This portly, rim-dwelling sycophant, oozes around the shop floor, frantically buttering-up anyone with a smidgen of authority.
Sickeningly subservient, they complement managers on anything, from their tactically astute organisation of the week’s rotor to their fetching, new jazzy tie.
They grovel and plead to be permitted the opportunity to do the shitty shift everyone is dodging. When awarded extra responsibility they are noticeably aroused, release great, nasal yelps of glee. They’ll swing the store keys around their finger like a greasy old leach flaunting a Ferrari fob.
“Guess who’s opening up tomorrow?”
They talk about members of the business’ upper-hierarchy as if they are celebrities, idols, the stuff of supermarket legend, because to them, they are.
“You’ll never guess who we had in-store the other day? STEVE SMITH!”
“You don’t know who Steve Smith is? ha!ha! He’s the regional manager. He’s responsible for the entire region!”
Usually they are taken under the wing of a particular manager as they are groomed for a middle-management role. They shadow them like a Hollywood PA, carrying out their dirty work with unconcealed pleasure. While you swallow a bollocking, they peer from behind their hero, nodding, smug and stern.
Even the owner of the botty playing host to the Bumlick’s turd-caked snout, visibly despises the extent of their snivelling conduct, but they endure it as their undying obedience comes in handy.
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