But as someone kindly pointed out there is a U in c*nt 😉
The firm organised a group hug last Friday at some massive old Victorian pile (that’s a house and grounds not some kind of turn of the century medical complaint). The majority turned up on Thursday night and although I had high expectations of extreme hangovers, they both met and exceeded those expectations when I pitched up on Friday morning. It appeared I had strolled into a “rough as a badgers’ arse” convention and there my much self pitying rubbing of heads and gagging at fried food.
The conference centre was a huge house converted into a smallish hotel with sufficient grounds to hunt bear in. It’d been built by some industrialist who’d bought half of Guildford on the back of oppressing the working class. This is the kind of place where the top hatted ruling class would bristle their mustaches and declare – in all seriousness – “Sir, I am de-masted” and other such nonsense.
It did, however, provide a perfect opportunity to be roughly handled round the tender regions by seven middle aged men. This is not a situation a straight bloke with a northerners aggressive protection of personal space generally finds himself in. Unless you were a public schoolboy in which case it probably happened most days. With buggery to follow. During a ‘team building’ (I know, I know) session, we had to imagine inert bark as raging volcantic torrents and find a way across using nothing more than our ‘teamed’ skills, a couple of tree limbs and a willing victim.
So at the crux of the challenge, I found myself stretched across a lava chasm (or dead tree if your imagination was still stunned by hangover) desperately groping for a slippery stone while the rest of my all-male team desperately groped parts of my body where no man should be allowed. Unless it’s the doctor and you have an embarrassing disease.
I couldn’t help feeling a frission of excitement which I hastily put down to the joy of completing the challenge through the little known motivational art of cheating. Still we were let out early and while “the manhandling 7” and around fifty others milled about in the hope of finding transportation home, I drove ten miles in the opposite direction of the M25 and went to ride my bike.
This I did with a couple of my friends who despite the dark forest and muddy trail, did not feel the urge to indulge in any team bonding action other than buying me a pint. Which was most welcome as I’ve been getting shuddering flashbacks every time I’d passed a tree.