We were blessed with some kind and friendly security guards at the BBC. Keith, with his yellowing hair and yellowing fingers, was lovely and if I forgot my pass, as I frequently did, he’d let me through, with a raspy chain-smoker chuckle.
However, if he wasn’t on, it would mean the other one was in charge. The anti-Keith. Officious, sarcastic, misanthropic, humourless…. An utter bell end. Everyone disliked him. He looked like Captain Underpants (or more his alter ego Mr Krupp) from the Dav Pilkey books my kids were reading. I gave him that nickname. It stuck.
My heart would sink when I saw he was on shift, especially if I’d forgotten my pass. When I told him this he’d say, slowly, “oh dear oh dear oh dear” like a copper who’d just caught me drawing a big cock on a wall.
He knew I worked there, but we’d have to go through the same rigmarole of signing in and then fetching a colleague to confirm I worked there. It was a massive waste of time for everyone. Yes, I should have just been more organised, but c’mon don’t be a twat, mate.
I never learned my lesson. One early shift I realised I’d forgotten my pass again, but this time I’d left it in the shower room inside the building. I decided to go around the back and call a colleague inside. I asked him to drop down his pass from the window so I could get in without having to deal with Captain Underpants. He duly did, and I entered the building. Except Captain Underpants was waiting for me. Of course he was. He’d watched everything on CCTV. I brushed past him and explained where my pass was. He told me to stop, but I was away, sprinting up the two flights of stairs, while he laboured up them. I got to the shower room, got changed and dug out my pass. When I opened the door he was standing there, out of breath, demanding to see my ID. I displayed it within an inch of his face and walked away.
After numerous complaints about his behaviour and general personality, Captain Underpants left the BBC. He gave up being a security guard to become a double glazing salesman. I’m sure with his joyless demeanor, his way with words, his dazzling charm, it all worked out for him.
The Wrong Trousers
My pass wasn’t the only thing I used to forget. Because I cycled to work, the extra planning involved inevitably led to forgetting things. One day, I completely forgot to pack any trousers to change into. I was going through a lycra phase.
I thought it would be perfectly fine to appeal to the whole office for any spares via a mass email. For some reason a message about not having any trousers to wear was extremely funny. My boss came over just to see me in my cycling shorts. Which sounds weird. ‘I’ve got to see this,’ he said. ‘Hahaha.’
Yes, I found it funny too. *Eyerolls*
Thankfully, the weatherman came to my rescue with a spare pair of black trousers. Except they were too short by about three inches. I was wearing white socks. I looked like Michael Jackson, on the bottom half, anyway.
