The greatest manager I've ever worked for is Frank Parr. Frank is greater even than Capt. Furball, who, for all his loveliness, is faaaar too easily bent to the will of Machiavellian underlings (naming no names, Dave).

Frank was and is the manager and landlord of the Burton House Hotel, Boston, Lincs. I worked there during my holidays from university. The Burton, at the Spilsby Road end of Skegness Road, used to be a fine old pub. It was bought in the late eighties by Whitbread, which turned it into a Brewers Fayre Where's-The-Fucking-Apostrophe-Why-Don't-We-Employ-Fucking-Copywriters-Who-Can-Actually-Fucking-Punctuate-I-Mean-Is-"Fayre"-Supposed-To-Be-A-Fucking-Verb-Or-Something Family Pub Restaurant With Microwaved Lasagne And Added Plastic Shit.

(On the marketing collateral they usually shortened that to 'Brewers Fayre' - still without the apostrophe, though)

When I first worked there the place was run by a local husband and wife team who appeared also to be a sister and brother team, and had all the charming characteristics of people who think that running a 'Team Meeting' to pretend to take 'Team Feedback' put them on a level with Woodrow Wilson, or possibly Zeus.

When Frank arrived everything changed. He gave clear instructions and encouraged initiative. He was funny, he always said 'please' and 'thankyou' and you knew he was actually bothered about how you were. Most of all, he was driven by a passion to make that shitty little chain pub THE BEST shitty little chain pub in the whole damn universe. And it was a passion that was infectious.

So when I'm late with a piece of work, or I can't be arsed to phone a client, or I'm just being lazy - basically all the things I'm doing now - it's Frank's voice I hear in my head, gently cajoling me to get on with it.

He's still at the Burton, of course, and will be forever. Frank is basically too clever and too decent to rise high in any corporation. A good manager, you see, can never be a successful one.