Disaster. Sir Marcus told the board that he wants to do cross-functional team-building to break down silo mentality. He then introduced some gnarly ex-para who was going to lead it. I asked Sir Marcus what the difference was between a team and a silo. Action man jumped in and said that was exactly the kind of thing we'd find out under extreme physical pressure. Tosser. Personally I've never seen the point of teambuilding. I tell my team what to do and if they don't do it, they're not on the team. How difficult is that? But HR say they're right behind it. Not that you'll ever catch HR right in front of something, because that would imply they had a mind of their own.
We discovered who our cross-functional teams are. The good news is I've got Celeste Nibelle, who has the finest breasts in the free world. The bad news is we've got David 'Psycho' Iverson from Operations. He looks like an Easter Island statue and is the sort of bloke who would kill himself to win a bet. We've also got a little shaven-haired feminist from R&D called Vicki Rook. She's hated me since I said I love working women because it gives men something to look at in the office. No sense of humour. How we're supposed to build a team with that lot I'll never know. Went to the gym after work with Howard and managed to do a handstand in the hot tub without my trunks. Very effective in keeping other people out of the tub.
After work, my cross-functional team gathered in my office and then we all squeezed into the lift. There was a little bald man already in the lift, but a couple of big national account managers crushed him in the corner. Halfway down, the lift stuck and wouldn't budge. I used the emergency telephone, but it just kept ringing and ringing. I wondered where the silly arse who was supposed to answer it was. A little voice then piped up saying he was behind the national account managers. Great. We all then settled down to spend the night in the lift. The high point was when we discovered that Action Man had actually been in the Catering Corp and the nearest he had ever got to a physical extreme was a dodgy Cornish pastie.
Morning finally came. Some little tit from HR had done a course on facilitation skills and now thought he was Ernest Shackleton. He said we needed to stay calm and think. That was rich coming from HR, who regularly panic when they forget to water their pot plants. I was already doing some deep thinking but mostly about rampant monkey sex with Celeste. I passed a few happy hours trying to work out what proportion of the entire lift space was occupied by her breasts. It suddenly occurred to me that when we started to run out of air, the fact that her breasts were taking up so much space might be the death of me. What a way to go. 'Psycho' Iverson had the bright idea of climbing out of the top of the lift and going for help. Before we could say 'don't be a nutter' he'd climbed out and gone.
We all spent the night trying to sleep standing up, with me wedged nicely against Celeste. At three in the morning we were woken with a jolt when the lift started moving. The doors opened at the top floor. Sir Marcus was standing there half naked with his arm round a fit young piece from Corporate Affairs. How appropriate. I was on the point of asking about breaking down silos when the doors closed on us and we were taken down to the ground floor. By the time we got there we were all one laughing, smiling, happy team, thanks to Sir Marcus. That man certainly knows how to walk the talk. When I finally got home I remembered that 'Psycho' Iverson was still somewhere up the lift shaft. I decided to leave him there, as he clearly isn't a team player.
John Weak can be contacted at firstname.lastname@example.org.