Carl Smith, who tells all people that his rise to professional mediocrity was done ‘the hard way’ and without the help of any real-life ‘poncey’ university, is actually an honours graduate from the renowned institute for churning out twonks and plonkers by the thousands.
Long-suffering work colleague, Sarah Harris, said: ‘He seemed nice enough at first. But when I told him I wasn’t from Birmingham and just came here to study, he looked at me like I just cupped a fart in my hand and smeared his face with it.’
‘He was a nightmare. He would constantly tell me how he ‘didn’t see the point’ and how he’d learned more at the ‘best university,’ namely life, than he could studying for ten PhDs.
‘At meetings, whenever I’d ask a question, he’d pipe up with, ‘what, did your degree in Shakespeare’s sonnets not teach you that?’ Yawn. Even on works nights out – ‘they don’t do shots for a quid in here’ and ‘d’you want me to see if why’ve got any Happy Mondays on the jukebox?’ I’m twenty-five. Tosser.’
‘To make matters even worse, he then ‘found’ my CV and saw I went to private school. I thought he was going to f**king explode. He started calling me Camilla and placing silver spoons on my desk, before banging on about attending the school of hard-knocks.’
‘So, I killed him with a staple gun.’