Category: Petty crime

Avatar Further culture in the workplace

You might recall that, in years gone by, I made attempts to introduce a little high-minded art to the banal surroundings of a toilet at work, first with a renaissance masterpiece and then with something a little more abstract. More recently, an unknown colleague of mine got in on the act with an artwork of a different kind.

Well, once again the joyless drudges from facilities management have noticed something amiss and taken action. There can be no pleasure and no enjoyment. The A5 picture frame in the men’s toilet is not there to hold a picture, it is there to be empty, and so they have emptied it.

Not to worry. I don’t give up that easily. We have been through realism, abstract art and pop culture. I decided it’s time for the postmodern. Time for meta-art.

I present to you my masterpiece.

This, I think, has two really great positives.

  1. It makes a bold statement about the banality of a world where the corporate system can only tolerate the existence of a picture frame if it is empty, and asks, in the cultural desert of the workplace, is the frame itself the only art that can be permitted?
  2. It is the same colour as everything around it so they might not notice it for a long time.

Once again, the game is afoot. Let’s see how long this one lasts.

Avatar Newsboost – celebrity sunshine science shroud

The world has been shocked today by the news that former X-Factor winner Shayne Ward has been caught trying to cover up the sun with tinfoil.

Tameside police were called to the singer’s luxury mansion in Stockport on Saturday afternoon following reports from neighbours that a huge ladder situated in his back garden was temporarily blotting out the sun from their gardens during the recent heat wave. Upon entering the premises, officers discovered that it wasn’t the ladder but Mr. Ward himself balanced at the top of the ladder trying to wrap the sun in tinfoil of all things.

“I’ve seen a lot of things working as a policewoman in Manchester but this tops the lot,” says Fairweather Skindle, one of the first to arrive on the scene. “It seemed like celebrity madness what with the crazy temperatures we were experiencing. If it wasn’t Shayne Ward blocking the sun with a ladder it could easily be, I don’t know, Ricky Hatton throwing bowling shoes at swans. Anything is possible.”

Mr. Ward was taken into custody shortly after 2pm. His solicitor arrived at the police station half an hour later with one of those sexy summer coffees from Starbucks and half a watermelon, carved into reasonably-sized slices.

The unusual nature of the “crime” has called into question whether or not the defendant was actually committing any misconduct given that nobody was hurt, nothing was stolen, everyone was fine and we all went out for ice creams afterwards.

We consulted with Sedgwick Robust, a physicist who works up the road from where our building is.

“Not taking into account the sanity of the person undertaking the act, based on my calculations you would need approximately 676,444,444,444,444.444444444444444 rolls of foil to cover the entirety of the sun. This would be assuming that you were using extra long foil, measuring 30m by 30cm.”

(We were going to ask for the calculations using regular sized tinfoil and decided against it.)

“As well as this, due to the extreme surface temperature, the aluminium would have melted long before Mr. Ward ever made it to the sun. He would also have died too because if he didn’t suffocate from the lack of air then he would have fried from the intense heat. There isn’t a known material that has a high enough melting point that could allow you to get near to or cover the sun.”

We’re not even sure how much money it would cost in order to buy that many rolls of tinfoil. Not even a crazy billionaire would want to foot that bill and certainly Inside Soap Award’s ‘Best Newcomer’ and TV Choice Award’s ‘Best Soap Newcomer’, both from 2016, wouldn’t think to do so.

We here at Newsboost all hope that this was merely a misunderstanding and wish Mr. Ward a swift recovering (and possibly one of those watermelon slices).

Avatar Blame game

Recently Ian invited us to try blaming it on the spicy margs. It seemed like a good idea so I had a go.

I am now in a positon to report my results.

Experiment 1

Early last week I needed to go to the supermarket. On arrival I ran straight to the meal deal fridges, barged some other customers out of the way, and started chugging own-brand banana milkshakes one after another, throwing the empty bottles on the floor behind me. When the security guard apprehended me and asked what I was doing I wafted my mouth like I was suffering severe heat burns and told him it was because of the spicy margs.

Result: banned from Sainsbury’s, Water Lane, Farnham. The phrase “spicy margs” not understood by Group 4 security personnel even on the third or fourth time of repeating it.

Experiment 2

On Friday last week I got the train to work without buying a ticket. When the conductor arrived and asked to see my ticket I told him I hadn’t got one. When he asked why not I said it was because of the spicy margs.

Result: £49 penalty fare. Spicy margs not applicable under railway bylaws.

Experiment 3

Two days ago, I went over to the shared kitchen area at work and found a woman making a round of tea for her colleagues. Maintaining eye contact throughout, I pushed all the mugs of tea onto the floor, where some of them smashed and the tea went everywhere. She jumped backwards, since her feet were now covered in very hot tea, catching her skirt on a drawer handle and sustaining some minor damage to her attire. She asked me what the hell I thought I was doing. I told her it was because of the spicy margs.

Result: employment tribunal pending. Union legal representative advises me that spicy margs are not a defence under the terms of my employer’s code of conduct.

