[I'm trying to get back into the habit of sketch writing. This will probably be pretty bad to begin with, but I'm hoping to re-discover the habit].

The scene fades in on an ordinary, work-a-day English office. People are sitting idly at desks chatting with one another about last night's TV, drinking coffee and, occasionally, doing some actual work. The senior manager of the company, a woman in her forties, walks to the top of the room followed by a grey-haired, smiling man in a suit.

Senior Manager: Excuse me, everyone! Can I please have your attention for a moment! Thank you. I just wanted to introduce you to our newest intern, Mr. Ian Grovel, who will be helping us out in the copy room. If you need anything photocopying from this moment onwards, you are you ask Mr. Grovel to do it for you.

Random staff member: Why though? We've always done our own copying in the past.

Senior Manager: Well, I've been growing increasingly concerned about the amount of time you're all on your feet. It makes us look sloppy. If any guests come in to visit us, why, it would look like we're just a bunch of standy-around people who don't work very hard. If you pass your work to Mr. Grovel and take your seat, however, we'll look like a full-on, non-stop, sitty-down sort of company.

RSM: ...what?

Senior Manager: We pride ourselves on being the sort of sitty-down company that listens to it's employees ideas and concerns, but I'll have to tell you to shut up now, you're boring me. I hope you'll all give Mr. Grovel a warm welcome.

Some minutes later, Mr. Grovel is sitting in the copy room, still smiling incessantly. Mike, the RSM from before, enters the room with a piece of paper.

Mike: Hey man, how you doing?

Grovel: I am unwilling to commit to an answer at this time, but would like to state that I may, or may not, be enjoying myself.

Mike: That's... a weird answer. You, uh, you worked in a place like this before?

Grovel: Lamentably no. Prior to this position I was a member of parliament.

Mike: You were a politician? That's kind of interesting. How come you quit?

Grovel: There were unsubstantiated rumours circling amongst the media about my expenses. I told them that the solid-gold koi pond just FELL into my garden, planted itself, filled itself with water and thousands of pounds worth of koi carp, but would they listen to me? Thankfully I had some friends from Cambridge working there so I was able to keep it quiet, but I thought it best to duck out of politics for a few years, just to be sure. Once somebody else cocks up I'll slide back where I belong.

Mike: That seems pretty detestable, dude. I thought you politicians were supposed to represent our interests?

Grovel begins to laugh; it develops quickly into a full bellied, teary-eyed laughter that echoes throughout the office. People begin looking over. After a while Mr. Grovel is able to control himself, and wrestles himself down to a mild twitter.

Grovel: Represent people. That's a good one!

Mike: Urgh, you dick. Well, now that you're just a lowly intern, I order you to make ten copies of this.

Mike hands over the paper he is holding. Grovel gingerly takes it, and smiles at him.

Grovel: I assure you that I will work night and day to produce over a thousand copies of this paper!

Mike: No man, I need ten. In, like, twenty minutes.

Grovel: I am unwilling to commit to a timescale at this time, but I assure you that this is at the forefront of all actions I shall be taking and that your concerns have been taken on board.

Mike: Dude, just print me ten goddamn copies already.

Grovel: It's important to me - very important - that I print these as you've requested, but I shall only do so after giving due diligence to all possible scenarios-

Mike: Argh, bloody politicians.

Mike storms out.

Grovel: -taking into account the volatile office place we now find ourselves in.

An hour later, Mike and the Senior Manager enter the copy room. Mike's paper has been discarded to one side. Mr. Grovel is sitting in the same place, still smiling. There is a dead prostitute on the floor.

Mike: Jesus! Why is there a dead prostitute in here?

Grovel: Oh, I used some of the companies funds to hire a high-class prostitute who, rather unfortunately, I've killed during our aggressive love making. However, I want to take the time to assure you that my Cambridge friends are already hushing this up, and my Uncle who runs Scotland Yard has declared me innocent of all wrong doing anyway, just to be safe. This is just a minor misunderstanding and I certainly hope it won't affect the belief that the workers have in me.

Mike turns to the Senior Manager.

Mike: Do you see? This is exactly what I was telling you about! He's not doing the work we've hired him to do, he's just spouting gibberish and lies to cover his own ass, he's stealing from the company, and he's killed a goddamn prostitute! He should NOT be working in our copy room!

Senior Manager: You're right! He should be the manager of the section!

Mike: I'll call secur... what?

Senior Manager: Ian, we could use that sort of weaselly, low cunning in our board room. Will you accept forty thousand a year to tell our sloppy workers to sit down more often?

Grovel: Fifty thousand. Plus expenses.

Senior Manager: Done!

Mike: You're crazy! You can't be serious!

Senior Manager: Of course I am. The man's a born manager! Now, sit the hell down - you're making this place look like a mess.