The absolutely brilliant employee - part 1

It was the mid-nineties and I was working for large multinational. I had won a prize for being absolutely brilliant or something. Being the heady days of the dot com boom, the prize was equally heady. Myself and the other absolutely brilliant employees from all around Europe and the Middle East were to be brought to London for a weekend where we would be presented with our awards and collect nice fat cheques.

Then the IRA went and blew up Canary Wharf. The company decided London was too dangerous and the venue was switched to Edinburgh. It would be bad press to have your absolutely brilliant employees killed and wouldn’t make a lot of economic sense either. Edinburgh suited me much better anyway - the beer would be drinkable.

The itinerary went like this:

Friday afternoon: Fly to Edinburgh. Limo from airport to fancy hotel. [Grand. Friday off work and paid]

Friday evening: Wine & cheese reception. [I'd find a bar]

Saturday morning: Shopping trip. [I'd find a bar]

Saturday afternoon: The matinée of a musical. [I'd find a bar near a bookies]

Saturday evening: Gala dinner. Business-casual dress. [What was that about? I'd find the bar]

Sunday morning: Sightseeing tour. [I'd find a bar. Get a cure]

Sunday afternoon: Limo to airport. Fly back home. [Bollix! I'd have to work Monday]

I hadn’t even left Ireland before I made the first cock-up. I queued for 45mins at the Aer Lingus check-in only to be told that I needn’t have bothered - I had a first class ticket. I’d never had a first class ticket before. Not even on a train. This was going to be great.

I was ushered onto the plane first. This was going to be great. They gave me a newspaper. Offered pillows and sweets and stuff. An absolutely stunning girl was next to board and sat beside me. I introduced myself: I’m an absolutely brilliant employee. You’re an absolutely stunning girl. She laughed. Not surprising - women always laugh when they see me first. We got chatting and she told me she went to Edinburgh nearly every weekend to visit her sister. I got the whole story on the best restaurants. Do you know a pub near a bookies? She told me what shows were playing. Do you know a pub near a bookies? She listed all the must-see attractions. Do you know a pub near a bookies? She didn’t but would find out.

A chauffeur greeted me at the airport with a sign saying Mr. P. Sneeze. Peaked cap, black gloves, the works. He insisted on carrying my bag and opening doors for me and calling me sir. This was going to be great.

The hotel was amazing. The room was more of a suite. On the desk there was a note from the company welcoming me and an envelope with my ticket for the musical. I tossed that in the bin. On the bed was a gift from the company - a picnic hamper. But not a Yogi Bear one. This had a really soft tartan woollen rug, a radio that could even pick up aircraft frequencies, a bottle of champagne, Waterford Crystal glasses, binoculars and I can’t remember what else. I suppose it was intended for those who like to picnic at exclusive airports.

It was nearly time for the cheese and wine do in the lobby. I rang down to reception and asked them to tell the bosses I wasn’t feeling well and couldn’t attend. And then I asked if the hotel had a back door. I found a bar.

The next morning there was a message for me at reception. I called the number. It was the girl from the plane with directions to a pub near a bookies. Highly recommended by the locals. Would she be there? No, she was going to the big musical. Ah fek, I could’ve given you a ticket - I had a free one and threw it away.

I met up with another two absolutely brilliant employees from Ireland at breakfast. Was I feeling better? Was I going shopping with them? Yes, much better (except for a hangover). And no, all my shopping was done. I had a lovely rug for the mother. A radio for the father. Waterford Crystal for the sibling. Champagne for the Sneeze’s squeeze. Binoculars for her dad. Ya cheap bastard, Primal. Would you not have given your mum the whole basket and bought more stuff for the others? The ma doesn’t like airports, I explained. And anyway I was skint and my budget only ran to alcohol.

So what was I doing for the afternoon now that we weren’t being taken to the show? We’re not? Why? The last minute switch from London meant it was too late for them to buy us tickets. That’s why they put £100 cash in the envelope instead of tickets. They fekin’ what? Oh, Christ! This wasn’t going to be great.

I raced back up to the room. The bin was empty. I ran down the hallway, around the corner and slammed straight into a rather portly lady in a blue pinny. Was it yourself cleaned room 404? (I should have known that number would bring bad luck). It was her. You did a great job. Now just bear with me for a minute. This is an emergency. I upended her trolley and rummaged through the pile for my envelope. I planted a big sloppy kiss on her cheek and danced back down the hall waving the cash in the air and whooping like, like a thing that whoops. All I could hear behind me was bloody Irish. They’re all mad.

Maybe this was going to be great after all.