the exclusive run of the offices until the day shift appeared, soon began testing the racing merits of all the chairs on the premises.
Five – including the managing director’s – were soon selected and labelled with exclusive names. Thunder - black, faux leather, and inclined to blow impressive raspberries when bounced upon. Lightning - with it’s stained and cracked beige seat - was clearly well chip-oiled and was discovered in the lab technician’s lunchtime lair. Blizzard – a wizened, nail varnish splattered relic from some long forgotten typing pool - came from the closet in reception. Tornado – the MD’s slate blue leather office limo - sang beautifully as it sped over the corridor tiles; and finally his own, exceptionally agile little blue cloth finished model, he named Bruiser, due to its worn out, rock-hard suspension and lack of padding.
It didn’t take Dai long to assemble them all in his monitoring room, or to put each through its paces with a view to their potential performances in bending, spud and spoon and obstacle races. Yes, the ‘Office Olympics’ were about to be born - and in Aberpystill, of all places.
Several miles away, the Aberpystill Securities personnel director, Mick ‘Prit stick’ Mahoney, couldn’t sleep. Yawning, he headed for his kitchen and the ever-ready coffee pot. There comes a point when, if insomnia cannot be beaten, one might as well banish the idea of sleep altogether and get back to work, he reasoned.
With a pint-sized coffee mug in hand, Mick made his way to his home office, booted up his system, then logged onto the work’s live cam. If nothing else, he could see what that human dustbin, Dai was helping himself to out of the work canteen’s fridge. Mick had never known anyone who could eat as much as Dai and yet remain so lath-lean - but for someone to be so skinny when following Dai’s sedentary occupation? It made no sense to Mick, who’d been piling on the middle-aged pounds of late, despite regular trips to the gym, and much to his consternation. No, Dai had to have a secret, and Mick was the man to discover it.
Keeping half an eye on the wall of CCTV screens, Dai drove Tornado backwards, forwards, sideways and through a series of spins and turns, his arms swinging and his hips gyrating with ever-increasing energy, and all whilst blissfully unaware of the blinking camera eye watching his every move. That his performance was being recorded on one of his own monitors didn’t bother Dai at all. It was a simple task to wipe the tape; besides, it was useful to see for himself which of his elite chairs would prove most advantageous and in which pending race. It wasn’t that Dai wished to compete himself in the events. Oh, no, he had a much better idea – one with the potential to reward him handsomely for his idea – he’d become the party bookmaker.
Watching the watcher, Mick allowed his coffee to grow cold as the warm glow of enlightenment spread through him. ‘So that’s his secret,’ Mick breathed, a little heavily from his own exertions attempting to emulate Dai’s wild gyrations and whilst seated in his own office chair. That was quite a workout, he conceded, and imagined the impact such could have on the increasingly obese British workforce. There could be an income from this, he told himself. Enough to retire on, perhaps?
Shutting down his system, Mick slipped quietly back to his bed, his mind racing with possibilities to explore from specially designed office exercise chairs and publishing contracts for instructional books and DVDs, to training courses and lecture tours.
There was little evidence of Dai’s over night activities visible when the Aberpystill Securities' staff arrived for work at eight o’clock. Nobody appeared aware that their chairs had been working overtime during their absence, although the MD felt his chair’s morning sigh lacked its usual hiss of satisfaction upon receiving his revered rear into its luxurious creases. Perhaps it was time to buy a replacement? He’d heard they were available with heat and massage functions nowadays. He reached for the phone…
In his office, Mick began his own search for an office furniture manufacturer to pitch his idea to – at a price, of course. He also reminded himself to track down the CCTV tape of Dai’s nightly exercise programme. That could prove invaluable – and wuld be safer in his possession than left lying around to risk chance discovery by the MD and Dai’s possible dismissal.
Mick felt he owed Dai that, at least.
A few miles down the road in his small cottage kitchen, Dai tucked into a bowl of his wife’s breakfast porridge, waved his children off to school and went to bed to dream about the evening’s party and the fun and games he had lined up for all. Everyone always relied on him to come up with the best entertainment ideas… He must remember to wipe that CCTV tape of his practice session… Mustn’t allow the staff a chance to gain an advantage before he opened his book at the party…