No. How does this guy know where he got the cold from, anyway? And even if you
Dear Ozzy:
Two words, Guglielmo: shit happens. If you’re gonna kick a ball around, you’ve got to accept that some people’s personalities change beyond recognition when scoring goals is involved. I learned that lesson years ago, when I played on my local pub team every Sunday morning. Well, I say “played,” but it was really just an excuse to air my brain out after the night before. I soon realised that the blokes who were perfectly normal and friendly while having a few beers turned into wild fucking animals on the field. I mean, they just forgot who they were, to the point where they lost all self-respect… then five minutes later they were back down the pub, as nice as you like again. So you should forget about revenge, ’cos you can’t live your life trying get back at people for things you should have seen coming in the first place. Stop playing if it really bothers you. Otherwise get back on the field and try to run a bit faster next time.
Dear Dr. Ozzy:
Ask him nicely to turn it down, and if that doesn’t work, buy some earplugs—unless you want to start a feud. Also, let’s face it: the situation could be worse. He could be playing Justin Bieber.
¦ He makes himself Employee of the Month. Every month.
¦ He docks your salary for the day you take off to go to your mum’s funeral.
¦ He uses the stopwatch on his iPhone to time your toilet breaks.
¦ He thinks the stopwatch on his iPhone is a “pretty cool app.” But not as cool as “Pull My Finger”—which he plays with in his office while everyone else is working their butts off.
¦ He gets you wasted after work, then shaves off your eyebrows when you pass out. Oh, hang on a minute… that was
¦ He gives you a choice between working at the weekend or giving him a blowjob.
¦ He promotes people based on how many times they
¦ At a team-bonding event, he thinks it’s hilarious to shoot a paintball at your lovesack.
Dear Dr. Ozzy:
Number one: don’t ever work in TV, ’cos the industry is crawling with back-stabber types. Number two: you don’t have to “cope” with them—just avoid them like the plague. Unless you’re wearing handcuffs or have been slammed in a prison cell, you don’t
Dear Dr. Ozzy:
That’s why God invented golf and fishing. Both of these things let men get out of the house and socialise with each other without getting a stage-five bollocking the next day. The trouble is, if you don’t have the patience for that stuff—I certainly don’t—there ain’t many other options. And it’s not as if someone like
Dear Dr. Ozzy:
Move on. The fact is, you’re a different person now than when you were a kid, so unless your old classmates have gone into the same kind of job or whatever, it’s pointless going through the awkwardness of meeting up for a beer once every ten years. Having said that, it’s sometimes interesting to see what became of the dickheads at school. I remember this one guy: he always wore the uniform (even though you didn’t have to), always did his homework on time, always came top of everything. Meanwhile, I was the prankster, thief, and school goldfish murderer. He ended up being a bus inspector. I became a rock star. Sometimes I have a good old chuckle about that.
Dear Dr. Ozzy:
I have a rule in my band: if there’s something you don’t like about your job, or if you’ve been offered a better gig somewhere else, all I ask is for a bit of notice before you leave. And it’s the same in reverse. So if I were you, I’d have a chat with this guy, tell him it ain’t working out, and suggest he finds a new job by the end of the year. On the other hand, if he’s doing excellent work and the only problem is that you don’t like him, I’d suggest you just deal with it, ’cos talented people are hard to find, and your employees don’t have to be your friends. If no-one else at your company likes him, either, then that’s a different matter, ’cos he’ll be affecting morale. In that case he has to go.