Conclusion

Blaming it on the spicy margs is terrible advice. I will not be spending £14.99 on the framed art print that Ian was advertising.

Avatar ABOFB 36: Nip to the loo

Welcome to back to a breath of fresh beans, this week we’re just going to nip to the loo, don’t worry, not literally (we did that before we started recording).

Suggestions in this pod are:

  • Weird
  • Posh
  • Nosy
  • Espionagey

Avatar Do not remove

This sign at work has not been successful in its aims.

Presumably, at some point, another bin will be provided by whoever considers it vitally important that this little-used basement corridor always has a bin available at this precise location. When that happens I suggest they adopt one, some or all of the following suggestions for improved security:

  • Add “on pain of death” to the end of the sign
  • Add a nice positive thumbs up symbol to the sign
  • Have a speaker playing the sign’s message out loud on a loop in case the bin was taken by a blind person
  • Keep the existing wording and layout of the sign, but enlarge it so that it covers the entire wall
  • Use plainer language that low-life thieves will understand, like “get your stinking hands off my bin, you pilfering shitbags”
  • Make multiple versions of the sign and use them to plaster the bin to the wall like papier-mâché
  • Apply camouflage netting to the bin, thus rendering it invisible
  • Put another more desirable bin next to the bin as bait

Avatar Why would you buy this?

We all know that I have a turbulent past (turbulent, I say!) with spending my disposable income. Kev has gotten so mad in the past based on my “pointless purchases” that he literally cannot even sometimes. It’s all heartbreaking stuff.

As we wandered around the slightly freezing Lake District in mid-November, me forgetting a proper coat and taking a photo where my nose looks as bright and pink as a carnation, I came across the following in a shop. It was hidden away towards the back along with some other shonky and partially damaged goods:

Now I’m one for a bargain but unless I have another set of draughts with only the black pieces, possibly acquired from a rival store with a similar problem, then surely this is going to remain unsold for some time.

Did they eat all the black pieces thinking they were licorice? Were they stolen by a deranged kleptomaniac with specific requirements? Did anyone get a video?

We will never know the full story and normally I would put good money on them still being there the next time we visit, however human beings are weird and I reckon someone will snap them up sharpish. Possibly as a joke present.

Ack, that should have been me!

Avatar Heist movie

Right, lads. Thanks for gathering here in the seedy basement criminal headquarters round the back of the seedy basement criminal billiards hall. Grab a cocktail stick to chew. I’ve spread out a blueprint on the table so gather round and have a look.

As you all know, this is the big one, the heist of the year. We’re going to lift four million nicker in used five pence coins from the Coinstar machine by the tills in Morrisons.

First off, we all need code names. Kevil, you’re Mr Blancmange. Ian, we’ll call you Mr Trifle. I’ll be going by the name Mr Bread and Butter Pudding. No arguing now, those are the names, if you don’t like it you can walk out the door and miss out on the biggest haul of loose change this country has ever seen. Alright? Good. We’re all in.

Here’s the plan. Meet round the side of the Morrisons petrol station at 3.15. Mr Trifle and Mr Blancmange will be at the air machine feigning an argument about the correct tyre pressure for the rear wheels of a heavily loaded Dacia Sandero in cold weather. I’ll be in the shop buying a bag of Jelly Tots. If I come out and show you a car wash ticket for a number four programme with hot wax, the game is on.

At that point we all get into the Sandero sharpish. Mr Blancmange will drive. Mr Trifle will jump in the boot so the car doesn’t look too full. I’ll sit in the passenger seat and crack open the Jelly Tots. Then we swing it round to the front of Morrisons and ditch the wheels in a parent and child bay. They’ve got extra room for the doors to open and they’re right by the entrance. I don’t care if we get a ticket.

From there we make it to the Coinstar machine under cover of a montage. Mr Trifle will play in some lively montage music on a bluetooth speaker. Then we get indoors in five montage clips.

  • One, Mr Blancmange slides the stack of shopping baskets in the way of the automatic doors to wedge them open.
  • Two, Mr Trifle grabs us three copies of the free monthly Morrisons recipe magazine to hide our faces by pretending to read them.
  • Three, I’ll offer the security guard some Jelly Tots so he’s not looking at the CCTV.
  • Four, Mr Blancmange grabs a 10p plastic bag from the self checkouts and covers up the camera.
  • And five, Mr Trifle humorously pauses by the display of flowers to pull a rose from a bouquet and tuck it into the buttonhole on his suit jacket.

When we get to the Coinstar machine we have sixty seconds to get it away before the checkout supervisor sees what we’re up to and raises the alarm. Mr Blancmange and I will lift the floor panel next to it, revealing a manhole down to the drains. Mr Trifle will then announce that he’s “got this” and we will leave it to him to push the machine into the hole.

When that’s done we jump down after it and ride it away through the sewers like a big cash-filled surfboard. The current will tip us out at the riverside where we can get a number 65 bus back here to the lair.

Any questions? No? Good. In that case, you put your suits on and I’ll get the Sandero out of the lock up. Everyone synchronise watches. See you outside in five.