The boss's cigarettes were sellotaped under his desk until he went mad with craving. How we laughed. Unpopular colleagues had drawing pins placed on their seats. How we laughed again. Staff returning from the canteen balancing cups of tea were pelted with elastic bands and paperclips. Fits of laughter.
It was only when we started running into the bogs, hammering on the cubicle doors and taunting the occupants with cries of "Who's in the bog then?" that we came unstuck. Our giggling turned to barely disguised horror as the bog door was flung open by a familiar-looking man-mountain with the roar of "Who's playing silly buggers in the toilets?"
Matt managed to squeak a tremulous "Christ on a f---ing bike, it's only Brian bloody Blessed!" as the rest of us shat ourselves at the impending pounding that seemed, at the time, inevitable. We legged it. We managed, somehow, to keep our jobs, but alas, people on high had noticed and we were soon split up. Still, we'll always have Brian Blessed.