So, guys. There are no more Covid restrictions at all. Is it time for a big night out?
On screen, El-Jefe rolled around in his chair like a Seacow having a fit over how much hot sauce is the right amount of hot sauce for a taco.
It was the Friday Teams rammy. There was about eighteen of us on the call and the screen was awash with thumbnails of folk in slobby t-shirts with unshaven faces.
The men were no better.
A night out? Aye, why not.
I said chirpily.
Although I would rather eat rancid meat from a tramp's buttocks than socialise with my work colleagues it had been a hard and long Covid lockdown and I felt it might be good to go out and clean the pipes, as it were.
You are not so usually keen on these gatherings young Boom-Dawg?
El-Jefe twitched one of his stubby flippers at me via his camera and chuckled thinly like an asthmatic emptying a hoover bag.
Ever since I had turned fifty years old El Jefe had started calling me young this or young that. As if his balls were immune to my boot.
I tilted my chin up like the way I used to when slipping through the night waters of an enemy encampment with a knife in my mouth.
Needs must old boss man, needs must.
I smirked.
Let us see who would win the old/young game. El-Jefesaurus had at least five years on me. He had gotten to that hangy paps stage of getting old.
Paps being of course that wonderfully coarse Scottish expression for boobies
El-Jefe growled low in his throat before remembering he was pretending to be the convivial boss that all his employees loved and quickly pulled out his best fake smile.
Well, I am glad you are game. So, is everyone else in agreement?
He looked at the gaggle of tramps and vagabonds that were on the call for approval.
We had a lot of new staff, Most of them young flibbertigibbets. They all nodded enthusiastically like Russian Army Generals having an audience with Putin around a gigantic table.
One of them, a pallid ostrich looking thing unmuted himself and spoke.
Hi Boss. Yeah, like, that sounds cool. Like are you on to that music bar, The Note? We could go there, it's really cool man.
He sounded American or Polish and also lazy but that's the young for you.
Ah yes, Ulysses is it? I could check it out. Somewhere different is always good.
El-Jefe in his desperation to look cool took his turn to nod like a sixties beat poet in San Fransisco.
I snorted. Ulysses? Fucking Ulysses? What the fuck was this, the 31st century? Did he have a small robot called No-No?
Yeah man, that would be awesome. I know the guy that runs it. I could get in touch with him, get us some tables or something man?
Ulysses jiggled his body whilst talking as if he were playing drums in a bin trying to impress Lars Ulrich.
El-Jefe beamed with joy at being accepted by one of the young crew.
Yes, I mean, if it helps you could pass on his email and I could drop him a mail with the numbers?
El-Jefe raked a hand through the sticky mass of nonsense on his head that he called hair.
Ulysses jerked back in his chair then guffawed hard.
Boss man. You know absolutely no one under the age of thirty opens an email? I mean, you know that right?
He shook his head at the email opening antics of those unfortunate enough to be born on the wrong side of the 21st century.
El-Jefe's eyes bulged, his good-guy demeanour slipping slowly from his face.
Maybe we should make a bloody Tik Tok video then and do a stupid fucking dance and send him that? Would that work Uly-Uly-bang-bang?
I helpfully interjected.
El Jefe waved a hand in front of his eyes confusedly like a poor wretch stumbling out of a dark and deserted hospital only to find the world has succumbed to the zombie apocalypse.
Then he pulled himself together and glared at the camera no doubt at the precise spot where Ulysses's thumbnail lurked.
Enough. I will sort something out. By email.
He ended the call.
Oh dear, poor Ulysses. I think El-Jefe might have found a new pony to ride.
