Every origin story begins somewhere.
This one begins in a beige meeting room.
Derek Tomlinson
Senior Systems Analyst. Nuneaton. So professionally invisible he once sat in the same open plan office for eleven years without anyone learning his surname.
Nissan Micra
Colour: mild regret. Screensaver: the default one. Packed lunch: always a cheese sandwich. For twenty-three years, Derek was beige. Magnificently, thoroughly beige.
Allergic to Bollocks
Not medically. Not officially. But somewhere deep in his nervous system, every piece of corporate nonsense left a tiny residue. A deposit. Like limescale. But made entirely of waffle.
The Bollocks Built Up
The away-days. The vision workshops. The values refresh. The culture survey that asked how he felt and then ignored the answer. The town hall where the CEO said "people are our greatest asset" while simultaneously outsourcing the helpdesk to Gdansk.
Layer upon layer upon layer.
Derek
contained more concentrated corporate nonsense per square centimetre than any human being in recorded history.
More than a McKinsey partner. More than a TEDx speaker who also sells retreats.
He was a bullshit supernova waiting to happen.
"Strategic Alignment and Digital Roadmap Re-envisioning Session."
A beige room. Sixteen people who didn't want to be there. A plate of sad biscuits. A man called Piers from a consultancy. Piers had a clicker. Piers had a laser pointer. Piers had 187 slides.
"Unlocking the Power of People-Centred Digital Ecosystems to Drive Synergistic Value Outcomes Across the Enterprise."
Piers pointed the laser at each word. Slowly. Lovingly.
"Synergistic."
Something stirred deep inside Derek.
"Value Outcomes."
A low rumble. The biscuits vibrated slightly.
"The."
Derek gripped the edge of the table.
"Enterprise."
The Room Went White.
When the light faded, Derek was standing on the table. His shirt had split along the back seam. His tie was horizontal, defying both gravity and reason.
His underpants had risen to a height that would have been physically impossible sixty seconds earlier.
In his hand was a flipchart paper cape. Nobody saw him pick it up.
On his chest, in permanent marker,
in his own handwriting:
BULLSHIT
DETECTOR
MAN
Piers pointed the laser at him.
It bounced off.
He stepped down.
Picked up his packed lunch.
And walked
out.
He has not been back.
Nobody noticed.
Piers is still on slide 34.
He's been on it since March.
"No myth is un-bustable.
No cliche is un-clobberable.
No bull is un-shittable."
Bullshit Detector Man · Hovering above Nuneaton
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