All roads lead

to Ramones; you will see our breed

on every street, pushing strollers,

iPhoned jogging rock ’n’ rollers,

defiant

in cottoned nonconformity, a giant

army of T-shirted mayhem makers

(once we’ve read the Sunday papers).

Hey ho, let’s go.

I was summoned into the office of Richard Potts, Director of HR, when I arrived this morning. As I entered, Janice loomed up out of the darkness. Dress-down Friday was in full swing: Richard sported his customary Ramones T-shirt; Janice was wearing her suit without the shoulder pads. I rubbed my chin with its two-day stubble and wondered whether I’d been pushing the Heathcliff thing too far.

Janice spoke first.

‘Brian, as you know, the solutions industry is in flux right now. We need to future-proof ourselves against anticipated market softness by right-sizing ourselves for sustainable growth. This involves making some very tough decisions concerning the viability and suitability of our human assets.’

She paused and looked at me enquiringly as if she were waiting for me to respond. I stared back blankly.

‘Look, let me level-set with you. I’m afraid that, as part of this process, you are to be disintermediated.’

I continued to stare at her, nonplussed.

‘Sorry, I’ll disambiguate that for you. We are making an involuntary reduction in our office power and you will be amongst the decruited.’

I turned to Richard for help.

He sighed and look at me sadly. ‘You see, Brian, we have drawn up the new organograms and I’m afraid your name is not on them. We can offer you a very attractive redundancy package, including six months’ salary, and the help of an outplacement agency to get you fighting fit for that job market as soon as possible.’

I understood it all now. I was the problem, not the solution or the opportunity. I was dead wood. I was Friends Reunited. I was Betamax.

‘I have a question,’ I said.

‘Of course,’ Richard replied, half-smiling with relief that his ordeal was over. ‘Fire away.’

‘What’s your favourite Ramones album?’

I watched him squirm for thirty seconds before I got up and left.

Saturday April 21st

Rhyme and Treason

Bored one day in nineteen eighty-two,

I pulled out a five-pound note and drew

a bushy moustache and a pair of specs

and sundry other physiognomic effects,

joined-up eyebrows, a furrowed brow,

zits, and the proud horns of a cow

upon Her Majesty’s regal noodle.

It was a most disrespectful doodle.

All these years on, I’ve not said sorry yet.

That’s why I’ll never be poet laureate.

I didn’t let on to Dylan or Sophie that I’d soon be joining the ranks of the unemployed. Some things are best kept hidden, like an embarrassing tattoo or a love of Billy Joel. My veneer of basic human competence is flimsy enough already – especially in comparison to Stuart – without providing additional supporting evidence.