We’ve all been there. First day at a new job and you wake up with a sore throat, migraine and a dicky tummy. What do you do? You overdose on Immodium, guzzle throat sweets and knock back enough painkillers to nobble an elephant. But no. Lee McQueen will be spending “a few days” at home. Lee, Lee. You’re working for Sir Alan Sugar now. There’s no such thing as “sick leave”. There’s no “paternity holiday”. God forbid you ever take a vacation! But what’s this? McQueen spurns the Sugar bible of staff conduct and hotfoots it to Spain on a jolly with his girlfriend. He then has the audacity to get struck down by a mystery virus – also known as the world’s worst hangover – from a week spent quaffing champagne and wallowing in a victorious puddle of joy. Can you all picture Sir Alan today? At his big desk? Gnashing his teeth? Ripping the petals off his peace lily? Looking for loopholes in McQueen’s contract with a giant magnifying glass? I give McQueen six months before he’s discreetly shuffled out the back door. Either that or he’ll be posted to Moldova to oversee an operation turning old Amstrads into goldfish bowls, managing a team of one. Bet Suralan wishes he had the Rottweiler in his kennel now…
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